List of Contents (created by transcriber)

MEMOIRS OF THE HOLY LAND.
THE PALACES OF FRANCE.
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
“WHO MURDERED DOWNIE?”
FRAGMENTS FROM A YOUNG WIFE’S DIARY.
A SOLDIER’S FIRST BATTLE.
MEMORY AND ITS CAPRICES.
BLEAK HOUSE.
MONSTERS OF FAITH.
LIFE AND DEATH OF PAGANINI.
NUMBER NINETEEN IN OUR STREET.
GOSSIP ABOUT GREAT MEN.
MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.
A SHORT CHAPTER ON RATS.
A DARK CHAPTER FROM THE DIARY OF A LAW CLERK.
Monthly Record of Current Events
Editor’s Table.
Editor’s Easy Chair.
Editor’s Drawer.
Literary Notices.
Comicalities, Original and Selected.
Autumn Fashions.

[Pg 577]

HARPER’S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
No. XXIX.—OCTOBER, 1852.—Vol. V.

MEMOIRS OF THE HOLY LAND.[1]

BY JACOB ABBOTT.

THE DEAD SEA.

SODOM AND GOMORRAH.

How strongly associated in the minds of men,
are the ideas of guilt and ruin, unspeakable
and awful, with the names of Sodom and Gomorrah.
The very words themselves seem deeply
and indelibly imbued with a mysterious and
dreadful meaning.

The account given in the Sacred Scriptures
of the destruction of these cities, and of the circumstances
connected with it, has, perhaps, exercised
a greater influence in modifying, or,
rather, in forming, the conception which has
been since entertained among mankind in respect
to the character of God, than any other
one portion of the sacred narrative. The thing
that is most remarkable about it is, that while
in the destruction of the cities we have a most
appalling exhibition of the terrible energy with
which God will punish confirmed and obdurate
wickedness, we have in the attendant circumstances
of the case, a still more striking illustration
of the kind, and tender, and merciful
regard with which he will protect, and encourage,
and sustain those who are attempting, however
feebly, to please him, and to do his will.
We are told elsewhere in the Scriptures, didactically,
that God is love, and also that he is a
consuming fire. In this transaction we see the
gentleness and the tenderness of his love, and
the terrible severity of his retributive justice,
displayed together. Let us examine the account
somewhat in detail.

“And the Lord said, Because the cry of Sodom
and Gomorrah is great, and because their sin is
very grievous,

“I will go down now, and see whether they
have done altogether according to the cry of it,
which is come unto me; and if not, I will know.”—Gen.
xviii. 20, 21.

There is a certain dramatic beauty in the
manner in which the designs and intentions of
Jehovah are represented in such cases as this,
under the guise of words spoken. This rhetorical
figure is adopted very frequently by the
Hebrew writers, being far more spirited and
graphic than the ordinary mode of narration,
and more forcible in its effect upon common
minds that are not accustomed to abstractions
and generalizations. Thus, instead of saying,
And God determined to create man, it is, And
God said, I will make man. In the same manner,
where a modern historian in speaking of
the discovery of America would have written:
Columbus, having learned that trunks of trees
were brought by western winds to the shores
of Europe, inferred that there was land in that
direction, and resolved to go in search of it, a
Hebrew writer would have said, And it was
told to Columbus, that when western winds had
long been blowing, trees were thrown up upon
the European shores; and Columbus said, I will
take vessels and men and go and search for the
land whence these trees come.

The verses which we have quoted above, accordingly,
though in form ascribing words to
Jehovah, in reality are meant only to express,
in a manner adapted to the conceptions of men,
the cautious and deliberate character of the justice
of God. “I have heard the cry of Sodom
and Gomorrah, the cry of grievous violence and
guilt, and I will go down and see if the real
wickedness that reigns there, is as great as
would seem to be denoted by the cry. And if
not, I will know.” In other words, God would
not condemn hastily. He would not judge from
appearances, since appearances might be fallacious.
He would cautiously inquire into all the
circumstances, and even in the case of wickedness
so enormous as that of Sodom and Gomorrah,
he would carefully ascertain whether there
were any considerations that could extenuate or
soften it. How happy would it be for mankind,
if we all, in judging our neighbors, would follow
the example of forbearance and caution here
presented to us. It was undoubtedly with reference
to its influence as an example for us,
that the sacred writer has thus related the story.

In the same manner, how strikingly the narrative
which is given of the earnest intercession
made by Abraham, to save the cities, and of the
apparent yielding of the Almighty Judge, again
and again, to humble prayers in behalf of sinners,
offered by a brother sinner, illustrates the
long-suffering and the forbearance of God—his
reluctance to punish, and his readiness to save.
There is a special charm in the exhibition which
is made of these divine attributes in this case,
assuming the form as they do of a divine sympathy
with the compassionate impulses of man.
The great and almighty Judge allows himself
to be led to deal mercifully with sinners through[Pg 578]
the pity and the prayers of a brother sinner, deprecating
the merited destruction. The intercession
of Abraham was after all unavailing, for
there were not ten righteous men to be found to
fulfill the condition on which he had obtained the
promise that the city should be spared. The
narrative, however, of the intercession, the final
result of it in the promise of God to spare the
whole monstrous mass of wickedness, if only ten
righteous men could be found in the city, and
the measures which he adopted, when it was ascertained
that there were not ten to be found, to
warn and rescue all that there were, give to the
whole story a great power in bringing home to
the hearts of men, a sense of the compassion of
God, and the regard which he feels for human
sympathies and desires. There is no portion
of the sacred Scriptures which has more encouraged
and strengthened the spirit of prayer, than
the narration of the circumstances that preceded
the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.

SITUATION OF THE PLAIN.

Sodom and Gomorrah are described as the
cities of the plain, and this plain is spoken of as
the plain of Jordan. And yet the place where
the cities are supposed to have stood, is near the
southern end of the Dead Sea, while the Jordan
empties into the northern end of it. If, therefore,
the plain on which the cities stood was the
plain of the Jordan, in the time of Lot, it would
seem that the sea itself could not have existed
then, but that the river must have continued its
flow, beyond the point which now forms the
southern termination of the sea. The sea as at
present existing, is bounded on both sides by
ranges of lofty and precipitous mountains, which
lie parallel to each other, and extend north and
south for several hundred miles. The space
which lies between these ranges, forms a long
and narrow ravine, very deeply depressed below
the ordinary level of the earth’s surface, as if it
were an enormous crevasse, with the bed of it
filled up to a certain level, in some places with
water and in others with alluvial soil, either fertile
or barren according to the geological structure
of the different sections of it. This remarkable
ravine divides itself naturally into five
sections. The first, reckoning from north to
south, contains the sources of the Jordan, and
the lakes Merom and Tiberias. The second is
the valley of the Jordan. Here the bottom of
the ravine consists of a long and narrow plain
of fertile land, with the river meandering through
it. The third section is the bed of the Dead
Sea. The waters here fill the whole breadth of
the valley so completely, that in many places it
is impossible to pass along the shore between
the mountains and the sea. The water is deepest
near the northern part of the sea, and grows
more and more shallow toward the southern
part, until at length the land rises above the
level of the surface of the water, and then the
bottom of the ravine presents again a plain of
land, instead of a sheet of water. This is the
fourth section. It extends, perhaps, a hundred
miles, rising gradually all the way, and forming
in summer the bed of a small stream which flows
northward to the Dead Sea. This part of the
great fissure is called the valley of Arabah.[2] At
length the level of the bottom of the valley
reaches its highest point, and the land descends
again to the south, forming the fifth or southern-most
section of the vast crevasse. The waters
of the Red sea flow up some hundred miles into
this section, forming the eastern one of the two
forks into which that sea divides itself, at its
northernmost extremity.

It will be seen thus that it is at the Dead Sea
that the depression of the valley is the greatest.
In fact, the bed of the valley descends in both
directions toward the Dead Sea for a hundred
miles. Some writers have supposed that the whole
of this depression was produced at the time of
the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and
that previous to that time, the Jordan continued
its course through the whole length of the valley
to the Red Sea, being bordered throughout this
whole distance by fertile plains extending on
either hand from its banks to the base of the
mountains; and that it was on this plain, near
the place where now lies the southern extremity
of the Dead Sea, that the cities Sodom and Gomorrah,
Admah and Zeboim, were built. In
adopting this hypothesis we must suppose that
the destruction of the cities was attended with
some volcanic convulsion, by which all that part
of the valley was sunk so far below its natural
level that the river could no longer continue its
course. The waters then, we must imagine,
gradually filled up the deep bed so suddenly
made for them, until the surface became so extended
that the evaporation from it was equal to
the supply from the river; and thus the sea was
formed, and its size and configuration permanently
determined.

Others supposed that the sea existed from the
most ancient times substantially as at present,
occupying the whole breadth of the valley, from
side to side, though not extending so far to the
southward as now. On this supposition the cities
destroyed were situated on a fertile plain which
then bordered the southern extremity of the sea,
but which is now submerged by its waters. It
is no longer possible to determine which of these
hypotheses, if either, is correct. A much greater
physical change is implied in the former than in
the latter supposition, but perhaps the latter is
not on that account any the less improbable.
When the question is of an actual sinking of
the earth, whether we suppose the causes to be
miraculous or natural, it is as easy to conceive
of a great subsidence, as of a small one. The
enlargement of a sea, whether by the agency of
an earthquake, or by the direct power of God, is
as great a wonder as the creation of it would be.

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE CITIES.

The account given by the sacred writers of
the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah is this.
Lot was dwelling, at the time, in Sodom. He
was warned by the messengers of God, that the
city was to be destroyed, and was directed to[Pg 579]
make his escape from it with all his family.
This warning was given to Lot in the night.
He went out immediately to the houses of his
sons-in-law, to communicate the awful tidings
to them and to summon them to flee. They
however did not believe him. They ridiculed
his fears and refused to accompany him in his
flight. Lot returned to his house much troubled
and perplexed. He could not go without his
daughters, and his daughters could not go without
their husbands. The two messengers urged
him not to delay. They entreated him to take
his daughters with him and go, before the fated
hour should arrive. Finally they took him by
the hand, and partly by persuasion and partly by
force, they succeeded in bringing him out of the
city. His wife and his daughters accompanied
him. His sons-in-law, it seems, were left behind.

THE DEPARTURE OF LOT FROM SODOM.

It was very early in the morning when Lot
came forth from the city—not far from the break
of day. As soon as he was without the walls,
the messengers urged him not to tarry there or
imagine that he was yet safe, but to press forward
with all speed, until he reached the mountain.
“Escape for thy life,” said they “Look
not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the
plain; escape to the mountain lest thou be consumed.”
Lot was, however, afraid to go into
the mountains. They were wild and desolate.
His wife and his daughters were with him and
it was yet dark. To take so helpless a company
into such solitudes at such a time, seemed awful
to him, and he begged to be permitted to retire
to Zoar. Zoar was a small town on the eastern
side of the plain, just at the foot of the mountains,
at a place where a lateral valley opened,
through which a stream descended to the plain.
Lot begged that he might be permitted to go to
Zoar, and that that city might be spared. His
prayer was granted. A promise was given him
that Zoar should be saved, and he was directed to
proceed thither without delay. He accordingly
went eastward across the plain and reached Zoar,
just as the sun was rising. His wife, instead of
going diligently on with her husband, lingered
and loitered on the way, and was lost. The
words are, “She became a pillar of salt.” Precisely
what is intended by this expression is somewhat
uncertain; at any rate she was destroyed,
and Lot escaped with his daughters alone into
Zoar. Immediately afterward Sodom and Gomorrah
were overwhelmed. The description of
the catastrophe is given in the following words:

“The Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah
brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven.

“And he overthrew those cities and all the
plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities and
that which grew upon the ground.

“And Abraham got up early in the morning
to the place where he stood before the Lord:

“And he looked toward Sodom and Gomorrah,[Pg 580]
and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld,
and lo, the smoke of the country went up as the
smoke of a furnace.”—Gen. xix. 24, 25, 27, 28.

THE PLAIN.

PHILOSOPHIZING ON THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM
AND GOMORRAH.

There has been a great deal of philosophical
speculation on the nature of the physical causes
which were called into action in the destruction
of these cities, and of the plain on which they
stood. These speculations, however, are to be
considered as ingenious and curious rather than
useful, since they can not lead to any very tangible
results. We can, in fact, know nothing
positive of the phenomenon except what the sacred
narrative records. And yet there is a certain
propriety in making philosophical inquiries
in respect to the nature even of miraculous effects,
for we observe in respect to almost all of
the miracles recorded in the Old Testament, that,
though they transcend the power of nature, still,
in character, they are always in a certain sense
in harmony with it. Thus the plagues which
were brought upon the Egyptians, in the time
of Pharaoh, are the ordinary calamities to which
the country was subject, following each other
in a rapid and extraordinary succession, and
developed in an aggravated and unusual form.
The children of Israel, in their journeys through
the desert, were fed miraculously on manna.
There is a natural manna found in those regions
as an ordinary production, from which undoubtedly
the type and character of the miraculous
supply were determined. The waters of the
Red Sea were driven back at the time when the
Israelites were to cross it, by the blowing of a
strong east wind. The blowing of a wind has
a natural tendency to drive back such waters,
and to lay the shoals and shallows of a river
bare. The effects produced in all these cases
were far greater than the causes would naturally
account for, but they were all, so to speak, in
the same direction with the tendency of the
causes. They transcended the ordinary course
of nature; still, in character, they were in harmony
with its laws. It is right and proper for
us, therefore, where a miraculous effect is described,
to look into the natural laws related to
it, for the sake of observing whatever of analogy
or conformity between the
causes and effects may really
appear.

With reference to such analogies,
the character and the physical
constitution of the gorge
in which the Dead Sea lies, has
excited great interest in every
age. The valley has been generally
considered as of volcanic
formation, though it is somewhat
doubtful how far it is strictly
correct thus to characterize
it, since no signs of lava or of
extinct craters appear in any
part of it. The whole region,
however, is subject to earthquakes,
and many substances
that are usually considered as
volcanic productions are found
here and there along the valley,
especially near the southern extremity of the
Dead Sea. One of the most remarkable of these
substances is bitumen, a hard and inflammable
mineral which has been found, from time to time,
in all ages, on the shores of the sea. Some writers
have supposed that the “pits,” which are
referred to in the passage, “And the vale of Siddim
was full of slime pits,” were pits of liquified
bitumen or asphaltum,—that the plain of Sodom
was composed in a great degree of these and similar
inflammable substances—that they were set
on fire by lightning from heaven or by volcanic
ignition from below, and that thus the plain itself
on which the cities stood was consumed and
destroyed. Others suppose that under the influence
of some great volcanic convulsion, attended,
as such convulsions often are, by thunderings
and lightnings—the brimstone and fire out of
heaven, referred to in the sacred record—a sinking,
or subsidence of the land at the bottom of
the valley, took place; and that the waters of
the Jordan overflowed and filled the cavity, thus
forming, or else greatly enlarging the Dead Sea.
That the waters of the sea now flow where formerly
a tract of fertile land extended, seems to
be implied in the passage, Gen. xiv. 3, in which
it is stated that certain kings assembled their
forces, “in the vale of Siddim which is the Salt
Sea.” The meaning is undoubtedly as if the
writer had said, The armies were gathered at a
place which was then the vale of Siddim, but
which is now the Salt Sea.

THE DEAD SEA IN THE MIDDLE AGES.

After the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah,
the valley of the Dead Sea seemed to be forsaken
of God, and to be abhorred and shunned by man,
so that it remained for a great many centuries, the
very type and symbol of solitude, desolation, and
death. A few wild Arabs dwelt along its shores,
building their rude and simple villages in the
little dells that open among the mountains that
border it, and feeding their camels on the scanty[Pg 581]
herbage which grew in them. Now and then
some party of Crusaders, or some solitary pilgrim
travelers, descended the valley from the fords of
the Jordan, till they reached the sea—or looked
down upon it from some commanding position
among the mountains, on the eastern or western
sides—and caravans or beasts of burden were
accustomed to go to its southern shores to procure
salt for the people of the interior. Through
these and other similar channels, vague and uncertain
tidings of the deadly influences of the
sea and of the awful solitude and desolation
which reigned around it, came out, from time
to time, to more frequented regions, whence
they spread in strange and exaggerated rumors
throughout the civilized world. It was said that
the waters of the sea filled the gloomy valley
which they occupied with influences so pestiferous
and deadly that they were fatal to every
species of life. No fish could swim in them, no
plant could grow upon their shores. It was
death for a man to bathe in them, or for a bird
to fly over them; and even the breezes which
blew from them toward the land, blighted and
destroyed all the vegetation that they breathed
upon. The surface and margin of the water,
instead of being adorned with verdant islands,
or fringed with the floating vegetation of other
seas, was blackened with masses of bitumen, that
were driven hither and thither by the winds, or
was bordered with a pestiferous volcanic scum;
while all the approaches to the shores in the
valley below were filled with yawning pits of
pitchy slime, which engulfed the traveler in their
horrid depths, or destroyed his life by their poisonous
and abominable exhalations. In a word,
the valley of the Dead Sea was
for two thousand years regarded
as an accursed ground, from
which the wrath of God, continually
brooding over it, sternly
excluded every living thing.
Within the last half century,
however, many scientific travelers
have visited the spot, and
have brought back to the civilized
world more correct information
in respect to the natural
history of the valley.

BURCKHARDT’S VISIT TO THE
VALLEY OF ARABAH.

One of the earliest of the
scientific travelers, to whom we
have alluded, was John Lewis
Burckhardt, who spent several
years, in the early part of the
present century, in exploring
the countries around the southeastern
shores of the Mediterranean
Sea, under the auspices
of a society established in London, called the
Association for Promoting the Discovery of the
Interior Parts of Africa. Burckhardt prepared
himself for his work, by taking up his residence
for several years in Aleppo, and in other Oriental
cities, for the purpose of studying the Arabic
language, and making himself perfectly familiar
with the manners and customs of the people, so
that in traveling through the countries which he
was intending to explore, he might pass for a
native, and thus be allowed to go where he
pleased without molestation. He succeeded perfectly
in attaining this object. He acquired the
Arabic language, assumed the Arabic dress, and
learned to accommodate himself, in all respects,
to the manners and customs of the country. He
thus passed without hindrance or suspicion where
no known European or Christian would have
been allowed to go.

THE VALLEY OF ARABAH.

Burckhardt explored the valley of Arabah,
which extends from the Dead Sea to the Red
Sea, forming, as has already been said, a southern
continuation of the great Jordan gorge. He
was, in fact, the first to bring the existence of
this southern valley to the notice of the civilized
world. The valley of the Jordan, as he describes
it, widens about Jericho, where the hills which
border it, join the chains of mountains which
inclose the Dead Sea. At the southern extremity
of the sea they again approach each
other, leaving between them a valley or Ghor,
similar in form to the northern Ghor, through
which the Jordan flows; though the southern
valley, from want of water, is a desert, while
the Jordan and its tributaries make the other a
fertile plain. In the southern Ghor, the rivulets
which descend from the mountains are lost in
the sand and gravel which form their beds, long
before they reach the valley below. The valley
itself, therefore, is entirely without water, and is,
consequently, barren and desolate. The whole
plain, as Burckhardt viewed it, presented the
appearance of an expanse of shifting sands, the
surface varied with innumerable undulations and
low hills. A few trees grow here and there in
the low places, and at the foot of the rocks
which line the valley; but the depth of the sand,
and the total want of water in the summer season,[Pg 582]
preclude the growth of every species of
herbage. A few Bedouin tribes encamp in the
valley in the winter, when the streams from the
mountains being full, a sufficient supply of water
is produced to flow down into the valley,
causing a few shrubs to grow, on which the
sheep and goats can feed.

Burckhardt and his party were an hour and a
half in crossing the valley. It was in the month
of August that they made the tour, and they
found the heat almost intolerable. There was
not the slightest appearance of a road or of any
other work of man at the place where they
crossed it. Still they met with no difficulty in
prosecuting their journey, for the sand, though
deep, was firm, and the camels walked over it
without sinking. In the various journeys which
Burckhardt made in these solitary regions, he
carefully noted all that he saw, and copious reports
of his observations were afterward published
by the society in whose service he was
engaged. The only instrument which he had,
however, for making observations, was a pocket
compass, and this he was obliged to conceal in
the most careful manner from his Arab attendants,
for fear of betraying himself to them. If
they had seen such an instrument in his possession,
they would not only have suspected his
true character, but would have believed the compass
to be an instrument of magic, and would
have been overwhelmed with superstitious horror
at the sight of it. Accordingly, Burckhardt
was compelled, not only to keep his compass in
concealment, as he journeyed, but also to resort
to a great variety of contrivances and devices to
make observations with it without being seen.
Sometimes, when riding on horseback, he would
stop for a moment in the way, and watching an
opportunity when the attention of his companions
was turned in another direction, would hastily
glance at his compass unseen, covering it, while
he did so, beneath his wide Arabian cloak. When
riding upon a camel he could not adopt this
method, for a single camel in a caravan can not
be induced to stop while the train is going on.
To meet this emergency, the indefatigable traveler
learned to dismount and mount again without
arresting the progress of the animal. He would
descend to the ground, and straying away for a
moment into a copse of bushes, or behind some
angle of a rock, would crouch down, take out
his compass, ascertain the required bearing,
make a note of it secretly in a little book which
he carried for the purpose in the pocket of his
vest, and then returning to the camel, would
climb up to his seat and ride on as before.

It was by such means as these that the existence
and the leading geographical features of
the valley of Arabah were first made known to
the Christian world.

ROBINSON’S VISIT TO EN-GEDI.

Edward Robinson is a distinguished American
philosopher and scholar, who has devoted a great
deal of attention to the geography and history
of Palestine, and whose researches and explorations
have perhaps accomplished more in throwing
light upon the subject, than those of any
other person, whether of ancient or modern times.
He has enjoyed very extraordinary facilities for
accomplishing his work; for, in his character,
and in the circumstances in which he has been
placed, there have been combined, in a very remarkable
degree, all the qualifications, and all
the opportunities necessary for the successful
prosecution of it. Having been devoted, during
the greater portion of his life, to the pursuit of
philological studies, he has acquired a very accurate
knowledge of the languages, as well as
of the manners and customs of the East; and,
being endued by nature with a temperament in
which great firmness and great steadiness of
purpose are combined with a certain quiet and
philosophical calmness and composure, and a
quick and discriminating apprehension with
caution, prudence, and practical good sense, he
is very eminently qualified for the work of an
Oriental explorer. In the year 1838, he made
an extended tour, or, rather, series of tours, in
the Holy Land, a very minute and interesting
report of which he afterward gave to the world.
He is now, in 1852, making a second journey
there; and the Christian world are looking forward,
with great interest, to the result of it.

MAP OF THE DEAD SEA.

During Robinson’s first tour in Palestine, he
made an excursion from Jerusalem to the western
shores of the Dead Sea, where he visited a
spot which is marked by a small tract of fertile
ground, under the cliffs on the shore, known
in ancient times as En-gedi, but called by the[Pg 583]
Arabs of the present day Ain Jidy. From Jerusalem
he traveled south to Hebron, and thence
turning to the east, he traversed the mountains
through a succession of wild and romantic passes
which led him gradually toward the sea. The
road conducted him at length into the desolate
and rocky region called in ancient times the
Wilderness of En-gedi, the place to which David
retreated when pursued by the deadly hostility
of Saul. It was here that the extraordinary occurrences
took place that are narrated in 1 Sam.
xxiv. David, in endeavoring to escape from his
enemy, hid in a cave. Saul, in pursuing him,
came to the same cave, and being wearied, lay
down and went to sleep there. While he was
asleep, David, coming out, secretly cut off the
skirt of his robe, without attempting to do him
any personal injury; thus showing conclusively
that he bore him no ill-will. Robinson found
the region full of caves, and the scenery corresponded,
in all other respects, with the allusions
made to it in the Scripture narrative.

CAVES OF EN-GEDI.

VIEW OF THE SEA.

As our traveler and his party journeyed on
toward the sea, they found the country descending
continually, and as they followed the road
down the valleys and ravines through which it
lay, they imagined that they had reached the
level of the sea, long before they came in sight
of its shores. At length, however, to their
astonishment, they came suddenly out upon the
brow of a mountain, from which they looked
down into a deep and extended valley where
the broad expanse of water lay, fifteen hundred
feet below them. The surprise which they experienced
at finding the sea at so much lower a
level than their estimate made it, illustrates the
singular accuracy of Robinson’s ideas in respect
to the topography of the country which he was
exploring; for, if the Dead Sea had been really
at the same level with the Mediterranean, as was
then generally supposed to be the case, it would
have presented itself to the party of travelers
precisely as they had expected to find it. The
unlooked for depth was owing to a very extraordinary
depression of the valley, the existence
and the measure of which has since been ascertained.

Robinson and his companions, from the summit
of a small knoll which lay on one side of
their path, looked down upon the vast gulf beneath
them with emotions of wonder and awe.
It was the Dead Sea which they saw extended
before them. There it lay, filling the bottom of
its vast chasm, and shut in on both sides by
ranges of precipitous mountains, whose steep
acclivities seemed sometimes to rise directly
from the water, though here and there they
receded a little from the shore, so as to leave a
narrow beach beneath the rocks below. From
the point where our observers stood the whole
southern half of the sea was exposed
to view. The northern
part was partly concealed by a
precipitous promontory, called
Ras Mersed, which rose abruptly
from the shore a little north
of their position.

The southern part of the sea,
as viewed from this point, was
remarkable for the numerous
shoals and sand bars which appeared
projecting in many places
from the shore, forming long
and low points and peninsulas
of sandy land. There was one
very large and remarkable peninsula
of higher land, in the southeast
part of the sea. The position
and configuration of this
peninsula may be seen upon
the map. It is formed in some
respect like a human foot, with
the heel toward the sea. Of
course, the ankle of the foot is
the isthmus which connects the
peninsula with the main land. The length of
this peninsula, from north to south, is five or six
miles. Our observers, from their lofty position
at En-gedi, looked down upon it, and could trace
almost the whole of its outline. North of it, too,
there was a valley, which opened up among the
mountains to the eastward, called the Valley of
Kerak. At the head of this valley, several miles
from the shore of the sea, lies the town of Kerak,
a place sometimes visited by pilgrims and travelers,
who pass that way along a road which
traverses that part of the country on a line parallel
to the shore of the sea. The course of the
valley was such that the position of our observers
on the mountain at En-gedi commanded a
full view of the whole extent of it. They could
even see the town of Kerak, with its ancient
castle on a rock—far up near the summit of the
mountain. It is in the lower part of this valley,
a little to the eastward of the isthmus which
has been already described, that the town of[Pg 584]
Zoar stood, as it is supposed, where Lot sought
refuge at the time of the destruction of Sodom
and Gomorrah.

THE PASS.

After remaining on the cliff about three quarters
of an hour, to observe and to record every
thing worthy of notice in the extended view before
them, the party began to go down the pass to the
shore. The descent was frightful, the pathway
having been formed by zigzags down the cliff,
the necessary width for the track having been
obtained, sometimes by cutting into the face of
the rock, and sometimes by means of rude walls
built from below. As they looked back up the
rocks after they had descended, it seemed impossible
to them that any road could have been
formed there—and yet so skillfully had the work
been planned and executed, that the descent,
though terrific, was accomplished without any
serious difficulty. In fact, the road was so practicable,
that loaded camels sometimes passed up
and down. One of Mr. Robinson’s companions
had crossed the heights of Lebanon and the
mountains of Persia, and he himself had traversed
all the principal passes of the Alps, but neither
of them had ever met with a pass so difficult and
dangerous as this. The way was really dangerous
as well as difficult. An Arab woman, not
long before the time of Robinson’s visit, in descending
the road, had fallen off over the brink
of the precipice to the rocks below. She was,
of course, killed by the fall.

THE DESCENT.

After descending for about three quarters of
an hour, the party reached a sort of dell, where
a copious and beautiful fountain, springing forth
suddenly from a recess in the rock, formed at
once an abundant stream, that flowed tumultuously
down a narrow ravine toward the sea, still
four hundred feet below. This fount was the
Ain Jidy, the word Ain signifying fountain in
the Arabic tongue. The meaning of the whole
name is the fountain of the kid. The course of
the stream in its descent from its source was
hidden from view by a luxuriant thicket of trees
and shrubs which grew along its bed, nourished
by the fertilizing influence of the waters. The
party halted at the spring, and pitched their
tents, determining to make their encampment
at this spot with a view of leaving their animals
here and going down on foot to the shore below.
They had originally intended not to go up the
pass again, but to proceed to the northward
along the shore of the sea, having been informed
that they could do so. They now learned, however,
that there was no practicable passage along
the shore, and that they must reascend the
mountain in order to continue their journey.
They accordingly determined, for the purpose
of saving the transportation of their baggage
up and down, to encamp at the fountain.

While pitching their tents, an alarm was
given, that some persons were coming down the
pass, and, on looking upward, they saw at the
turns of the zigzag, on the brow of the precipice
far above, two or three men, mounted and armed
with guns. The party were for a moment alarmed,
supposing that the strangers might be robbers.
Their true character, however, very soon appeared;
for, as they drew near, they were found to
be a troop of laboring peasants of the neighborhood,
mounted on peaceful donkeys, and coming
down to the shore in search of salt; and so the
alarm ended in a laugh. The party of peasants
stopped a short time at the fountain to rest, and
then continued their descent to the shore. They
gathered the salt, which they came to procure,
on the margin of the sea; for the waters of the
sea are so impregnated with saline solutions,
that whenever pools of it are evaporated by the
sun, along the shore, inflorescences and incrustations
remain, which can be easily gathered.
After a time, the train of donkeys, bearing their
heavy burdens, went toiling up the steep ascent
again, and disappeared.

THE SHORE OF THE SEA.

After remaining for some time at the encampment,
Robinson and his companions set out at
five o’clock, to go down to the shore. The declivity
was still steep, though less so than in the
pass above. The ground was fertile, and bore
many plants and trees, and the surface of it appeared
to have been once terraced for tillage and
gardens. At one place, near the foot of the descent,
were the ruins of an ancient town. From
the base of the declivity, there was a rich and
fertile plain which lay sloping gradually nearly
half a mile to the shore. The bed of the brook
could be traced across this plain to the sea,
though at the season of this visit, the waters
which the fountain supplied, copious as they appeared
where they first issued from the rock,
were absorbed by the earth long before they
reached the shore. The rivulet, therefore, of
Ain Jidy is the most short-lived and transitory
of streams. It breaks forth suddenly from the
earth at its fountain, and then, after tumbling
and foaming for a short distance over its rocky[Pg 585]
bed, it descends again into the ground, disappearing
as suddenly and mysteriously as it came
into being.

The plain which this evanescent stream thus
gave up its life to fertilize, was all under cultivation
at the time that Robinson visited it, being
divided into gardens, which belonged to a certain
tribe of wandering Arabs. This tribe were,
however, not now encamped here, but had gone
away to a tract of ground belonging to them in
another part of the country, having left only a
few sentinels to watch the fruits that were growing
in the gardens. Robinson and his party
went across the plain, and finally came to the
margin of the sea, approaching it at last over a
bank of pebbles which lined the shore, and formed
a sort of ridge of sand and shingle, six or eight
feet higher than the level of the water. The
slope of these pebbles, on the seaward side, was
covered with saline incrustations.

The water had a greenish hue, and its surface
was very brilliant. To the taste, the travelers
found it intensely and intolerably salt, and far
more nauseous than the waters of the ocean.
The great quantity of saline matter, which it
contains, makes it very dense, and, of course,
very buoyant in respect to bodies floating in it.
This property of the sea has been observed and
commented upon by visitors in every age. Swimmers,
and those who can not swim, as an ancient
writer expressed it, are borne up by it alike.
Robinson himself bathed in the sea, and though,
as he says, he had never learned to swim, he
found, that in this water he could sit, stand, lie,
or float in any position without difficulty. The
bottom was of clean sand and gravel, and the
bathers found that the water shoaled very gradually
as they receded from the shore, so that
they were obliged to wade out many rods before
it reached their shoulders. Its great density
produced a peculiar effect in respect to the appearance
that it presented to the eye, adding
greatly to its brilliancy, and imparting a certain
pearly richness and beauty to its reflections.
The objects seen through it on the bottom appeared
as if seen through oil.

MEASUREMENTS.

After having spent some time in noting these
general phenomena, Robinson, finding that the
day was wearing away, called the attention of
his party to the less entertaining but more important
work of making the necessary scientific
measurements and observations. He laid off
a base line on the shore, fifteen hundred feet in
length; and from the extremities of it, by means
of a large and accurate compass, which he carried
with him in all his travels for this express
purpose, he took the bearings of all the principal
points and headlands which could be seen around
the sea, as well as of every mountain in view.
By this means he secured the data for making
an exact map of the sea, at least so far as these
leading points are concerned; for, by the application
of certain principles of trigonometry, it is
very easy to ascertain the precise situation of
any object whatever, provided its precise bearing
from each of two separate stations, and also
the precise distance between the two stations is
known. Accordingly, by establishing two stations
on the plain, and measuring the distance
between them, and then taking the bearings of
all important points on the shores of the sea,
from both stations, the materials are secured for
a correct map of it, in its general outline.

This work being accomplished, and the day
being now fully spent, the party bade the shores
of the sea farewell; and, weary with the fatigues
and excitement of the day, they began, with slow
and toilsome steps, to reascend the path toward
their encampment by the fountain. They at
length arrived at their tent, and spent the evening
there to a late hour, in writing out their
records of the observations which they had made,
and of the adventures which they had met with
during the day. From time to time, as the hours
passed on, they looked out from their tent to
survey the broad expanse of water now far below
them. The day had been sultry and hot, but
the evening was cool. The air was calm and
still, and the moon rising behind the eastern
mountains shone in upon their encampment, and
cheered the solitude of the night, illuminating,
at the same time, with her beams, the quiet and
lonely surface of the sea.

THE SALT MOUNTAIN OF USDUM.

At a subsequent period of his tour in the Holy
Land, Robinson approached the Dead Sea again,
near the southern extremity of it, and there examined
and described a certain very remarkable
geological formation, which is justly considered
one of the greatest wonders of this most wonderful
valley. It is called the Salt Mountain of Usdum.
It is a lofty ridge that extends for a great distance
along the shore of the sea, and consists of
a solid mass of rock-salt. The situation of this
mountain, as will be seen from the map, is on
the southwestern shore of the sea. There is a
narrow tract of low and level land between the
mountain and the water. The road passes along
this plain, close under the cliffs, giving the traveler
a very convenient opportunity of examining
the formation of the mountain as he journeys
with his caravan slowly along.

The existence of such a mountain of salt was
asserted by certain travelers many centuries
ago, but the accounts which they gave of it were
not generally believed, the spot being visited too
seldom, and the accounts which were brought
from it being too vague and imperfect to confirm
sufficiently so extraordinary a story. Robinson,
however, and other travelers who have, since
his day, fully explored the locality, have found
that the ancient tales were true. The ridge is
very uneven and rugged, its summit and its sides
having been furrowed by the rains which sometimes,
though at very distant intervals, fall in
this arid region. The height of the ridge is
from one hundred to one hundred and fifty feet.
The surface of the hill is generally covered, like
that of other rocky ridges, with earth and marl,
and sometimes with calcareous strata of various
kinds, so that its true character is in some meas[Pg 586]ure
concealed from ordinary and casual observers.
The mass of salt, however, which underlies
these superficial coverings, breaks out in
various places along the line of the hills, and
sometimes forms perpendicular precipices of
pure crystalized fossil salt, forty or fifty feet
high, and several hundred feet long. The traveler
who beholds these crystaline cliffs is always
greatly astonished at the spectacle, and can
scarcely believe that the mountain is really what
it seems, until he has gone repeatedly to the
precipice and broken off a fragment from the
face of it, to satisfy himself of the true character
of the rock, by tasting the specimen.

The mountain extends for two or three miles
along the shore, drawing nearer and nearer to it
toward the south, until at last it approaches so
closely to the margin of the sea, that the waters,
when high, wash the foot of the precipice. Along
the road which lies between the cliffs and the
shore, and upon the beach, masses of salt are
found, which, having been broken off from the
heights above, have fallen down to the level land
below, where they lie like common rocks upon
the ground. Here and there ravines are found,
forming little dells, down which small streams
are constantly trickling; and, in some seasons
of the year rains fall, and, dissolving small portions
of the rock, flow with the solution into the
sea below. Of course, what salt finds its way
into the sea remains there forever, except so far
as it is carried away by man—for the process of
evaporation takes up the aqueous particles alone,
from saline solutions. A very small annual addition
is therefore sufficient to keep up the saltness
of such a sea. It is supposed that this
mountain is the source which furnishes the supply
in this case. If so, the Dead Sea, geologically
speaking, is simply an accumulation of the
waters of the Jordan, formed in a deep depression
of its valley, and made salt by impregnation
from a range of soluble rocks, the base of which
they lave.

THE CAVERN.

THE CAVERN OF USDUM.

At one point in the eastern face of the Usdum
mountain, that is the face which is turned toward
the sea, there is a cavern. This cavern
seems to have been formed by a spring. A spring
of water issuing from among soluble strata will,
of course, always produce a cavern, as its waters
must necessarily dissolve and wear away the
substance of the rock, and so, in the process of
ages, form an open recess leading into the heart
of the mountain. The few European travelers
who have ever passed the road that leads along
the base of this mountain, have generally stopped
to examine and explore this cavern. It is irregular
in its form, but very considerable in extent.
The mouth of it is ten or twelve feet high, and
about the same in breadth. Robinson and his[Pg 587]
party went into it with lights. They followed
it for three or four hundred feet into the heart
of the mountain, until at length they came to a
place where it branched off into two small fissures,
which could not be traced any farther.
A small stream of water was trickling slowly
along its bed in the floor of the cavern, which,
as well as the walls and roof, were of solid salt.
There were clear indications that the quantity
of water flowing here varied greatly at different
seasons; and the cavern itself was undoubtedly
formed by the action of the stream.

AN INCIDENT OF ORIENTAL TRAVELING.

When Robinson and his party came out from
the cavern in the Salt Mountain, an incident occurred
which illustrates so forcibly both the nature
of Oriental traveling, and the manners and
customs of the semi-savage tribes that roam
about the shores of the Dead Sea, that it well deserves
a place in this memoir. When they
were about entering the cavern, a report came
from some of the scouts, of whom it was always
customary to have one or more ahead, when
traveling on these expeditions, that a troop of
riders were in sight, coming round the southern
end of the sea. This report had been confirmed
during the time that Robinson and his companions
had been in the cave, and when they came
out they found their camp in a state of great
confusion and alarm. The strangers that were
coming were supposed, from their numbers, and
from the manner in which they were mounted,
to be enemies or robbers. The Arab attendants
of the party were greatly excited by this intelligence.
They were getting their guns in readiness,
and loading and priming them. A consultation
was held, and it was determined by the
party that they would not leave their encampment
at the mouth of the cavern, since the position
which they occupied there was such as to
afford them a considerable advantage, as they
judged, in the case of an attack. They accordingly
began to strengthen themselves where they
were with such means as they had at their command,
and to make the best disposition they could
of the animals and baggage, with a view to defending
them. At the same time they sent forward
an Arab chieftain of the party, to reconnoitre
and learn more particularly the character
of the enemy.

The messenger soon returned, bringing back
a report which at once relieved their fears.
The dreaded troop of marauders proved to be a
flock of sheep, driven by a few men on donkeys.
Of course, all alarm was at once dispelled, and
the expedition immediately resumed its march,
pursuing its way as before along the strand.
But this was not the end of the affair, for the
Arabs of Robinson’s escort, finding that they
were now the stronger party, at once assumed
the character of robbers themselves, and began
immediately to make preparations for plundering
the strangers. The customs of the country as
they understood the subject, fully justified them
in doing so, and before Robinson was aware of
their intentions, they galloped forward, and attacked
the peaceful company of strangers, and
began to take away from them every thing valuable
on which they could lay their hands. One
seized a pistol, another a cloak, and a third stores
of provisions. Robinson and his companions
hastened to the spot and arrested this proceeding,
though they had great difficulty in doing it.
The Arabs insisted that these men were their
enemies, and that they had a right to rob them
wherever they found them. To which Robinson
replied, that that might perhaps be the law of
the desert, but that while the Arabs were in his
employ they must be content to submit to his
orders. At length the stolen property was reluctantly
restored, and the strangers went on
their way. They proved to be a party in the
service of a merchant of Gaza, a town on the
Mediterranean coast, nearly opposite this part
of the Dead Sea. This merchant had been to
Kerak—the village which has already been mentioned
as seen by our party from their position
on the heights of Ain Jidy, at the head of the
valley which opens on the eastern side of the
sea beyond Zoar—and there he had purchased
a flock of sheep, and was now driving them, with
the assistance of some peasants whom he had
hired for the purpose, home to Gaza.

THE FORD.

As has already been stated, the water of the
Dead Sea, though deep in the northern part,
spreads out toward the southward over an immense
region of flats and shallows, so that sometimes
the water is only a few feet deep over an
extent of many miles. There are, moreover,
southward of the sea, vast tracts of low and
sandy land, which are sometimes covered with
water and sometimes bare, on account of the rising
and falling of the sea, the level of which seems to
vary many feet in different years and in different
seasons, according to the state of the snows on
Mount Lebanon and the quantity of water brought
down by the Jordan and other streams. The shallowness
of the water becomes very marked and
apparent at the peninsula, and various rumors
were brought to Europe, from time to time, in
the middle ages, of a fording place there, by
means of which caravans, when the water was
low, could cross over from the eastern shore
to the western, and thus save the long detour
around the southern end of the sea. The most
direct and tangible evidence in respect to this
ford, was given by the two celebrated travelers,
Irby and Mangles, who relate that in descending
from Kerak to the peninsula, they fell in with a
small company of Arabs that were going down
to the sea—riding upon asses and other beasts
of burden. The Arabs of this caravan said that
they were going to cross the sea at the ford.
The travelers did not actually see them make
the passage, for they were themselves engaged
in exploring the eastern and northern part of
the peninsula at the time, and the caravan was
thus hidden from view when they approached
the water, by the high land intervening between
them and the travelers. After a short time,
however, the travelers came over to the western[Pg 588]
side of the promontory, and there they saw the
place of the ford indicated by boughs of trees
set up in the water. The caravan had passed
the ford, and were just emerging from the water
on the western side of the sea. This evidence
was considered as very direct and very conclusive,
and yet other travelers who visited the same
region, both before and afterward, could obtain
no certain information in respect to the ford.
Allusions to it exist in some very ancient records,
and yet the Arabs themselves who live in
the vicinity, when inquired of in respect to the
subject, often denied the possibility of such a
passage. The only way, apparently, of reconciling
these seemingly contradictory accounts,
is to suppose that the sea is subject to great
changes of level, and that for certain periods,
perhaps at distant intervals from each other, the
water is so low that caravans can cross it—and
that afterward it becomes again too deep to be
passable, continuing so perhaps for a long series
of years, so that the existence of the ford is for
a time in some measure forgotten.

THE FORD

LIEUTENANT LYNCH.

The information which the Christian world
obtained in respect to the Dead Sea and the
character of the country around it, was, after
all, down to quite a late period, of a very vague
and unsatisfactory character, being derived almost
entirely from the reports of occasional
travelers who approached the shores of it, from
time to time, at certain points more accessible
than others, but who remained at their places
of observation for so brief a period, and were so
restricted in respect to their means and facilities
for properly examining the localities that they
visited, that, notwithstanding all their efforts,
the geography and natural history of the region
were very imperfectly determined. Things continued
in this state until the year 1847, when
Lieutenant Lynch, of the United States naval
service, made his celebrated expedition into the
Holy Land, for the express purpose of exploring
the River Jordan and the Dead Sea. We have
already, in our article on the River Jordan, given
an account of the landing of this party at the
Bay of Acre, of their extraordinary
journey across the country
to the Sea of Galilee, and of
their passage down the Jordan
in the metallic boats, the Fanny
Mason and the Fanny Skinner,
which they had brought with
them across to the Mediterranean.
We now propose to narrate
briefly the adventures which
the intrepid explorer met with
in his cruise around the Dead
Sea. When he commenced the
undertaking, it was considered
both by himself and his companions,
and also by his countrymen
and friends at home, to be
extremely doubtful whether he
would be able to accomplish it.
All previous attempts to navigate
the sea had failed, and had
proved fatal to their projectors.
Some had been destroyed by the
natives—others had sunk under
the pestiferous effects of the
climate. When, therefore, the boats of this
party, heavily laden with their stores of provisions
and their crews, came from the mouth
of the Jordan out into the open sea, the hearts
of the adventurous navigators were filled with
many forebodings.

A GALE.

The party expected to spend several weeks
upon the sea, and their plan was to establish
fixed encampments from time to time on the
shore, to be used as stations where they could
keep the necessary stores and supplies, and from
which they could make excursions over the whole
surface of the sea. The first of these stations
was to be at a place called the Fountain of Feshkah;
a point on the western shore of the sea,
about five miles from the mouth of the Jordan.
The caravan which had accompanied the expedition
along the bank while they had been descending
the river, were to go around by land,
and meet the boats at the place of rendezvous at
night. Things being thus arranged, the land
and water parties took leave of each other, and
the boats pushed out upon the sea—turning to
the westward and southward as soon as they had
rounded the point of land which forms the termination
of the bank of the river—and shaped their
course in a direction toward the place of rendezvous.
Their course led them across a wide
bay, which forms the northwestern termination
of the sea. There was a fresh northwestern
wind blowing at the time, though they did not
anticipate any inconvenience from it when they
left the river. The force of the wind, however,
rapidly increased, and the effects which it produced
were far more serious than would have[Pg 589]
resulted from a similar gale in any other sea.
The weight of the water was so great, on account
of the extraordinary quantity of saline
matter which it held in solution, that the boats
in encountering the waves, suffered the most
tremendous concussions. The surface of the
sea became one wide spread sheet of foaming
brine, while the spray which dashed over upon
the men, evaporating as it fell, covered their
faces, their hands, and their clothes with encrustations
of salt, producing, at the same time,
prickling and painful sensations upon the skin,
and inflammation and smarting in the eyes. The
party, nevertheless, pushed boldly on for some
time toward the west, in the hope of reaching
the shore. The wind, however, being almost
directly ahead, they made very little progress.
They began to fear that they should be driven
entirely out to the open sea, and at length, about
the middle of the afternoon, when they had been
for some hours in this dangerous situation, the
gale increased to such a degree that the boats
were in imminent danger of foundering. The
officers were obliged to order their supplies of
water to be thrown overboard, in order to lighten
the burden. They gave up all hope of gaining
the land; and, expecting to spend the night on
the sea, they thought only of the means of saving
themselves from sinking. At length, however,
about six o’clock, the wind suddenly ceased, and
the waves, on account of the great weight of the
water, almost immediately went down. The
voyagers now, though almost exhausted with
their toils, had little difficulty in gaining the
land.

THE FIRST ENCAMPMENT.

It was, however, now dark, and Mr. Lynch
felt much solicitude in respect to the difficulty
of finding the place of rendezvous on the coast
where the party in the boats were to meet the caravan.
They rowed along the shore to the southward,
looking out on all the cliffs and headlands
for lights or other signals. They had an Arab
chieftain on board as a guide, and on him the
party had depended for direction to the place
where the fountain of Feshkah was to be found.
The Arab had, however, become so bewildered
by the terror which the storm had inspired, or,
perhaps, by the strange and unusual aspect
which the land presented to him, as seen from
the side toward the sea and in the night, that
he seemed to be entirely lost. At length the
boatmen saw the light of a fire on the beach to
the southward of them. They discharged a gun
as a signal, and pulled eagerly toward the fire.
The light, however, soon disappeared. The men
were then at a loss again, and while resting upon
their oars, awaiting another signal, they suddenly
saw flashes, and heard reports of guns and
sounds of voices on the cliffs, not far from them,
and immediately afterward heard other reports
from a considerable distance back, at a place
which they had passed in coming along the
shore. These various and uncertain sounds
quite embarrassed the boatmen. They might
indicate an attack from some hostile force upon
their friends on the land, or some stratagem, to
draw the boats into an ambuscade. They, however,
determined, at length, that they would, at
all events, ascertain the truth; so closing in
with the shore, they pulled along the beach,
sounding as they proceeded. About eight o’clock
they arrived at the place of rendezvous, where
they found their friends awaiting them at the
fountain. The shouts and signal-guns which
they had heard had proceeded from two portions
of the caravan that had become separated on the
march, and were thus attempting to communicate
with each other. The party in the boats
were greatly relieved on reaching the land, for
the whole scene through which they had passed
in approaching it, had been one of the wildest
and most exciting character. The sea itself,
mysterious and unknown, the lonely and desolate
coast, the dark and gloomy mountains, the
human voices heard in shouts and outcries on
the cliffs, with the flashes of the guns, and the
reports reverberating along the shore, joined to
the dread uncertainty which the boatmen felt in
respect to what the end of the adventure was to
be, combined to impress the minds of all the
party with the most sublime and solemn emotions.

The boats, they found, for some reason or other,
could not land at the place which had been
chosen for the encampment, but were obliged to
proceed about a mile to the southward, where,
at length, they were safely drawn up upon the
beach. Some Arabs were placed here to guard
them, while the seamen were conducted to the
camp, in order that they might enjoy a night of
repose. The camp was pitched in a cane-brake,
not far from the shore, the vegetation which
covered the spot proving that there was nothing
very specially deleterious in the atmosphere of
the sea. In fact, during the remainder of the
excursion, Mr. Lynch’s party always found, in
landing along the shores, that there was always
abundance of vegetation whenever there was
fresh water from the mountains to sustain it.
The water of the sea seems to be itself too deeply
impregnated with saline solutions to nourish
vegetable life; but beyond the reach of the spray,
which the wind drives only to a short distance
from the margin of the shore, it exerts, apparently
no perceptible influence on either plants
or animals. Many animals were seen at different
times in the vicinity of the sea, some on the
land, and others flying freely over the water.
The water itself, however, seemed to produce no
living thing. Some few shells were found in
two or three instances on the beach, but they
were of such a character, and appeared under
such circumstances as to lead to the supposition
that they were brought down to the sea by the
torrents from the mountains, or by the current
of the Jordan.

The scene which presented itself to the party
as the night came on at this their first encampment
on the shore of the Dead Sea, was solemn
and sublime. The dark and gloomy mountains,
barren and desolate—their declivities fretted and[Pg 590]
furrowed by the tooth of time, rose behind them
in dismal grandeur; the waters of the sea lay
reposing heavily in their vast caldron before
them, covered with a leaden-colored mist; while
the moon, which rose toward midnight above
the mountains beyond, cast spectre-like shadows
from the clouds over the broad and solemn
expanse, in a wild and fantastic manner.
Every thing seemed strange and unnatural, and
wore an expression of unspeakable loneliness
and desolation. And yet about midnight the
death-like silence and repose which reigned
around, was strangely broken by the distant
tolling of a bell!

The tolling of the bell which the travelers
heard, proceeded from the Convent of Mar Saba,
a rude and lonely structure, situated in the middle
of the desolate gorge which the brook Kedron
forms in traversing the mountains that lie
between Jerusalem and the Dead Sea. The
place of the convent was seven or eight miles
from the shore where our travelers were encamped,
but yet the tones of the bell, calling the
monks to their devotions, made their way to the
spot through the still evening air. The travelers
felt cheered and encouraged in their solitude,
by being thus connected again, even by so slender
a bond as this, with the common family of
man, from which they had seemed before to have
undergone an absolute and total separation.

THE VOYAGE TO EN-GEDI.

After remaining a day or two at Feshkah, and
making various excursions across the sea and
along the shores, from that station, for the purpose
of measuring distances and taking soundings,
the party broke up their encampment, and
prepared to proceed to the southward. They
made arrangements for taking every thing with
them on board the boats, except a load from one
single camel, which was to be sent along the
shore. Their intention was to proceed to En-gedi,
and to encamp there at the foot of the
cliffs, on the little plain which Robinson had
visited about ten years before. This encampment
at En-gedi was to be a sort of permanent
station for the party during all the time necessary
for the survey of the middle and southern
portions of the sea. It was a suitable spot for
such a post, on account of its central position,
and also on account of the abundant supply of
fresh water which could be obtained there from
the fountain. The company were obliged to
hasten their departure from Feshkah; for the
water of the fountain at the place of their first encampment
was brackish and unfit for use, while
the supply which they had brought from the
Jordan was nearly exhausted. Their stock of
provisions, too, was well-nigh spent, and Lieutenant
Lynch felt a considerable degree of uneasiness
in respect to the means of sufficiently
replenishing it. He sent off detachments from
his party to Hebron and to Jerusalem, to procure
supplies, directing them to bring whatever
they could procure to En-gedi. He also sent
an Arab chieftain, named Akil, round to the
eastern side of the sea, to Kerak, to purchase
provisions there. The Arab, if successful, was
to bring down his stores to the sea, at the peninsula,
and at the proper time, Lieutenant Lynch
was to send one of the boats across from En-gedi
to receive them.

Things being thus arranged, the tents were
struck, the boats pushed off from the land, while
a train of Arabs attended by the loaded camel,
took up their line of march along the beach.
As they proceeded, the boats stopped from time
to time, to note and to record every thing worthy
of notice that appeared along the shore. They
passed the mouth of the brook Kedron, a deep
gorge, narrow at the base, and yawning wide at
the summit. The sides of this frightful ravine
were twelve hundred feet high. The bed of it
was perfectly dry; the waters of the stream at
this season of the year being wholly absorbed by
the sands long before reaching the sea. They
passed many caves, some opening into the face
of the rock, far up the mountain sides, in positions
wholly inaccessible. The shores were generally
barren and desolate, consisting of dark
brown mountains, which looked as if they had
been scorched by fire, with a narrow beach equally
dreary and desolate below. Here and there,
however, little valleys opened, which sustained
a scanty vegetation, and birds and other animals
were occasionally seen. There seemed to be
no vegetation, except at points where streams
or springs of fresh water flowed down from the
land.

The boats proceeded onward in this manner
till night, and then rounding a point which was
covered sparsely with bushes and trees, and with
tufts of cane and grass, they came into a little
bay which opened to a dell, fertilized by a fountain.
The name of the fountain was Turabeh.
Flowers were growing here, and certain fruits,
the sight of which gladdened the eyes of our voyagers,
though in any other situation they would
have attracted little attention. The stream which
sustained this vegetation was extremely small.
The water trickled down from the spring so
scantily that the Arabs were forced to dig holes
in the sand, and wait for them to fill, in order to
procure enough for drink. Still its influence
was sufficient to clothe its narrow dell with
something like verdure and fruitfulness. The
little oasis had its inhabitants, too, as well as its
plants and flowers. One of the party saw a duck
at a little distance from the shore, and fired at
her; though it might have been thought that no
one could have had the heart to disturb even a
duck in the possession of so solitary and humble
a domain. In fact, it seems the sportsman must
have had some misgivings, and was accordingly
not very careful in his aim, for the bird was not
harmed by the shot. She flew out to sea a little
way, alarmed by the report, and then alighting
on the glassy surface of the water, began to
swim back again toward the shore, as if thinking
it not possible that the strange intruders
into her lonely home, whoever and whatever
they might be, could really intend to do her
any harm.

[Pg 591]

TURABEH.

Soon after the party in the boats had landed,
the camel with his attendants arrived, and they
all encamped on this spot for the night. The
scene which presented itself when the arrangements
had been made for the night was, as usual
in such cases, very solemn and impressive. The
tents stood among the trees. The Arab watch-fires
were burning. The boats were drawn up
upon the shore. The dark and sombre mountains
rose like a wall behind the encampment;
while the smooth and placid sea was spread out
before it, reflecting with a sort of metallic lustre
the silver radiance of the moon. The stillness,
too, which reigned around seemed strange and
fearful, it was so absolute and profound.

In the morning, the party, after breakfasting
under the trees on the shore, resumed their
voyage. After proceeding a few miles along
the coast, they saw an Arab on the beach. The
Arab hailed the party, and they attempted to
communicate with him, but could not understand
what he said. At one place they stopped to examine
a mass of ruins which they saw standing
a short distance up the mountain side. The
ruins proved to be the remains of a wall, built
to defend the entrances to several caves which
opened in the face of the precipice directly behind
them. The caves were perfectly dry, and
one of them was large enough to contain twenty
or thirty men. There were openings cut from
them through the rock to the air above, intended
apparently to serve the purpose of chimneys.
These caves were in the wilderness of En-gedi.

In fact, the boats were now drawing near to
their place of destination. At noon they arrived
at the spot, and the party landing, unloaded the
boats and hauled them up upon the shore. They
selected a spot for their encampment on the little
plain at the foot of the cliffs, not far from the
place where the stream descends to it from the
mountain above. They found that the gardens
and other marks of vegetation
which Robinson had observed at
the time of his visit, had disappeared;
in other respects, every
thing corresponded with his description.
The water was gushing
from the fountain as copiously
as ever, and was disappearing
as rapidly in the sands
of its thirsty bed, after running
its short and foaming course
along its little dell. After a
brief survey of the scene, the
ground was marked out, the
tents were pitched, and the stores
deposited within them; the boats
were hauled up and examined
for repairs, and all the arrangements
made for a permanent
encampment; for this was to
be the head-quarters of the expedition
during all the remaining
time that they were to spend
upon the sea. They named it
“Camp Washington.”

EXPLORINGS.

The encampment thus established at En-gedi
continued to be occupied as the head-quarters
of our party for two or three weeks, during
which time many expeditions were fitted out
from it, for exploring the whole southern portion
of the sea, and the country around. The engineer
of the party measured a base line on the
beach, and from the two stations at the extremities
of it took the bearings of all the important
points on the shores of the sea. He made the
necessary astronomical observations also for determining
the exact latitude and longitude of the
camp. Parties were sent out, too, sometimes
along the shores and up the mountains to collect
plants and specimens, and at other times across
to the eastern shore to measure the breadth of
the sea, and to make soundings for determining
the depth of it in every part. They preserved
specimens and memorials of every thing. Even
the mud and sand, and the cubical crystals of
salt which their sounding apparatus brought up
from the bottom of the sea, were put up in airtight
vessels to be brought home for the inspection
of naturalists and philosophers in America.
Thus the whole party were constantly employed
in the various labors incident to such an undertaking,
meeting from time to time with strange
and romantic adventures, and suffering on many
occasions most excessively from exposure and
fatigue.

One of the most remarkable of the expeditions
which they made from their camp at En-gedi,
was a cruise of four days in the southern portion
of the sea, in the course of which they circumnavigated
the whole southern shore. In
following down the western coast in first commencing
their voyage, they found the scenery
much the same as it had been in the northern
part of the sea, the coast being formed of bald
and barren mountains, desolate and gloomy, with[Pg 592]
a low, flat beach below, and sometimes a broad
peninsula, or delta, formed, at the mouths of the
ravines, by the detritus brought down from above.
Farther south, however, the water became very
shoal, so much so, that at last they could not
approach the shore near enough to land, without
wading for a great distance through water and
mire. In fact, the line of demarkation between
the land and the sea was often scarcely perceptible,
the land consisting of low flats and slimy
mud, coated with incrustations of salt, and sometimes
with masses of drift-wood lying upon it,
while the water was covered with a frothy scum,
formed of salt and bitumen. Sometimes for
miles the water was only one or two feet deep,
and the men in such cases, leaving the boats,
waded often to a great distance from them.
Every night, of course, they stopped and encamped
on the land.

THE SIROCCO.

The party suffered on some occasions most
intensely from heat and thirst. Their supply
of water was not abundant, and one of the principal
sources of solicitude which the officers of
the expedition felt throughout the cruise, was
to find fountains where they could replenish
their stores. One night they were reduced to
the greatest extreme of misery from the influence
of an intolerably hot and suffocating wind,
which blew upon them from off the desert to the
southward. It was the Sirocco. It gave them
warning of its approach on the evening before
by a thin purple haze which spread over the
mountains a certain unnatural and lurid hue,
that awakened a mysterious emotion of awe and
terror. Something dreadful seemed to be portended
by it. It might be a thunder-tempest;
it might be an earthquake, or it might be some
strange and nameless convulsion of nature incident
to the dreadful region to which they had
penetrated, but elsewhere unknown. The whole
party were impressed with a sentiment of solemnity
and awe, and deeming it best for them
to get to the land as soon as possible, they took
in sail, turned their boats’ heads to the westward,
and rowed toward the shore.

In a short time they were struck suddenly by
a hot and suffocating hurricane, which blew directly
against them, and, for a time, not only
stopped their progress, but threatened to drive
them out again to sea. The thermometer rose
immediately to 105°. The oarsmen were obliged
to shut their eyes to protect them from the fiery
blast, and to pull, thus blinded, with all their
strength to stem the waves. The men who
steered the boats were unable, of course, thus
to protect themselves, and their eyelids became
dreadfully inflamed by the hot wind before they
reached the land.

At length, to their great joy, they succeeded
in getting to the shore. They landed at a most
desolate and gloomy spot at the mouth of a dismal
ravine; and the men, drawing the boats up
on the beach, immediately began to seek, in
various ways, some means of escape from the
dreadful influences of the blast. Several went
up the ravine in search of some place of retreat,
or shelter. Others finding the glare of the sun
upon the rocks insupportable, while they remained
on the shore, returned to the boats and
crouched down under the awnings. One of the
officers put spectacles upon his eyes to protect
them from the lurid and burning light, but the
metal of the bows became so hot, that he was
obliged to remove them. Every thing metallic,
in fact, such as the arms, and even the buttons
on the clothes of the men, were almost burning
to the touch, and the wind, instead of bringing
the usual refreshing influences of a breeze, was
now the vehicle of heat, and blew hot and suffocating
along the beach, as if coming from the
mouth of an oven.

Intolerable as the influence was of this ill-fated
blast, it increased in power, until it blew a gale.
The distant mountains, seen across the surface
of the sea, were curtained by mists of a purple
and deadly hue. The sky above was covered
with bronze-colored clouds, through which the
declining sun shone, red and rayless, diffusing
over the whole face of nature, instead of light,
a sort of lurid and awful gloom.

The sun went down, and the shades of the
evening came on, but the heat increased. The
thermometer rose to 106°. The wind was like
the blast of a furnace. The men, without pitching
their tents or making any other preparations
for the night, threw themselves down upon the
ground, panting and exhausted, and oppressed
with an intolerable thirst. They went continually
to the “water breakers,” in which their
supplies of water were kept, and drank incessantly,
but their thirst could not be assuaged.

Things continued in this state till midnight.
The wind then went down, and very soon afterward
a gentle breeze sprung up from the northward.
The thermometer fell to 82°, and the
Sirocco was over.

THE PILLAR OF SALT.

Mr. Lynch’s party visited the salt mountain
of Usdum, of which we have already spoken,
and examined it throughout its whole extent, in
a very careful and thorough manner. They
found at one place, at the head of a deep and
narrow chasm, a remarkable conformation of the
salt rock, consisting of a tall cylindrical mass,
standing out detached, as it were, from the
mountain behind it, and appearing like an artificial
column. It was in fact literally a pillar
of salt. It was forty or fifty feet high, and was
capped above with a layer of limestone, a portion
perhaps of the once continuous calcareous
stratum, which at some remote geological period
had been deposited over the whole bed of salt.
The appearance of the pillar was as if it were
itself a portion of the salt mountain that had
been left by the gradual disintegration and wearing
away of the adjoining mass, having assumed
and preserved its tall and columnar form, through
the protecting influence of the cap of insoluble
rock on its summit. The mass, though as seen
in front it appeared to stand isolated and alone
like a pillar, was connected with the precipice[Pg 593]
behind it by a sort of buttress, by means of
which some of the party climbed up to the top
of the gigantic geological ruin, and standing
upon the pinnacle, looked down upon their companions
below, and upon the wide scene of desolation
and death which was spread out before
them.

EXCURSION TO KERAK.

As we have already mentioned, an Arab chieftain
who accompanied the expedition, had been
sent round to the eastern side of the sea to the
town of Kerak, which was situated, as will be recollected,
at the head of the valley beyond Zoar,
to negotiate with the natives and to procure provisions,
and a day had been appointed for him
to come down to the shore, at a certain point
on the peninsula, where a boat was to be sent
to meet him. When the time arrived for fulfilling
this appointment, Lieutenant Lynch organized
a party for the excursion, and embarked
for the eastern shore. On approaching the land
at the appointed place of rendezvous, they saw
an Arab lurking in the bushes, apparently watching
for them, and soon afterward several more appeared.
At first the voyagers doubted whether
these were the friends whom they had come to
meet or whether they were enemies lying in
wait to entrap them. On approaching nearer
to the beach, however, they soon recognized
Akil. He seemed greatly rejoiced to see them.
He informed them that he had been kindly received
at Kerak, and he brought down an invitation
to Lieutenant Lynch, from the chieftain
that ruled there, to come up to the valley and
make him a visit. After some hesitation, Lieutenant
Lynch concluded to accept this invitation.
He encamped, however, first on the shore for a
day or two, to make the necessary explorations
and surveys in the neighborhood. During this
time he went out with two Arabs across the
plain, to examine the supposed site of ancient
Zoar. He found ruins of an ancient village
there, and fragments of pottery, and other similar
vestiges on the ground. At length, on the
morning of the third day, leaving his boat in the
care of a guard, he put himself and his party of
attendants under Akil’s guidance, and set out to
ascend the valley. The party were fourteen in
number. The sailors were mounted on mules.
The officers rode on horseback. The cavalcade
was escorted by a troop of twenty armed Arabs—twelve
mounted and the rest on foot.

They found the valley which they had to ascend
in going up to Kerak, a gloomy gorge, of
the wildest and grandest character. The path
was steep and very difficult, overhanging on one
side a deep and yawning chasm, and being itself
overhung on the other with beetling crags,
blackened as if by fire, and presenting an aspect
of unutterable and frightful desolation. To complete
the sublimity of the scene, a terrific tempest
of thunder, lightning, and rain swept over
the valley while our party were ascending it,
and soon filled the bottom of the gorge with a
roaring and foaming torrent, which came down
from the mountains and swept on toward the
sea with a thundering sound. At length the
party reached the brow of the table land, three
thousand feet above the level of the sea, and
came out under the walls of the town.

The town proved to be a dreary and comfortless
collection of rude stone houses, without
windows or chimneys, and blackened within
with smoke. The inhabitants were squalid and
miserable. Three-fourths of the people were
nominally Christian. The visit of the Americans
of course excited great interest. We have
not time to detail the various adventures which
the party met with in their intercourse with the
inhabitants, or to describe the singular characters
which they encountered and the extraordinary
scenes through which they passed. They remained
one night at Kerak, and then after experiencing
considerable difficulty in escaping the
importunities with which they were besieged by
the chieftains for presents, they succeeded in
getting away and in returning safely to their boat
on the shore.

THE DEPRESSION OF THE SEA.

Our party, after having spent about three
weeks in making these and similar excursions
from their various encampments, during which
time they had thoroughly explored the shores
on every side, and sounded the depths of the
water in every part, made all the necessary measurements
and observations both mathematical
and meteorological, collected specimens for fully
illustrating the geology and natural history of
the region, and carefully noted all the physical
phenomena which they had observed, found that
their work was done. At least all was done
which could be accomplished at the sea itself.
One thing only remained to be determined, and
that was the measure of the depression of the
sea. This could be positively and precisely ascertained
only by the process of “leveling a
line,” as it is termed, across from the sea to the
shores of the Mediterranean. This work they
now prepared to undertake, making arrangements
at the same time for taking their final
leave of the dismal lake which they had been so
long exploring.

It had been long supposed that the Dead Sea
lay below the general level of the waters of the
earth’s surface, and various modes had been
adopted for ascertaining the amount of the depression.
The first attempt was made by two
English philosophers in 1837. The method by
which they attempted to measure the depression
was by means of the boiling point of water.
Water requires a greater or a less amount of
heat to boil it according to the degree of pressure
which it sustains upon its surface from the
atmosphere—boiling with less heat on the tops
of mountains where the air is rare, and requiring
greater in the bottoms of mines, where the
density and weight of the atmosphere is increased
in proportion to the depth. Heights
and depths, therefore, may be approximately
measured by an observation of the degree of
heat indicated by the thermometer in the locality
in question, when water begins to boil. By[Pg 594]
this test the English philosophers found the depression
of the Dead Sea to be
five hundred feet.

A short time after this experiment
was performed a very careful
observation was made by
means of a barometer, which also,
measuring, as it does, the density
of the air, directly, may be made
use of to ascertain heights and
depths. It is, in fact, often thus
employed to measure the heights
of mountains. The result of
observations with the barometer
gave a depression to the surface
of the sea of about six hundred
feet.

A third method is by trigonometrical
calculation. This
mode is much more laborious
and difficult than either of the
other modes which we have alluded
to, but it is more to be relied
upon in its results. The data
for a trigonometrical calculation
are to be obtained by observing,
in a very accurate manner, a series of angles of
elevation and depression on a line between the
points, the relative levels of which are to be obtained.
Lieutenant Symonds, an officer of the
English service, made such a survey with great
care, a few years after the preceding experiments
were performed. He carried a line across
from the Mediterranean to the Dead Sea, connecting
the two extremes of it by means of a
series of vertical angles which he measured accurately,
with instruments of the most exact construction.
The result of the computation which
he made from these data, was that the sea was
depressed one thousand three hundred and twelve
feet below the level of the Mediterranean.

The surprise which had been felt at the results
of the experiments first mentioned, was
greatly increased by the announcement of this
result. No one was disposed really to question
the accuracy of the engineer’s measurements
and calculations, but it seemed still almost incredible
that a valley lying so near the open sea
could be sunken so low beneath its level. There
was one remaining mode of determining the
question, and that was by carrying an actual
level across the land, by means of leveling instruments,
such as are used in the construction
of railroads and canals. This would be, of course,
a very laborious work, but there was a general
desire among all who took an interest in the
subject that it should be performed and Lieutenant
Lynch determined to undertake it.

Accordingly, when the time arrived for leaving
the shores of the sea, he organized a leveling
party, furnishing them with the necessary instruments
and with proper instructions, and
commissioned them to perform this service.
They began by scaling the face of the mountain
which rose almost perpendicularly from the shore
of the sea at the place of the last encampment.
They then proceeded slowly along, meeting with
various adventures, and encountering many difficulties,
but persevering steadily with the work,
until at last, in twenty-three days from the time
of leaving the Dead Sea, they arrived on the
shore of the Mediterranean at Jaffa. The result
confirmed in a very accurate manner the calculations
of Lieutenant Symonds, for the difference
of level was found to be a little over thirteen
hundred feet—almost precisely the same as Lieutenant
Symonds had determined it. The question
is, therefore, now definitely settled. The
vast accumulation of waters lies so far below
the general level of the earth’s surface that, if
named after the analogy of its mighty neighbor,
it might well have been called the Subterranean
Sea.

THE LEVELING PARTY.

Lieutenant Lynch had great reason to congratulate
himself on this successful result of his
labors; for the work which he had undertaken
was one not only of toil, exposure, and suffering,
but also of great danger. He was warned by
the fatal results which had almost invariably attended
former attempts to explore these waters,
that if he ventured to trust himself upon them, it
was wholly uncertain whether he would ever return.
He followed in a track which had led all
who had preceded him in taking it, to destruction;
and the only hope of safety and success
which he could entertain in renewing an experiment
which had so often failed before, was in
the superior sagacity and forethought which he
and his party could exercise in forming their
plans, and in the greater energy and courage,
and the higher powers of endurance, which they
could bring into play in the execution of them.
The event proved that he estimated correctly the
resources which he had at his command.

THE STORY OF COSTIGAN.

Among the stories which were related to Mr.
Lynch, when he was preparing at the Sea of[Pg 595]
Galilee to commence his dangerous voyage, to
discourage him from the undertaking, was that
of the unfortunate Costigan. Costigan was an
Irish gentleman who, some years before the period
of Lieutenant Lynch’s expedition, had undertaken
to make a voyage on the Dead Sea, in
a boat, with a single companion—a sailor whom
he employed to accompany him, to row the boat,
and to perform such other services as might be
required. Costigan laid in a store of provisions
and water, sufficient, as he judged, for the time
that would be consumed in the excursion, and
then taking his departure from a point on the
shore near the mouth of the Jordan, he pushed
out with his single oarsman over the waters of
the sea.

COSTIGAN

About eight days afterward, an Arab woman,
wandering along the shore near the place where
these voyagers had embarked, found Costigan
lying upon the ground there, in a dying condition,
alone, and the boat at a little distance on the
beach, stranded and abandoned. The woman
took pity upon the sufferer, and calling some
Arab men to the spot, she persuaded them to
take him up, and carry him to Jericho. There
they found the sailor, who, better able as it would
seem to endure such hardships than his master,
had had strength enough left, when the boat
reached the land, to walk, and had, accordingly,
made his way to Jericho, leaving his master on
the shore while he went for succor. At Jericho
Costigan revived a little, and was then taken to
Jerusalem, where he was lodged in a convent,
and every effort was made to save his life and to
promote his recovery, but in vain. He died in
two days, and was never able to give any account
of the events of his voyage.

The sailor, however, when questioned in respect
to the events of the cruise, gave an account
of such of them as a mere sailor would be likely
to remember. They moved, he said, in a zigzag
direction on the lake, crossing and recrossing it
a number of times. They sounded every day,
and found the depth of the water in many places
very great. The sufferings, the sailor said, which
they both endured from the heat, were very great;
and the labor of rowing was excessively exhausting.
In three days, however, they succeeded in
reaching the southern extremity of the sea, and
then set out on their return. During all this
time Costigan himself took his turn regularly at
the oars, but on the sixth day the supply of water
gave out, and then Costigan’s strength entirely
failed. On the seventh day, they had
nothing to drink but the water of the sea. This
only aggravated instead of relieving their thirst,
and on the eighth day the sailor undertook to
make coffee from the sea water, hoping, by this
means, to disguise in some
measure its nauseating and
intolerable saltness. But all
was in vain. No sustenance
or strength could be obtained
from such sources, and the
sailor himself soon found his
strength, too, entirely gone.
All attempts at rowing were
now, of course, entirely abandoned,
and although the boat
had nearly reached the land
again, at the mouth of the
Jordan, the ill fated navigators
must have perished floating
on the sea, had it not
happened that a breeze sprung
up just at this juncture—blowing
toward the land. The
sailor, though too much exhausted
to row, contrived to
raise the sail, and to guide
the helm, so that the boat
at length attained the shore.
There he left his master,
while he himself made his
way to Jericho, as has been
already described.

These and several other attempts somewhat
similar in their nature and results, which had
been made in previous years, made it evident to
Lieutenant Lynch, when he embarked in his
enterprise, that he was about to engage in a
very dangerous undertaking. The arrangements
and plans which he formed, however, were on a
much greater scale and far more complete than
those of any of his predecessors, and he was enabled
to make a much more ample provision than
they for all the various emergencies which might
occur in the course of the expedition. By these
means, and through the extraordinary courage,
energy, and resolution displayed by himself and
by the men under his command, the enterprise
was conducted to a very successful result.

THE FUTURE.

The true character and condition of the whole[Pg 596]
valley of the Dead Sea having been thus fully
ascertained, and all the secrets of its gloomiest
recesses having been brought fully to light, it
will probably now be left for centuries to come,
to rest undisturbed in the dismal and death-like
solitude which seems to be its peculiar and appropriate
destiny. Curious travelers may, from
time to time, look out over its waters from the
mouth of the Jordan, or survey its broad expanse
from the heights at En-gedi, or perhaps cruise
along under the salt cliffs of Usdum, on its
southeastern shore, in journeying to or from the
Arabian deserts; but it will be long, probably,
before any keel shall again indent its salt-encrusted
sands, or disturb the repose of its ponderous
waters. It is true that the emotion of
awe which its gloomy and desolate scenery inspires
has something in it of the sublime; and
the religious associations connected with the
past history of the sea, impart a certain dread
solemnity to its grandeur, and make the spot a
very attractive one to those who travel into distant
climes from love of excitement and emotion.
But the physical difficulties, dangers, exposures,
and sufferings, which are unavoidably to be incurred
in every attempt to explore a locality like
this, are so formidable, and the hazard to life is
so great, while the causes from which these evils
and dangers flow lie so utterly beyond all possible
or conceivable means of counteraction, that
the vast pit will probably remain forever a memorial
of the wrath and curse of God, and a
scene of unrelieved and gloomy desolation.

THE PALACES OF FRANCE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

Versailles. It was a beautiful morning
in May, when we took the cars in Paris for
a ride to Versailles, to visit this most renowned
of all the voluptuous palaces of the French kings.
Nature was decked in her most joyous robes.
The birds of spring had returned, and, in their
fragrant retreats of foliage and flowers, were
filling the air with their happy warblings. In
less than an hour we alighted at Versailles,
which is about twelve miles from Paris.

When Henry IV., three hundred years ago,
attained the sovereignty of France, an immense
forest spread over the whole region now occupied
by the princely residences of Versailles. For a
hundred years this remained the hunting ground
of the French monarchs. Lords and ladies, with
packs of hounds in full chase of the frightened
deer, like whirlwinds swept through the forests,
and those dark solitudes resounded with the
bugle notes of the huntsmen, and with the shouts
of regal revelry. Two hundred years ago Louis
XIII., in the midst of this forest, erected a beautiful
pavilion, where, when weary with the chase,
the princely retinue, following their king, might
rest and feast, and with wine and wassail prolong
their joy. The fundamental doctrine of political
economy then was that people were made
simply to earn money for kings to spend. The
art of governing consisted simply in the art of
keeping the people submissive while they earned
as much as possible to administer to the voluptuous
indulgences of their monarchs.

Louis XIV. ascended the throne. He loved
sin and feared its consequences. He could not
shut out reflection, and he dreaded death and
the scenes which might ensue beyond the grave.
Whenever he approached the windows of the
grand saloon of his magnificent palace at St.
Germain, far away, in the haze of the distant
horizon, he discerned the massive towers of the
church of St. Denis. In damp and gloomy
vaults, beneath those walls, mouldered the ashes
of the kings of France. The sepulchral object
ever arrested the sight and tortured the mind
of the royal debauchee. It unceasingly warned
him of death, judgment, retribution. He could
never walk the magnificent terrace of his palace,
and look out upon the scene of loveliness spread
through the valley below, but there rose before
him, in sombre majesty, far away in the distance,
the gloomy mausoleum awaiting his burial.
When heated with wine and inflamed by passion
he surrendered himself to dalliance with all forbidden
pleasures, his tomb reproached him and
warned him, and the troubled king could find no
peace. At last he was unable to bear it any
longer, and abandoning St. Germain, he lavished
uncounted millions in rearing, for himself, his
mistresses, and his courtiers, at Versailles, a
palace, where the sepulchre would not gloomily
loom up before their eyes. It is estimated that
the almost incredible sum of two hundred millions
of dollars were expended upon the buildings,
the gardens, and the park. Thirty thousand
soldiers, besides a large number of mechanics,
were for a long time employed upon the works.
A circuit of sixty miles inclosed the immense
park, in the midst of which the palace was
embowered. An elegant city rose around the
royal residence, as by magic. Wealthy nobles
reared their princely mansions, and a population
of a hundred thousand thronged the gay streets
of Versailles. Water was brought in aqueducts
from a great distance, and with a perfectly lavish
expenditure of money, to create fountains, cascades,
and lakes. Forests, and groves, and lawns
arose as by creative power, and even rocks were
made of cement, and piled up in precipitous crags
to give variety and picturesqueness to the scene.
Versailles! It eclipsed Babylon in voluptuousness,
extravagance, and sin. Millions toiled in
ignorance and degradation from the cradle to
the grave, to feed and clothe these proud patricians,
and to fill to superfluity the measure of
their indulgences. The poor peasant, with his
merely animal wife and animal daughter, toiled
in the ditch and in the field, through joyless
years, while his king, beneath gilded ceilings,
was feasting thousands of nobles, with the luxuries
of all climes, from plate of gold.

[Pg 597]

PLAN
of
VERSAILLES

[Pg 598]

It is in vain to attempt a description of Versailles.
The main palace contains five hundred
rooms. We passed the long hours of a long day
in rapidly passing through them. The mind becomes
bewildered with the magnificence. Here
is the chapel where an offended God was to
be appeased by gilding his altar with gold, and
where regal sinners cheaply purchased pardon
for the past and indulgence for the future. It
is one of the essentials of luxurious iniquity to
be furnished with facile appliances to silence
the reproaches of the soul; and nothing more
effectually accomplishes this than a religion of
mere ceremony. Upon this chapel Louis XIV.
concentrated all the taste and grandeur of the
age. It was an easy penance for a profligate
life to expend millions, wrested from the toiling
poor, to embellish an edifice consecrated to an
insulted God. Before this gorgeous altar stood
Maria Antoinette and Louis XVI., in consummation
of that nuptial union which terminated
in the most melancholy tragedy earth has ever
known. The exquisite paintings, the rich carvings
and gildings, the graceful spring of the
arched ceiling, the statues of marble and bronze,
the subdued light, which gently penetrates the
apartment, through the stained glass, the organ
in its tones so soft and rich and full, all conspire
to awaken that luxury of poetic feeling which
the human heart is so apt to mistake for the
spirit of devotion—for love to God. “If ye love
me, ye will keep my commandments.”

But every spot in this sumptuous abode is
so alive with the memories of other days, is so
peopled with the spirits of the departed, that
we linger and linger, as historical incidents of
intensest interest crowd the mind.

LOUIS XIV.

“Voici la salle de l’Opéra,” exclaims the
guide, and he rattles off a voluble description,
which falls upon your ear like the unintelligible[Pg 599]
moaning of the wind, as, lost in reverie, you
recall to mind the scenes which have transpired
in the theatre of Versailles. Sinking down upon
the cushioned sofa, where Maria Antoinette often
reclined in her days of bridal beauty and ambition,
the vision of private theatricals rises before
you. The deserted stage is again peopled. The
nobles of the Bourbon court, in all the regalia
of aristocratic pomp and pride, crowd the brilliant
theatre, blazing with the illumination of ten
thousand waxen lights. Maria, the queen of
France, enacts a tragedy, little dreaming that
she is soon to take a part in a real tragedy, the
recital of which will bring tears into the eyes
of all generations. Maria performs her part
upon the stage with triumphant success. The
courtiers fill the house with tumultuous applause.
Her husband loves not to see his wife a play-actress.
He hisses. The wife is deaf to every
sound but that one piercing note of reproach.
In the midst of resounding triumph she retires
overwhelmed with sorrow and tears.

OLD CHATEAU OF VERSAILLES

Suddenly the vision changes. The dark hours
of the monarchy have come. The people, ragged,
beggared, desperate, have thundered at the
doors of the palace, declaring that they will starve
no longer to support kings and nobles in such
splendor. Poor Maria, educated in the palace,
is amazed that the people should be so unreasonable
and so insolent. She had supposed that
as the horse is made to bear his rider, and the
cow to give milk to her owner, so the people
were created to provide kings with luxury and
splendor. But the maddened populace have lost
all sense of mercy. They burn the chateaus of
the nobles and hang their inmates at the lamp-posts.
The high civil and military officers of
the king rally at Versailles to protect the royal
family. In this very theatre they hold a banquet
to pledge to each other undying support. In
the midst of their festivities, when chivalrous
enthusiasm is at its height, the door opens, and
Maria enters, pale, wan, and woe-stricken. The
sight inflames the wine-excited enthusiasts to
frenzy. The hall is filled with shoutings and
with weeping; with acclamations and with oaths
of allegiance. But we must no longer linger
here. The hours are fast passing and there are
hundreds of rooms, gorgeous with paintings and
statues, and crowded with historical associations,
yet to explore. We must not, however, forget
to mention, in illustration of the atrocious extravagance
of these kings, that the expense of
every grand opera performed in that theatre was
twenty-five thousand dollars.

There were two grand suites of apartments,
one facing the gardens on the north, belonging
to the king, the other facing the south, belonging
to the queen. The king’s apartments, vast
in dimensions and with lofty ceilings decorated
with the most exquisite and voluptuous paintings,
are encrusted with marble and embellished
with a profusion of the richest
works of the pencil and the
chisel. The queen’s rooms are
all tastefully draped in white,
and glitter with gold. Upon this
gorgeous couch of purple and of
fine linen, she placed her aching
head and aching heart, seeking
in vain that repose which the
defrauded peasants found, but
which fled from the pillow of the
queen. Let society be as corrupt
as it may, in a nominally
Christian land, no woman can
be happy when she is but the
prominent slave in the harem of
her husband. The paramours of
Louis XIV. and Louis XV. trod
proudly the halls of Versailles;
their favor was courted even more than that of
their queen, and the neglected wife and mother
knew well the secret passages through which
her husband passed to the society of youth, and
beauty, and infamy.

The statues and the paintings which adorn
these rooms seem to have been inspired by that
one all-powerful passion, which, properly regulated,
fills the heart with joy, and which unregulated
is the most direful source of wretchedness
which can desolate human homes. It is said
that art is in possession of a delicacy which rises
above the instinctive modesty of ordinary life.
France has adopted this philosophy, and it is undeniable
that France, with all her refinement and
politeness, has become an indelicate nation. The
evidence is astounding and revolting. No gentleman,
no lady, from other lands can long reside
in Paris without being amazed at the scenes
which Paris exhibits. The human frame in its
nudity is so familiar to every eye, that it has lost
all its sacredness. In all the places of public
amusement, the almost undraped forms of living
men and women pass before the spectators, and
all the modesties of nature are profaned. The
pen can not detail particulars, for we may not
even record in America that which is done in
France. The connection is plain. The effect
comes legitimately from the cause. No lady can
visit Versailles without having her sense of delicacy
wounded. It is said that “to the pure all
things are pure.” But alas for humanity! a[Pg 600]
fleeting thought will sully the soul. There is
much, very much in France to admire. The cordiality
and the courtesy of the French are worthy
of all praise. But the delicacy of France has received
a wound, deplorable in the extreme, and
a wound from which it can not soon recover.

PALACE OF VERSAILLES—OLD COURT ENTRANCE.

The grand banqueting room of Versailles is
perhaps the most magnificent apartment in the
world, extending along the whole central façade
of the palace, and measuring 242 feet in length,
35 feet in width, and 43 feet in height. It is
lighted by 17 large arched windows, with corresponding
mirrors upon the opposite wall.
The ceiling is painted with the most costly creations
of art. Statues of Venus and Adonis, and
of every form of male and female beauty, embellish
the niches. Here Louis XIV. displayed all
the grandeur of royalty, and this vast gallery was
often filled to its utmost capacity with the brilliant
throng of lords and ladies, whom the people
here supported, Versailles was the Royal alms-house
of the kingdom. The French Revolution,
in its terrible reprisals, was caused by strong
provocatives.

The cabinet of the king, a very beautiful
room, is near. Here is a large round table in the
centre of the saloon. History informs us that
one day Louis XV. was sitting at this table, with
a packet of letters before him. The petted favorite,
Madame du Barri, came in, and suspecting
that the package was from a rival, she snatched
it from the king’s hand. He rose indignantly,
and pursued her. She ran around the table,
chased by the angry monarch, till finding herself
in danger of being caught, she threw the letters
into the glowing fire of the grate. The fascinating
and guilty beauty perished in the Revolution.
She was condemned by the revolutionary tribunal.
Her long hair was shorn, that the knife of
the guillotine might more keenly cut its way.
But clustering ringlets, in beautiful profusion,
fell over her brow and temples, and vailing her
voluptuous features reposed upon her bosom,
from which the executioner had brutally torn
the dress. The yells of the maddened populace,
deriding her exposure and her agony of terror,
filled the air. The drunken mob danced exultingly
around the aristocratic courtesan as the
cart dragged her to the block. But the shrieks
of the appalled victim
pierced through the uproar
which surrounded
her. “Life—life—life!”
she screamed, frantic
with fright; “O, save
me, save me!” The
mob laughed and shouted,
and taunted her
with coarse witticisms
upon the soft pillow
of the guillotine, upon
which her head would
soon repose. The coarse
executioners, with
rude violence, bound
her graceful, struggling
limbs to the plank, the
slide fell, and her shrieks
were hushed in death.

And here is the room
in which her royal lover
died. It was midnight,
the 10th of May, 1774. The small-pox, in
its most loathsome form, had swollen his
frame into the mockery of humanity. The
courtiers had fled in consternation from the
monarch whom they hated and despised. In his
gorgeous palace the king of thirty millions of
people was left, to struggle with death, unpitied
and alone. An old woman sat unconcerned in
an adjoining room, waiting till he should be dead.
Occasionally she rose and walked to his bedside
to see if he still breathed, and, disappointed that
he lived so long, returned again to her chair. A
lamp flickers at the window, a signal to the
courtiers, at a safe distance, that the king is not
yet dead. They watch impatiently through the
hours of the night the glimmer of that dim torch.
Suddenly it is extinguished, and gladness fills
all hearts.

And here is the gorgeous couch upon which
the monarch who reared these walls expired. It
was the 30th of August, 1715. The gray-haired
king, emaciate with remorse and physical suffering,
reclined upon the regal bed, whose velvet
hangings were looped back with heavy tassels
and ropes of gold. The vast apartment was
thronged with princes and courtiers in the magnificent
costume of the times. Ladies sunk upon
their knees around the bed where the proudest
monarch of France was painfully gasping in the
agonies of death. His soul was harrowed with
anguish, as he reflected upon the bitter past,
and anticipated the dread future. Publicly he
avowed with gushing tears his regret, in view of
the scenes of guilt through which he had passed.
“Gentlemen,” said the dying king, in a faltering[Pg 601]
voice to those around him, “I implore your pardon
for the bad example I have set you. Forgive
me. I trust that you will sometimes think of
me when I am gone.” Then exclaiming, “Oh,
my God, come to my aid, and hasten to help me,”
he fell back insensible upon his pillow, and soon
expired.

As he breathed his last, one of the high officers
of the household approached the window of the
state apartment, which opened upon the great
balcony, and threw it back. A vast crowd was
assembled in the court-yard below, awaiting the
tidings which they knew could not long be delayed.
Raising his truncheon above his head, he
broke it in the centre, and throwing the pieces
among the crowd exclaimed, with a loud and
solemn voice, “The king is dead!” Then seizing
another staff from an attendant, he waved it
in the air, shouting joyfully, “Long live the
king!” The dead king is instantly and forever
forgotten. The living king, who alone had favors
to confer, was welcomed to his throne by
multitudinous shouts, echoing through the apartment
of death.

DEATH OF LOUIS XIV.

But upon this balcony a scene of far greater
moral sublimity has transpired. It was the
morning of the 8th of October, 1789. The night
had been black and stormy. The infuriated mob
of Paris, drenched with rain, men, women, boys,
drunken, ragged, starving, in countless thousands,
had all the night long been howling around
their watch-fires, ravenous for the life of the
queen. Clouds, heavy with rain, were still
driven violently through the stormy sky, and
pools of water filled the vast court-yard of the
palace. Muskets were continually discharged,
and now and then the crash of a bullet through a
window was heard. At last the mob, pressing
the palace in an innumerable throng, with a roar
which soon became simultaneous, like an uninterrupted
peal of thunder, shouted, “The Queen!
the Queen!” demanding that she should appear
upon the balcony. With that heroic spirit which
ever inspired her, she fearlessly stepped out of
the low window, leading her children by her side.
“Away with the children!” shouted thousands
of voices. Even this maddened multitude had
not the heart to massacre youth and innocence.
Maria, whose whole soul was roused to meet the
sublimity of the occasion, without the tremor of
a nerve led back her children, and again appearing
upon the balcony, folded her arms and raised
her eyes to heaven, as if devoting herself a sacrifice
to the wrath of her subjects. Even degraded
souls could appreciate the heroism of such a
deed. A murmur of admiration ensued, followed
by a simultaneous shout, which pierced the skies,
“Vive la Reine! Vive la Reine!”

And now we enter the chamber where Maria
slept on that night—or rather where she did not
sleep, but merely threw herself for a few moments
upon her pillow, in the vain attempt to
soothe her agitated spirit. The morning had
nearly dawned ere she retired to her chamber.
A dreadful clamor upon the
stairs roused her. The mob
had broken into the palace.
The discharge of fire-arms
and the clash of swords at
her door, proclaimed that
the desperadoes were struggling
with her guard. At
the same moment she heard
the dying cry of her faithful
sentinel, as he fell beneath
the blows of the assassins,
calling to her,
“Fly! fly for your life!”
She sprang from her bed,
rushed to the private door
which led to the king’s
apartment, and had but just
time to close the door behind
her, when the tumultuous
assailants rushed into the
room, and plunged their
bayonets, with all the vigor
of their brawny arms, into
her bed. Unfortunately,
Maria had escaped. Happy
would it have been for the ill-fated queen had
she died in that short agony. But she was reserved
for a fate perhaps more dreadful than has
ever befallen any other daughter of our race.

Poor Maria! fancy can not create so wild a
dream of terror as was realized in her sad life.
The annals of the world contain not another
tragedy so mournful.

Every room we enter has its tale to tell. Providence
deals strangely in compensations. The
kings of France robbed the nation to rear for
themselves these gorgeous palaces. And yet the
poor unlettered peasant in his hut, was a stranger
to those woes, which have ever held high carnival
within these gilded walls. Few must have
been the hours of happiness which have been[Pg 602]
found in the Palace of Versailles. The paintings
which adorn the saloons and galleries of this
princely abode, are executed in the highest style
of ancient and modern art. One is never weary
of gazing upon them. Many of them leave an
impression upon the mind which a lifetime can
not obliterate. All the great events of France
are here chronicled in that universal language
which all nations can alike understand. David’s
magnificent painting of the Coronation of Napoleon
attracts the special attention of every
visitor. The artist has seized upon the moment
when the Emperor is placing the crown upon
the brow of Josephine. When the colossal work
was finished, many criticisms were passed upon
the composition, which met the Emperor’s ear.
Among other things, it was specially objected
that it was not a picture of the coronation of
Napoleon but of that of Josephine. When the
great work was entirely completed, Napoleon appointed
a day to inspect it in person, prior to its
public exhibition. To confer honor upon the
distinguished artist, he went in state, attended
by a detachment of horse and a military band,
accompanied by the Empress Josephine, the
princes and princesses of the family, and the
great officers of the crown.

Napoleon for a few moments contemplated the
painting in thoughtful silence, and then, turning
to the artist, said, “M. David, this is well—very
well, indeed. The empress, my mother, the emperor,
all are most appropriately placed. You
have made me a French knight, and I am gratified
that you have thus transmitted to future
ages the proofs of affection I was desirous of
testifying toward the empress.” Josephine was
at the time standing at his side, leaning upon his
right arm. M. David stood at his left. After
contemplating the picture again for a few moments
in silence, he dropped the arm of the empress,
advanced two steps, and turning to the
painter, uncovered his head, and bowing to him
profoundly, exclaimed, “M. David, I salute
you!”

“Sire!” replied the painter, with admirable
tact, “I receive the compliment of the emperor,
in the name of all the artists in the empire,
happy in being the individual one you deign to
make the channel of such an honor.”

When this painting was afterward removed
to the Museum, the emperor wished to see it
a second time. M. David, in consequence, attended
in the hall of the Louvre, accompanied by
all of his pupils. Napoleon on this occasion inquired
of the illustrious painter who of his pupils
had distinguished themselves in their art. Napoleon
immediately conferred upon those young
men the decoration of the Legion of Honor. He
then said, “It is requisite that I should testify
my satisfaction to the master of so many distinguished
artists; therefore I promote you to
be Officer of the Legion of Honor. M. Duroc,
give a golden decoration to M. David.” “Sire,
I have none with me,” answered the Grand Marshal.
“No matter,” replied the Emperor; “do
not let this day pass without executing my order.”

The King of Wirtemberg, himself quite an
artist, visited the painting, and exceedingly admired
it. As he contemplated the glow of light
which irradiated the person of the Pope, he exclaimed,
“I did not believe that your art could
effect such wonders. White and black, in painting,
afford but very weak resources. When
you produced this you had no doubt a sunbeam
upon your pencil!”

But we must no longer linger here. And yet
how can we hurry along through the midst of this
profusion of splendor and of beauty. Room after
room opens before us, in endless succession, and
the mind is bewildered with the opulence of art.
In each room you wish to stop for hours, and
yet you can stop but moments, for there are
hundreds of these gorgeous saloons to pass
through, and the gardens and the parks to be
visited, the fountains and the groves, the rural
palaces of the Great Trianon and the Little
Trianon, and above all the Swiss village. The
Historical Museum consists of a suite of eleven
magnificent apartments, filled with the most costly
paintings illustrating the principal events in
the history of France up to the period of the
revolution. You then enter a gallery, three hundred
feet in length, filled with the busts, statues,
and monumental effigies of the kings, queens,
and illustrious personages of France. The Hall
of the Crusades consists of a series of five splendid
saloons in the Gothic style, filled with pictures
relating to that strange period of the
history of the world. But there seems to be no
end to the artistic wonders here accumulated.
The Grand Gallery of Battles is a room 393 feet
in length, 43 in breadth, and the same in height.
The vaulted ceiling is emblazoned with gold, and
the walls are brilliant with the most costly productions
of the pencil. One vast gallery contains
more than three hundred colossal pictures,
illustrating the military history of Napoleon. In
one of the apartments, on the ground floor, are
seen two superb carriages. One is that in which
Charles X. rode to his coronation. It was built
for that occasion, at an expense of one hundred
thousand dollars. The resources of wealth and
art were exhausted in the construction of this
voluptuous and magnificent vehicle. The other
was built expressly for the christening of the
infant Duke of Bordeaux.

But let us enter the stables, for they also are
palaces. The nobles of other lands have hardly
been as sumptuously housed as were the horses
of the kings of France. The Palace of Versailles
is approached from the town by three grand
avenues—the central one 800 feet broad. These
avenues open into a large space called the Place
of Arms. Flanking the main avenue, and facing
the palace, were placed the Grand Stables, inclosed
by handsome iron railings and lofty gate-ways,
and ornamented with trophies and sculptures.
These stables were appropriated to the
carriages and the horses of the royal family.
Here the king kept his stud of 1000 of the most
magnificent steeds the empire could furnish. It
must have been a brilliant spectacle, in the gala[Pg 603]
days of Versailles, when lords and ladies, glittering
in purple and gold, thronged these saloons,
and mounted on horses and shouting in chariots,
with waving plumes, and robes like banners
fluttering in the air, swept as a vision of enchantment
through the Eden-like drives which
boundless opulence and the most highly cultivated
taste had opened in the spacious parks of
the palace. The poor peasant and pale artisan,
whose toil supplied the means for this luxury,
heard the shout, and saw the vision, and, ate
their black bread, and looked upon the bare-footed
daughter and the emaciate wife, and treasured
up wrath. The fearful outrages of the
French revolution, concentrated upon kings and
nobles in the short space of a few years, were
but the accumulated vengeance which had been
gathering through ages of wrong and violence in
the hearts of oppressed men. But those days
of kingly grandeur have passed away from
France forever. Versailles can never again be
filled as it has been. It is no longer a regal palace.
It is a museum of art, opened freely to all
the people. No longer will the blooded Arabians
of a proud monarch fill those stables. One
has already been converted into cavalry barracks,
and the other into an agricultural school. It is
to be hoped that the soldiers will soon follow the
horses, and that the sciences of peace will eject
those of war.

LOUIS XIV. HUNTING.

What tongue can tell the heart-crushing
dramas of real life which have been enacted in
this palace. Its history is full of the revealings
of the agonies of the soul. Love, in all its delirium
of passion, of hopelessness, of jealousy, and
of remorse, has here rioted, causing the virtuous
to fall and weep tears of blood, the vicious to become
demoniac in reckless self-abandonment.
After years of soul-harrowing pleasure and sin,
the Duchesse de la Vallière, with pallid cheek, and
withered charms, and exhausted vivacity, retired
from these sumptuous halls and from her heartless,
selfish, discarding betrayer, to seek in the
glooms of a convent that peace which the guilty
love of a king could never confer upon her heart.
For thirty years, clothed in sackcloth, she mourned
and prayed, till the midnight tollings of the
convent bell consigned her emaciate frame to
the tomb.

Madame Montespan, a lady of noble rank,
beautiful and brilliant, abandoning her husband,
willingly threw herself into the arms of the
proud, mean, self-worshiping monarch. The
patient, gentle, pious, martyr wife of Louis XIV.
looked silently on, and saw Madame Montespan
become the mother of the children of the king.
But Madame Montespan’s cheek also, in time,
became pale with jealousy and sorrow, as another
love attracted the vagrant desires of the royal
debauchee. He sent a messenger to inform the
ruined, woe-stricken, frantic woman, that her
presence was no longer desired, that she was
but a supernumerary in the palace, that she must
retire. With insult almost incredible he informed
the unhappy woman, that as the children to
whom she had given birth were his own they
might be received and honored in the palace, but
that as she had been only his mistress, it was
not decorous that she should longer be seen
there. The discarded favorite, in the delirium
of her indignation and
her agony, seized a dessert
knife upon the table,
and rushing upon
her beautiful boy, the
little Count of Toulouse,
whom the king
held by the hand,
shrieked out, “I will
leave the palace, but
first I will bury this
knife in the heart of
that child.” With difficulty
the frantic woman
was seized and
bound, and the affrighted
child torn from her
grasp. And here we
stand in the very saloon
in which this tragedy
occurred. The room
is deserted and still.
The summer’s sun
sleeps placidly upon
the polished floor. But
far away in other
worlds the perfidious lover and his victim have
met before a tribunal, where justice can not be
warded off, by sceptre or by crown. Madame
Maintenon, whom the king gained by a private
marriage, which he afterward was meanly
ashamed to acknowledge, succeeded Madame
Montespan in the evanescent love of the king.

The fate of this proud beauty, once one of the
most envied and admired of the gilded throng,
which crowded Versailles, was indeed peculiar.[Pg 604]
Upon her dying bed, in accordance with the
gloomy superstitions of the times, she bequeathed
her body to the family tomb, her heart to the
convent of La Flèche, and her entrails to the
priory of St. Menoux. A village surgeon performed
the duty of separating from the body
those organs, which were to be conveyed as sacred
relics to the cloister. The heart, inclosed
in a leaden case, was forwarded to La Flèche.
The intestines were taken out and placed in a
small trunk. The trunk was intrusted to the
care of a peasant, who was directed to convey
them to St. Menoux. The porter, having completed
half of his journey, sat down under a tree
to rest. His curiosity was excited to ascertain
the contents of the box. Astonished at the
sight, he thought that some comrade was trifling
with him, desiring to make merry at his expense.
He therefore emptied the trunk into a ditch beside
which he sat. Just at that moment, a lad
who was herding swine drove them toward him.
Groveling in the mire they approached the remains
and instantly devoured them! She had
bequeathed the sacred relics as a legacy to the
church, to be approached with reverence through
all coming time. The filthiest animals in the
world rooted them into the mire and ate them,
devouring a portion of the remains of one of the
proudest beauties who ever reigned in an imperial
palace.

MADAME MAINTENON.

It has often been said that the French revolution
merely overthrew a Bourbon to place[Pg 605]
upon the throne a Bonaparte. But Napoleon, a
democratic king, with all the energy of his impassioned
nature consulting for the interests of the
people of France, was as different in his character,
and in the great objects of his ambition, and his
life, from the old feudal monarchs, as is light from
darkness. The following was the ordinary routine
of life, day after day, and year after year,
with Louis XIV., in the palace of Versailles.

At eight o’clock in the morning two servants
carefully entered the chamber of the king. One,
if the weather was cold or damp, brought dry
wood to kindle a cheerful blaze upon the hearth,
while the other opened the shutters, carried
away the collation of soup, roasted chicken,
bread, wine, and water, which had been placed,
the night before, at the side of the royal couch,
that the king might find a repast at hand in case
he should require refreshment during the night.
The valet de chambre then entered and stood
silently and reverently at the side of the bed for
one half hour. He then awoke the monarch,
and immediately passed into an ante-room to
communicate the important intelligence that the
king no longer slept. Upon receiving this announcement
an attendant threw open the double
portals of a wide door, when the dauphin and
his two sons, the brother of the king, and the
Duke of Chartres, who awaited the signal, entered,
and approaching the bed with the utmost
solemnity of etiquette, inquired how his majesty
had passed the night. After the interval of a
moment the Duke du Maine, the Count de Toulouse,
the first lord of the bed-chamber, and the
grand master of the robes entered the apartment,
and with military precision took their station by
the side of the couch of recumbent royalty. Immediately
there followed another procession of
officers bearing the regal vestments. Fagon,
the head physician, and Telier, the head surgeon,
completed the train.

The head valet de chambre then poured upon
the hands of the king a few drops of spirits of
wine, holding beneath them a plate of enameled
silver, and the first lord of the bed-chamber presented
to the monarch, who was ever very punctilious
in his devotions, the holy water, with which
the king made the sign of the cross upon his head
and his breast. Thus purified and sanctified he
repeated a short prayer, which the church had
taught him, and then rose in his bed. A noble
lord then approached and presented to him a
collection of wigs from which he selected the
one which he intended to wear that day, and
having condescended to place it, with his own
royal hands upon his head, he slipped his arms
into the sleeves of a rich dressing-gown, which
the head valet de chambre held ready for him.
Then reclining again upon his pillow, he thrust
one foot out from the bed clothes. The valet
de chambre reverently received the sacred extremity,
and drew over it a silk stocking. The
other limb was similarly presented and dressed,
when slippers of embroidered velvet were placed
upon the royal feet. The king then devoutly
crossing himself with holy water, with great
dignity moved from his bed and seated himself
in a large arm-chair, placed at the fire-side.
The king then announced that he was prepared
to receive the First Entrée. None but the especial
favorites of the monarch were honored
with an audience so confidential. These privileged
persons were to enjoy the ecstatic happiness
of witnessing the awful ceremony of shaving
the king. One attendant prepared the water
and held the basin. Another religiously lathered
the royal chin, and removed the sacred beard,
and with soft sponges, saturated with wine and
water, washed the parts which had been operated
upon and soothed them with silken towels.

And now the master of the robes approaches
to dress the king. At the same moment the
monarch announces that he is ready for his
Grand Entrée. The principal attendants of royalty,
accompanied by several valets de chambre
and door keepers of the cabinet, immediately
took their stations at the entrance of the apartment.
Princes often sighed in vain for the
honor of an admission to the Grand Entrée.
The greatest precautions were observed that no
unprivileged person should intrude. As each
individual presented himself at the door, his
name was whispered to the first lord of the bed
chamber, who repeated it to the king. If the
monarch made no reply the visitor was admitted.
The duke in attendance marshaled the newcomers
to their several places, that they might
not approach too near the presence of His Majesty.
Princes of the highest rank, and statesmen
of the most exalted station were subjected
alike to these humiliating ceremonials. The
king, the meanwhile, regardless of his guests,
was occupied in being dressed. A valet of the
wardrobe delivered to a gentleman of the chamber
the garters, which he in turn presented to
the monarch. Inexorable etiquette would allow
the king to clasp his garters in the morning, but
not to unclasp them at night. It was the exclusive
privilege of the head valet de chambre
to unclasp that of the right leg, while an attendant
of inferior rank might remove the other.
One attendant put on the shoes, another fastened
the diamond buckles. Two pages, gorgeously
dressed in crimson velvet, overlaid with gold
and silver lace, received the slippers as they
were taken from the king’s feet.

The breakfast followed. Two officers entered;
one with bread on an enameled salver, the other
with a folded napkin between two silver plates.
At the same time the royal cup bearers presented
to the first lord a golden vase, into which he
poured a small quantity of wine and water, which
was tasted by a second cup bearer to insure that
there was no poison in the beverage. The vase
was then rinsed, and being again filled, was presented
to the king upon a golden saucer. The
dauphin, as soon as the king had drank, giving
his hat and gloves to the first lord in waiting,
took the napkin and presented it to the monarch
to wipe his lips. The frugal repast was soon
finished. The king then laid aside his dressing-gown,
while two attendants drew off his night[Pg 606]
shirt, one taking the left sleeve and the other the
right. The monarch then drew from his neck
the casket of sacred relics, with which he ever
slept. It was passed from the hands of one officer
to that of another, and then deposited in
the king’s closet, where it was carefully guarded.
The royal shirt, in the
mean time, had been
thoroughly warmed
at the fire. It was
placed in the hands of
the first lord, he presented
it to the dauphin,
and he, laying
aside his hat and
gloves, approached
and presented it to
the king. Each garment
was thus ceremoniously
presented.
The royal sword, the
vest, and the blue ribbon
were brought forward.
A nobleman
of high rank was honored
in the privilege
of putting on the vest,
another buckled on
the sword, another
placed over the shoulders
of the monarch a scarf, to which was
attached the cross of the Holy Ghost in diamonds,
and the cross of St. Louis. The grand
master of the robes presented to the king his cravat
of rich lace, while a favorite courtier folded it
around his neck. Two handkerchiefs of most
costly embroidery and richly perfumed were then
placed before his majesty, on an enameled saucer,
and his toilet was completed.

The king then returned to his bedside. Obsequious
attendants spread before him two soft
cushions of crimson velvet. In all the pride of
ostentatious humility he kneeled upon these, and
repeated his prayers, while the bishops and cardinals
in his suit, with suppressed voice, uttered
responses. But our readers will be weary of
the recital of the routine of the day. From his
chamber the king went to his cabinet, where,
with a few privileged ones, he decided upon the
plans or amusements of the day. He then attended
mass in the chapel. At one o’clock he
dined alone, in all the dignity of unapproachable
majesty. The ceremony at the dinner table was
no less punctilious and ridiculous than at the
toilet. After dinner he fed his dogs, and amused
himself in playing with them. He then, in the
presence of a number of courtiers, changed his
dress, and leaving the palace by a private staircase,
proceeded to his carriage, which awaited
him in the marble court-yard. Returning from
his drive, he again changed his dress, and visited
the apartments of Madame Maintenon, where
he remained until 10 o’clock, the hour of supper.
The supper was the great event of the day. Six
noblemen stationed themselves at each end of the
table to wait upon the king. Whenever he raised
his cup, the cup bearer exclaimed aloud to all the
company, “drink for the king.” After supper he
held a short ceremonial audience with members
of the royal family, and at midnight went again
to feed his dogs. He then retired, surrounded
by puerilities of ceremony too tedious to be read.

CASCADES OF VERSAILLES.

Such was the character of one of the most
majestic kings of the Bourbon race. France
wearied with them, drove them from the throne,
and placed Napoleon there, a man of energy, of
intellect, and of action; toiling, night and day,
to promote the prosperity of France in all its
varied interests. The monarchs of Europe, with
their united millions, combined and chained the
democratic king to the rock of St. Helena, and
replaced the Bourbon. But the end is not even
yet. In view of the wretched life of Louis XIV.,
Madame Maintenon exclaimed: “Could you but
form an idea of what kingly life is! Those who
occupy thrones are the most unfortunate in the
world.”

On one occasion Louis gave a grand entertainment
in the magnificent banqueting-room of
the palace. Seventy-five thousand dollars were
expended in loading the tables with every luxury.
After the feast the gaming tables were spread.
Gold and silver ornaments, jewels and precious
stones, glittered on every side. For these treasures
thus profusely spread, the courtiers of
both sexes gambled without incurring any risk.

As the visitor leaves the palace for the gardens
and the park, he enters a labyrinth of enchantment,
to which there is apparently no end.
Groves, lawns, parterres of flowers, fountains,
basins, cascades, lakes, shrubbery, forests, avenues,
and serpentine paths bewilder him with
their profusion and their opulence of beauty.
It is in vain to begin to describe these works.
There is the Terrace of the Chateau, the Parterre
of Water with its miniature lakes and twenty-four
magnificent groups of statuary. Now you
approach the Parterre of the South, embellished[Pg 607]
with colossal
vases in bronze;
again you saunter
through the Parterre
of the
North, with antique
statues in
marble, with its
group of Tritons
and Sirens, with
its basins and its
gorgeous flower
beds. Your steps
are invited to the
Baths of Diana,
to the Grove of
the Arch of Triumph,
to the
Grove of the
Three Crowns, to
the Basin of the
Dragon, and to
the magnificent
Basin of Neptune,
with its wilderness
of sculpture
and its fantastic
jets from which a
deluge of water may be thrown. The Basin of Latona
presents a group consisting of Latona, with
Apollo and Diana. The goddess has implored the
vengeance of Jupiter against the peasants of
Libya, who had refused her water. Jupiter has
transformed the peasants, some half and others
entirely, into frogs or tortoises, and they are
surrounding Latona and throwing water upon
her in liquid arches of beautiful effect. The
Fountain of Fame and the Fountain of the Star
are neatly represented in the accompanying cuts.

FOUNTAIN OF FAME.

FOUNTAIN OF THE STAR.

The Parterre of the North, which is represented
in the illustration, on page 808, extends in
front of the northern wing of the palace, the
apartments on the second floor of which are occupied
by the king. This parterre is approached
by descending a flight of steps constructed of
white marble. Fourteen magnificent bronze
vases crown the terraced wall which separate
these walks of regal luxury from the Parterre
d’Eau, which is spread out in front of the palace.
Statues and vases of exquisite workmanship
crowd the grounds; most of the statues tending
to inflame a voluptuous taste. The beautiful
flower beds, filled with such a variety of plants
and shrubs, as always
to present an
aspect of gorgeous
bloom, are ornamented
with two
smaller fountains,
called the Basins
of the Crown, and
one large fountain,
called the Fountain
of the Pyramid.
The two smaller
basins or fountains
are so named from
the chiseled groups
of Tritons and
Sirens supporting
crowns of laurel,
from the midst of
which issue, in
graceful curves,
columns of water.
The Pyramid consists
of several
round basins rising one above another in a
pyramidal form, supported by statues of lead.
The water issues from many jets and flows beau[Pg 608]tifully
over the rims
of the basins. Just
below the Fountain
of the Pyramid are
the Baths of Diana,
which are not represented
in this illustration.
This basin
is embellished
with finely executed
statuary, representing
Diana and her
nymphs, in voluptuous
attitudes, enjoying
the luxury of
the bath.

FOUNTAIN OF THE PYRAMID.

Directly in front
of the palace is the
Terrace of the Chateaux,
embellished
with walks, shrubbery,
flowers, basins,
fountains, and colossal
statues in bronze. Connected with this is the
Parterre of Water, with two splendid fountains,
ever replenishing two large oblong basins filled
with golden fishes. Groups of statuary enrich
the landscape. From the centre of each of the
basins rise jets of water. These grounds lie
spread out before the magnificent banqueting
hall of the palace. It is difficult to imagine a
scene more beautiful than is thus presented to
the eye. Let the reader recur to the plan of
Versailles, and contemplate the vast expanse of
lawn, forest, garden, grove, fountain, lake, walks,
and avenues which are spread before him over a
space of thirty-two thousand acres. From the
Parterre of Water a flight of massive white steps
conducts to the Fountain of Latona.

PARTERRE OF VERSAILLES.

At the extremity of the park is a beautiful
palace called the Grand Trianon. It was built
by Louis XIV. for Madame Maintenon. This
edifice, spacious and aristocratic as it is in all
its appliances, possesses the charm of beauty
rather than that of grandeur. It seems constructed
for an attractive home of opulence and
taste. It was a favorite retreat of the Bourbons,
from the pomp and ceremony of Versailles. This
was also one of the favorite resorts of Napoleon
when he sought a few hours of repose from the
cares of empire. That he might reach it without
loss of time, he constructed a direct road
from thence to St. Cloud.

The Little Trianon, however, with its surroundings,
constitutes to many minds the most
attractive spot in this region of attractions. It
is a beautiful house, about eighty feet square,
erected by Louis XV. for the hapless Madame
du Barri. It is constructed in the style of a
Roman pavilion, and surrounded with gardens
ornamented in the highest attainments of French
and English art. Temples, cottages, groves,
lawns, crags, fountains,
lakes, cascades,
embellish the grounds
and present a scene of
peaceful beauty which
the garden of Eden
could hardly have surpassed.
This was the
favorite abode of Maria
Antoinette. She called
it her home. In the
quietude of this miniature
palace, she loved
to disembarrass herself
of the restraints of
regal life; and in the
society of congenial
friends, and in the
privacy of her own
rural walks to forget
that she was an envied, hated queen. But even
here the monotony of life wearied her, and
deeply regretting that she had not formed in
early youth intellectual tastes, she once sadly
exclaimed to her companions, “What a resource,
amidst the casualties of life, is to be found in a
well cultivated mind. One can then be one’s[Pg 609]
own companion, and find society in one’s own
thoughts.” There is a beautiful sheet of water
in the centre of the romantic, deeply wooded
grounds of the Little Trianon, upon the green
shores of which Maria, for pastime, erected a
beautiful Swiss village, with its picturesque inn,
its farm house and cow sheds, and its mill.

THE GRAND TRIANON.

Here the regal votaries of pleasure, satiated
with the gayeties of Paris, weary of the splendors
and the etiquette of the Tuileries and Versailles,
endeavored to step from the palace to the
cottage, and in the humble employments of the
humblest life, to alleviate the monotony of an
existence devoted only to pleasure. They played
that they were peasants, put on the garb of
peasants, and engaged heartily in the employments
of peasants. King Louis was the inn-keeper,
and Maria Antoinette, with her sleeves
tucked up and her apron bound around her, the
inn-keeper’s pretty and energetic wife. She
courtesied humbly to the guests, whom her husband
received at the door, spread the table, for
them, and placed before them the fresh butter
which, in the dairy, she had churned with her
own hands. A noble duke kept the shop and
sold the groceries. A graceful, high-born duchess
was Betty, the maid of the inn. A marquis,
who proudly traced his lineage through many
centuries, was the miller, grinding the wheat for
the evening meal.

The sun was just sinking beneath the horizon,
on a calm, warm, beautiful afternoon, when we
sauntered through this picturesque, lovely, silent,
deserted village. It was all in perfect repair!
The green lawn was of velvet softness. The
trees and shrubbery were in full leaf. Innumerable
birds filled the air with their warblings,
and the chirp of the insect, the rustling of
the leaves, the sighing of the wind, the ripple
of the streamlet, and the silence of all human
voices, so deep, so solemn, left an impress upon
the mind never to be forgotten. How terrible
the fate of those who once made these scenes
resound with the voice of gayety. Some were
burned in their chateaux, or massacred in the
streets. Some died
miserably on pallets
of straw in dungeons
dark, and wet, and
cold. Some were
dragged by a deriding
mob to the guillotine
to bleed beneath
its keen knife.
And some, in beggary
and wretchedness,
wandered
through weary
years, in foreign
lands, envying the
fate of those who
had found a more
speedy death. The
palace of Versailles!
It is a monument
of oppression and
pride. It will be
well for the rulers
of Europe to heed its monitory voice. The
thoughtful American will return from the inspection
of its grandeur, admiring, more profoundly
than ever before, the beautiful simplicity
of his own land. He will more highly prize
those noble institutions of freedom and of popular
rights which open before every citizen an
unobstructed avenue to wealth and power, encouraging
every man to industry, and securing
to every man the possession of what he earns.
The glory of America consists not in the pride
of palaces and the pomp of armies, but in the
tasteful homes of a virtuous, intelligent, and
happy people.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT

THE CAMP AT BOULOGNE, AND THE BOURBON
CONSPIRACY.

Impartial History, without a dissenting
voice, must award the responsibility of the
rupture of the peace of Amiens to the government
of Great Britain. Napoleon had nothing
to hope for from war, and every thing to fear.
The only way in which he could even approach
his formidable enemy, was by crossing the sea,
and invading England. He acknowledged, and
the world knew, that such an enterprise was an
act of perfect desperation, for England was the
undisputed mistress of the seas, and no naval
power could stand before her ships. The voice
of poetry was the voice of truth—

England, with her invincible navy, could assail
France in every quarter. She could sweep the
merchant ships of the infant Republic from the
ocean, and appropriate to herself the commerce
of all climes. Thus war proffered to England[Pg 610]
security and wealth. It promised the commercial
ruin of a dreaded rival, whose rapid strides
toward opulence and power had excited the most
intense alarm. The temptation thus presented
to the British cabinet to renew the war was
powerful in the extreme. It required more virtue
than ordinarily falls to the lot of cabinets, to
resist. Unhappily for suffering humanity, England
yielded to the temptation. She refused to
fulfil the stipulations of a treaty solemnly ratified,
retained possession of Malta, in violation of
her plighted faith, and renewed the assault upon
France.

In a communication which Napoleon made
to the legislative bodies just before the rupture,
he said: “Two parties contend in England for
the possession of power. One has concluded a
peace. The other cherishes implacable hatred
against France. Hence arises this fluctuation in
councils and in measures, and this attitude, at
one time pacific and again menacing. While
this strife continues, there are measures which
prudence demands of the government of the Republic.
Five hundred thousand men ought to be,
and will be, ready to defend our country, and to
avenge insult. Strange necessity, which wicked
passions impose upon two nations, who should
be, by the same interests and the same desires,
devoted to peace. But let us hope for the best;
and believe that we shall yet hear from the cabinet
of England the councils of wisdom and the
voice of humanity.” Says Alison, the most eloquent,
able, and impartial of those English historians
who, with patriotic zeal, have advocated
the cause of their own country, “Upon coolly
reviewing the circumstances under which the
conflict was renewed, it is impossible to deny
that the British government manifested a feverish
anxiety to come to a rupture, and that, so far
as the transactions between the two countries
are concerned, they were the aggressors.”

SCENE IN THE LOUVRE.

When Mr. Fox was in Paris, he was one day,
with Napoleon and several other gentlemen, in
the gallery of the Louvre, looking at a magnificent
globe, of unusual magnitude, which had
been deposited in the museum. Some one remarked
upon the very small space which the
island of Great Britain seemed to occupy. “Yes,”
said Mr. Fox, as he approached the globe, and
attempted to encircle it in his extended arms,
“England is a small island, but with her power
she girdles the world.” This was not an empty
boast. Her possessions were every where. In
Spain, in the Mediterranean, in the East Indies
and West Indies, in Asia, Africa, and America,
and over innumerable islands of the ocean, she
extended her sceptre. Rome, in her proudest day
of grandeur, never swayed such power. To Napoleon,
consequently, it seemed but mere trifling
for this England to complain that the infant republic
of France, struggling against the hostile
monarchies of Europe, was endangering the
world by her ambition, because she had obtained
an influence in Piedmont, in the Cisalpine
Republic, in the feeble Duchy of Parma, and had
obtained the island of Elba for a colony. To the
arguments and remonstrances of Napoleon, England
could make no reply but by the broadsides
of her ships. “You are seated,” said England,
“upon the throne of the exiled Bourbons.”
“And your king,” Napoleon replies, “is on the
throne of the exiled Stuarts.” “But the First
Consul of France is also President of the Cisalpine
Republic,” England rejoins. “And the
King of England,” Napoleon adds, “is also
Elector of Hanover.” “Your troops are in
Switzerland,” England continues. “And yours,”
Napoleon replies, “are in Spain, having fortified[Pg 611]
themselves upon the rock of Gibraltar.” “You
are ambitious, and are trying to establish foreign
colonies,” England rejoins. “But you,” Napoleon
replies, “have ten colonies where we have
one.” “We believe,” England says, “that you desire
to appropriate to yourself Egypt.” “You
have,” Napoleon retorts, “appropriated to yourself
India.” Indignantly England exclaims, “Nelson,
bring on the fleet! Wellington, head the
army! This man must be put down. His ambition
endangers the liberties of the world. Historians
of England! inform the nations that the
usurper Bonaparte, by his arrogance and aggression,
is deluging the Continent with blood.”

Immediately upon the withdrawal of the British
embassador from Paris, and even before the
departure of the French minister from London,
England, without any public declaration of hostilities,
commenced her assaults upon France.
The merchant ships of the Republic, unsuspicious
of danger, freighted with treasure, were
seized, even in the harbors of England, and
wherever they could be found, by the vigilant
and almost omnipresent navy of the Queen of
the Seas. Two French ships of war were attacked
and captured. These disastrous tidings
were the first intimation that Napoleon received
that the war was renewed. The indignation of
the First Consul was thoroughly aroused. The
retaliating blow he struck, though merited, yet
terrible, was characteristic of the man. At midnight
he summoned to his presence the minister
of police, and ordered the immediate arrest of
every Englishman in France, between the ages
of eighteen and fifty. These were all to be detained
as hostages for the prisoners England had
captured upon the seas. The tidings of this
decree rolled a billow of woe over the peaceful
homes of England; for there were thousands of
travelers upon the continent, unapprehensive of
danger, supposing that war would be declared
before hostilities would be resumed. These were
the first-fruits of that terrific conflict into which
the world again was plunged. No tongue can
tell the anguish thus caused in thousands of
homes. Most of the travelers were gentlemen
of culture and refinement—husbands, fathers,
sons, brothers—who were visiting the continent
for pleasure. During twelve weary years these
hapless men lingered in exile. Many died and
moldered to the dust in France. Children grew
to manhood strangers to their imprisoned fathers,
knowing not even whether they were living
or dead. Wives and daughters, in desolated
homes, through lingering years of suspense and
agony, sank in despair into the grave. The
hulks of England were also filled with the husbands
and fathers of France, and beggary and
starvation reigned in a thousand cottages, clustered
in the valleys and along the shores of the
republic, where peace and contentment might
have dwelt, but for this horrible and iniquitous
strife. As in all such cases, the woes fell mainly
upon the innocent, upon those homes where matrons
and maidens wept away years of agony.
The imagination is appalled in contemplating
this melancholy addition to the ordinary miseries
of war. William Pitt, whose genius inspired this
strife, was a man of gigantic intellect, of gigantic
energy. But he was an entire stranger to all
those kindly sensibilities which add lustre to
human nature. He was neither a father nor a
husband, and no emotions of gentleness, of tenderness,
of affection, ever ruffled the calm, cold,
icy surface of his soul.

The order to seize all the English in France,
was thus announced in the Moniteur: “The government
of the Republic, having heard read, by
the Minister of Marine and Colonies, a dispatch
from the maritime prefect at Brest, announcing
that two English frigates had taken two merchant
vessels in the bay of Audrieu, without any previous
declaration of war, and in manifest violation
of the law of nations:

“All the English, from the ages of 18 to 60,
or holding any commission from his Britannic
Majesty, who are at present in France, shall immediately
be constituted prisoners of war, to
answer for those citizens of the Republic who
may have been arrested and made prisoners by
the vessels or subjects of his Britannic Majesty
previous to any declaration of hostilities.

(Signed) “Bonaparte.”

Napoleon treated the captives whom he had
taken with great humanity, holding as prisoners
of war only those who were in the military service,
while the rest were detained in fortified
places on their parole, with much personal liberty.
The English held the French prisoners in
floating hulks, crowded together in a state of
inconceivable suffering. Napoleon at times felt
that, for the protection of the French captives in
England, he ought to retaliate, by visiting similar
inflictions upon the English prisoners in
France. It was not an easy question for a humane
man to settle. But instinctive kindness
prevailed, and Napoleon spared the unhappy
victims who were in his power. The cabinet of
St. James’s remonstrated energetically against
Napoleon’s capture of peaceful travelers upon the
land. Napoleon replied, “You have seized unsuspecting
voyagers upon the sea.” England
rejoined, “It is customary to capture every thing
we can find, upon the ocean, belonging to an
enemy, and therefore it is right.” Napoleon answered,
“I will make it customary to do the same
thing upon the land, and then that also will be
right.” There the argument ended. But the
poor captives were still pining away in the hulks
of England, or wandering in sorrow around the
fortresses of France. Napoleon proposed to exchange
the travelers he had taken upon the land
for the voyagers the English had taken upon the
sea; but the cabinet of St. James, asserting that
such an exchange would sanction the validity of
their capture, refused the humane proposal, and
heartlessly left the captives of the two nations to
their terrible fate. Napoleon assured the detained
of his sympathy, but informed them that their
destiny was entirely in the hands of their own
government, and to that alone they must appeal.

Such is war, even when conducted by two na[Pg 612]tions
as enlightened and humane as England and
France. Such is that horrible system of retaliation
which war necessarily engenders. This
system of reprisals, visiting upon the innocent
the crimes of the guilty, is the fruit which ever
ripens when war buds and blossoms. Napoleon
had received a terrific blow. With instinctive
and stupendous power he returned it. Both nations
were now exasperated to the highest degree.
The most extraordinary vigor was infused into
the deadly strife. The power and the genius of
France were concentrated in the ruler whom the
almost unanimous voice of France had elevated
to the supreme power. Consequently, the war
assumed the aspect of an assault upon an individual
man. France was quite unprepared for
this sudden resumption of hostilities. Napoleon
had needed all the resources of the state for his
great works of internal improvement. Large
numbers of troops had been disbanded, and the
army was on a peace establishment.

ARREST OF CADOUDAL.

All France was however roused by the sleepless
energy of Napoleon. The Electorate of
Hanover was one of the European possessions
of the King of England. Ten days had not
elapsed, after the first broadside from the British
ships had been heard, ere a French army of
twenty thousand men invaded Hanover, captured
its army of 16,000 troops, with 400 pieces of
cannon, 30,000 muskets, and 3500 superb horses,
and took entire possession of the province. The
King of England was deeply agitated when he
received the tidings of this sudden loss of his
patrimonial dominions.

The First Consul immediately sent new offers
of peace to England, stating that in the conquest
of Hanover, “he had only in view to obtain
pledges for the evacuation of Malta, and to secure
the execution of the treaty of Amiens.” The
British minister coldly replied that his sovereign
would appeal for aid to the German empire. “If
a general peace is ever concluded,” said Napoleon
often, “then only shall I be able to show myself
such as I am, and become the moderator of
Europe. France is enabled, by her high civilization,
and the absence of all aristocracy, to moderate
the extreme demands of the two principles
which divide the world, by placing herself between
them; thus preventing a general conflagration,
of which none of us can see the end, or
guess the issue. For this I want ten years of
peace, and the English oligarchy will not allow
it.” Napoleon was forced into war by the English.
The allied monarchs of Europe were
roused to combine against him. This compelled
France to become a camp, and forced Napoleon
to assume the dictatorship. The width of the
Atlantic ocean alone has saved the United States
from the assaults of a similar combination.

It had ever been one of Napoleon’s favorite
projects to multiply colonies, that he might promote
the maritime prosperity of France. With
this object in view, he had purchased Louisiana
of Spain. It was his intention to cherish, with
the utmost care, upon the fertile banks of the
Mississippi, a French colony. This territory, so
valuable to France, was now at the mercy of
England, and would be immediately captured.
Without loss of time, Napoleon sold it to the
United States. It was a severe sacrifice for him
to make, but cruel necessity demanded it.

The French were every where exposed to
the ravages of the British navy. Blow after
blow fell upon France with fearful vigor, as her
cities were bombarded, her colonies captured,
and her commerce annihilated. The superiority
of the English, upon the sea, was so decisive,
that wherever the British flag appeared vic[Pg 613]tory
was almost invariably her own. But England
was inapproachable. Guarded by her
navy, she reposed in her beautiful island in
peace, while she rained down destruction upon
her foes in all quarters of the globe. “It is an
awful temerity, my lord,” said Napoleon to the
British embassador, “to attempt the invasion of
England.” But desperate as Napoleon acknowledged
the undertaking to be, there was nothing
else which he could even attempt. And he embarked
in this enterprise with energy so extraordinary,
with foresight so penetrating, with
sagacity so conspicuous, that the world looked
upon his majestic movements with amazement,
and all England was aroused to a sense of fearful
peril. The most gigantic preparations were
immediately made upon the shores of the channel
for the invasion of England. An army of
three hundred thousand men, as by magic,
sprung into being. All France was aroused to
activity. Two thousand gun-boats were speedily
built and collected at Boulogne, to convey across
the narrow strait a hundred and fifty thousand
troops, ten thousand horses, and four thousand
pieces of cannon. All the foundries of France
were in full blast, constructing mortars, howitzers,
and artillery, of the largest calibre. Every
province of the republic was aroused and inspirited
by the almost superhuman energies of the
mind of the First Consul. He attended to the
minutest particulars of all the arrangements.
While believing that destiny controls all things,
he seemed to leave nothing for destiny to control.
Every possible contingency was foreseen,
and guarded against. The national enthusiasm
was so great, the conviction was so unanimous
that there remained for France no alternative
but, by force, to repel aggression, that Napoleon
proudly formed a legion of the Vendean royalists,
all composed, both officers and soldiers, of
those who, but a few months before, had been
fighting against the republic. It was a sublime
assertion of his confidence in the attachment of
United France. To meet the enormous expenses
which this new war involved, it was necessary
to impose a heavy tax upon the people. This
was not only borne cheerfully, but, from all parts
of the republic, rich presents flowed into the treasury,
tokens of the affection of France for the
First Consul, and of the deep conviction of the
community of the righteousness of the cause in
which they were engaged. One of the departments
of the state built and equipped a frigate,
and sent it to Boulogne as a free-gift. The impulse
was electric. All over France the whole
people rose, and vied with each other in their
offerings of good-will. Small towns gave flat-bottomed
boats, larger towns, frigates, and the
more important cities, ships-of-the-line. Paris
gave a ship of 120 guns, Lyons one of 100, Bordeaux
an 84, and Marseilles a 74. Even the
Italian Republic, as a token of its gratitude, sent
one million of dollars to build two ships: one to
be called the President, and the other the Italian
Republic. All the mercantile houses and public
bodies made liberal presents. The Senate gave
for its donation a ship of 120 guns. These free-gifts
amounted to over ten millions of dollars.
Napoleon established himself at Boulogne, where
he spent much of his time, carefully studying
the features of the coast, the varying phenomena
of the sea, and organizing, in all its parts, the
desperate enterprise he contemplated. The most
rigid economy, by Napoleon’s sleepless vigilance,
was infused into every contract, and the strictest
order pervaded the national finances. It was impossible
that strife so deadly should rage between
England and France, and not involve the rest of
the continent. Under these circumstances Alexander
of Russia, entered a remonstrance against
again enkindling the horrid flames of war throughout
Europe, and offered his mediation. Napoleon
promptly replied: “I am ready to refer the question
to the arbitration of the Emperor Alexander,
and will pledge myself by a bond, to submit to
the award, whatever it may be.” England declined
the pacific offer. The Cabinet of Russia
then made some proposals for the termination
of hostilities. Napoleon replied: “I am still
ready to accept the personal arbitration of the
Czar himself; for that monarch’s regard to his
reputation will render him just. But I am not
willing to submit to a negotiation conducted
by the Russian Cabinet, in a manner not at all
friendly to France.” He concluded with the following
characteristic words: “The First Consul
has done every thing to preserve peace. His
efforts have been vain. He could not refrain
from seeing that war was the decree of destiny.
He will make war; and he will not flinch before
a proud nation, capable for twenty years of making
all the powers of the earth bow before it.”

Napoleon now resolved to visit Belgium and
the departments of the Rhine. Josephine accompanied
him. He was hailed with transport
wherever he appeared, and royal honors were
showered upon him. Every where his presence
drew forth manifestations of attachment to his
person, hatred for the English, and zeal to combat
the determined foes of France. But wherever
Napoleon went, his scrutinizing attention
was directed to the dock-yards, the magazines,
the supplies, and the various resources and capabilities
of the country. Every hour was an hour
of toil—for toil seemed to be his only pleasure.
From this brief tour Napoleon returned to Boulogne.

The Straits of Calais, which Napoleon contemplated
crossing, notwithstanding the immense
preponderance of the British navy filling the
channel, is about thirty miles in width. There
were four contingencies which seemed to render
the project not impossible. In summer, there
are frequent calms, in the channel, of forty-eight
hours’ duration. During this calm, the
English ships-of-the-line would be compelled to
lie motionless. The flat-bottomed boats of Napoleon,
impelled by strong rowers might then
pass even in sight of the enemy’s squadron. In
the winter, there were frequently dense fogs,
unaccompanied by any wind. Favored by the
obscurity and the calm, a passage might then[Pg 614]
be practicable. There was still a third chance
more favorable than either. There were not
unfrequently tempests, so violent, that the English
squadron would be compelled to leave the
channel, and stand out to sea. Seizing the
moment when the tempest subsided, the French
flotilla might perhaps cross the Straits before the
squadron could return. A fourth chance offered.
It was, by skillful combinations to concentrate
suddenly in the channel a strong French squadron,
and to push the flotilla across under the
protection of its guns. For three years, Napoleon
consecrated his untiring energies to the
perfection of all the mechanism of this Herculean
enterprise. Yet no one was more fully alive
than himself to the tremendous hazards to be
encountered. It is impossible now to tell what
would have been the result of a conflict between
the English squadron and those innumerable
gun-boats, manned by one hundred and fifty
thousand men, surrounding in swarms every
ship-of-the-line, piercing them in every direction
with their guns, and sweeping their decks
with a perfect hail-storm of bullets, while, in
their turn, they were run down by the large
ships, dashing, in full sail, through their midst,
sinking some in their crushing onset, and blowing
others out of the water with their tremendous
broadsides. Said Admiral Decris, a man
disposed to magnify difficulties, “by sacrificing
100 gun-boats, and 10,000 men, it is not improbable
that we may repel the assault of the enemy’s
squadron, and cross the Straits.” “One
loses,” said Napoleon, “that number in battle
every day. And what battle ever promised the
results which a landing in England authorizes
us to hope for!”

ARREST OF THE DUKE D’ENGHIEN.

The amount of business now resting upon the
mind of Napoleon, seems incredible. He was
personally attending to all the complicated diplomacy
of Europe. Spain was professing friendship
and alliance, and yet treacherously engaged
in acts of hostility. Charles III., perhaps the
most contemptible monarch who ever wore a
crown, was then upon the throne of Spain. His
wife was a shameless libertine. Her paramour,
Godoy, called the Prince of Peace, a weak-minded,
conceited, worn-out debauchee, governed
the degraded empire. Napoleon remonstrated
against the perfidy of Spain, and the
wrongs France was receiving at her hands.
The miserable Godoy returned an answer, mean-spirited,
hypocritical, and sycophantic. Napoleon
sternly shook his head, and ominously exclaimed,
“All this will yet end in a clap of thunder.”

In the midst of these scenes, Napoleon was
continually displaying those generous and magnanimous
traits of character which were the
enthusiastic love of all who knew him. On one
occasion, a young English sailor had escaped
from imprisonment in the interior of France,
and had succeeded in reaching the coast near
Boulogne. Secretly he had constructed a little
skiff of the branches and the bark of trees, as
fragile as the ark of bullrushes. Upon this frail
float, which would scarcely buoy up his body,
he was about to venture out upon the stormy
channel, with the chance of being picked up by
some English cruiser. Napoleon, informed of
the desperate project of the young man who
was arrested in the attempt, was struck with
admiration in view of the fearless enterprise,
and ordered the prisoner to be brought before
him.

“Did you really intend,” inquired Napoleon,
“to brave the terrors of the ocean in so frail a
skiff?”

[Pg 615]

“If you will but grant me permission,” said
the young man, “I will embark immediately.”

“You must, doubtless, then, have some mistress
to revisit, since you are so desirous to
return to your country?”

“I wish,” replied the noble sailor, “to see
my mother. She is aged, poor, and infirm.”

The heart of Napoleon was touched. “You
shall see her,” he energetically replied; “and
present to her from me this purse of gold. She
must be no common mother, who can have
trained up so affectionate and dutiful a son.”

He immediately gave orders that the young
sailor should be furnished with every comfort,
and sent in a cruiser, with a flag of truce, to the
first British vessel which could be found. When
one thinks of the moral sublimity of the meeting
of the English and French ships under these
circumstances, with the white flag of humanity
and peace fluttering in the breeze, one can not
but mourn with more intensity over the horrid
barbarity and brutality of savage war. Perhaps
in the next interview between these two ships,
they fought for hours, hurling bullets and balls
through the quivering nerves and lacerated sinews,
and mangled frames of brothers, husbands,
and fathers.

Napoleon’s labors at this time in the cabinet
were so enormous, dictating to his agents in all
parts of France, and to his embassadors, all over
Europe, that he kept three secretaries constantly
employed. One of these young men, who
was lodged and boarded in the palace, received
a salary of 1200 dollars a year. Unfortunately,
however, he had become deeply involved in debt,
and was incessantly harassed by the importunities
of his creditors. Knowing Napoleon’s strong
disapprobation of all irregularities, he feared utter
ruin should the knowledge of the facts reach
his ears. One morning, after having passed a
sleepless night, he rose at the early hour of five,
and sought refuge from his distraction in commencing
work in the cabinet. But Napoleon,
who had already been at work for some time,
in passing the door of the cabinet to go to his
bath, heard the young man humming a tune.

Opening the door, he looked in upon his
young secretary, and said, with a smile of satisfaction,
“What! so early at your desk! Why,
this is very exemplary. We ought to be well
satisfied with such service. What salary have
you?”

“Twelve hundred dollars, sire,” was the
reply.

“Indeed,” said Napoleon, “that for one of
your age is very handsome. And, in addition,
I think you have your board and lodging?”

“I have, sire?”

“Well, I do not wonder that you sing. You
must be a very happy man.”

“Alas, sire,” he replied, “I ought to be, but
I am not.”

“And why not?”

“Because, sire,” he replied, “I have too
many English tormenting me. I have also an
aged father, who is almost blind, and a sister
who is not yet married, dependent upon me for
support.”

“But, sir,” Napoleon rejoined, “in supporting
your father and your sister, you do only that
which every good son should do. But what
have you to do with the English?”

“They are those,” the young man answered,
“who have loaned me money, which I am not
able to repay. All those who are in debt call
their creditors the English.”

“Enough! enough! I understand you. You
are in debt then. And how is it that with such
a salary, you run into debt? I wish to have no
man about my person who has recourse to the
gold of the English. From this hour you will
receive your dismission. Adieu, sir!” Saying
this, Napoleon left the room, and returned to his
chamber. The young man was stupefied with
despair.

But a few moments elapsed when an aid entered
and gave him a note, saying, “It is from
Napoleon.” Trembling with agitation, and not
doubting that it confirmed his dismissal, he
opened it and read:

“I have wished to dismiss you from my cabinet,
for you deserve it; but I have thought of
your aged and blind father, and of your young
sister; and, for their sake, I pardon you. And,
since they are the ones who must most suffer
from your misconduct, I send you, with leave
of absence for one day only, the sum of two
thousand dollars. With this sum disembarrass
yourself immediately of all the English who
trouble you. And hereafter conduct yourself in
such a manner as not to fall into their power.
Should you fail in this, I shall give you leave of
absence, without permission to return.”

Upon the bleak cliff of Boulogne, swept by
the storm and the rain, Napoleon had a little
hut erected for himself. Often, leaving the
palace of St. Cloud by night, after having spent
a toilsome day in the cares of state, he passed,
with almost the rapidity of the wind, over the
intervening space of 180 miles. Arriving about
the middle of the next day, apparently unconscious
of fatigue, he examined every thing before
he allowed himself a moment of sleep.
The English exerted all their energies to impede
the progress of the majestic enterprise.
Their cruisers incessantly hovering around, kept
up an almost uninterrupted fire upon the works.
Their shells, passing over the cliff, exploded in
the harbor and in the crowded camps. The
laborers, inspired by the presence of Napoleon,
continued proudly their toil, singing as they
worked, while the balls of the English were
flying around them. For their protection, Napoleon
finally constructed large batteries, which
would throw twenty-four pound shot three miles,
and thus kept the English ships at that distance.
It would, however, require a volume to describe
the magnitude of the works constructed at
Boulogne. Napoleon was indefatigable in his
exertions to promote the health and the comfort
of the soldiers. They were all well paid, warmly
clothed, fed with an abundance of nutritious[Pg 616]
food, and their camp, divided into quarters
traversed by long streets, presented the cheerful
aspect of a neat, thriving, well ordered city.
The soldiers, thus protected, enjoyed perfect
health, and, full of confidence in the enterprise
for which they were preparing, hailed their
beloved leader with the most enthusiastic acclamations,
whenever he appeared.

NAPOLEON’S HUT AT BOULOGNE.

Spacious as were the quays erected at Boulogne,
it was not possible to range all the vessels
alongside. They were consequently ranged
nine deep, the first only touching the quays.
A horse, with a band passing round him, was
raised, by means of a yard, transmitted nine
times from yard to yard, as he was borne aloft
in the air, and in about two minutes was deposited
in the ninth vessel. By constant repetition,
the embarkation and disembarkation was accomplished
with almost inconceivable promptness
and precision. In all weather, in summer and
winter, unless it blew a gale, the boats went
out to man[œuvre in the presence of the enemy.
The exercise of landing from the boats along
the cliff was almost daily performed. The men
first swept the shore by a steady fire of artillery
from the boats, and then, approaching the beach,
landed men, horses, and cannon. There was
not an accident which could happen in landing
on an enemies’ coast, except the fire from hostile
batteries, which was not thus provided
against, and often braved. In all these exciting
scenes, the First Consul was every where present.
The soldiers saw him now on horseback
upon the cliff, gazing proudly upon their heroic
exertions; again he was galloping over the hard
smooth sands of the beach, and again on board
of one of the gun-boats going out to try her
powers in a skirmish with one of the British
cruisers. Frequently he persisted in braving
serious danger, and at one time, when visiting
the anchorage in a violent gale, the boat was
swamped near the shore. The sailors threw
themselves into the sea, and bore him safely
through the billows to the land. It is not
strange that those who have seen the kings of
France squandering the revenues of the realm
to minister to their own voluptuousness and
debauchery, should have regarded Napoleon as
belonging to a different race. One day, when
the atmosphere was peculiarly clear, Napoleon,
upon the cliffs of Boulogne, saw dimly, in the
distant horizon, the outline of the English shore.
Roused by the sight, he wrote thus to Cambèceres:
“From the heights of Ambleteuse, I have
seen this day the coast of England, as one sees
the heights of Calvary from the Tuileries. We
could distinguish the houses and the bustle.
It is a ditch that shall be leaped when one is
daring enough to try.”

Napoleon, though one of the most bold of
men in his conceptions, was also the most cautious
and prudent in their execution. He had
made, in his own mind, arrangements, unrevealed
to any one, suddenly to concentrate in the
channel the whole French squadron, which, in
the harbors of Toulon, Ferrol, and La Rochelle,
had been thoroughly equipped, to act in unexpected
concert with the vast flotilla. “Eight
hours of night,” said he, “favorable for us, will
now decide the fate of the world.”

England, surprised at the magnitude of these
preparations, began to be seriously alarmed.
She had imagined her ocean-engirdled isle to be
in a state of perfect security. Now she learned
that within thirty miles of her coast an army of
150,000 most highly-disciplined troops was assembled,
that more than two thousand gun-boats
were prepared to transport this host, with ten
thousand horses, and four thousand pieces of
cannon, across the channel, and that Napoleon,
who had already proved himself to be the greatest
military genius of any age, was to head this
army on its march to London. The idea of
150,000 men, led by Bonaparte, was enough to
make even the most powerful nation shudder.
The British naval officers almost unanimously[Pg 617]
expressed the opinion, that it was impossible to
be secure against a descent on the English coast
by the French, under favor of a fog, a calm, or
a long winter’s night. The debates in Parliament
as to the means of resisting the danger, were
anxious and stormy. A vote was passed authorizing
the ministers to summon all Englishmen,
between the ages of 17 and 55, to arms. In
every country town the whole male population
were seen every morning exercising for war.
The aged King George III. reviewed these raw
troops, accompanied by the excited Bourbon
princes, who wished to recover by the force of
the arms of foreigners, that throne from which
they had been ejected by the will of the people.
From the Isle of Wight to the mouth of the
Thames, a system of signals was arranged to
give the alarm. Beacon fires were to blaze at
night upon every headland, upon the slightest
intimation of danger. Carriages were constructed
for the rapid conveyance of troops to any
threatened point. Mothers and maidens, in
beautiful happy England, placed their heads
upon their pillows in terror, for the blood-hounds
of war were unleashed, and England had unleashed
them. She suffered bitterly for the
crime. She suffers still in that enormous burden
of taxes which the ensuing years of war
and woe have bequeathed to her children.

The infamous George Cadoudal, already implicated
in the infernal machine, was still in
London, living with other French refugees, in a
state of opulence, from the money furnished by
the British government. The Count d’Artois,
subsequently Charles X., and his son, the Duke
de Berri, with other persons prominent in the
Bourbon interests, were associated with this
brawny assassin in the attempts, by any means,
fair or foul, to crush Napoleon. The English
government supplied them liberally with money;
asking no questions, for conscience sake,
respecting the manner in which they would employ
it. Innumerable conspiracies were formed
for the assassination of Napoleon, more than
thirty of which were detected by the police.
Napoleon at last became exceedingly exasperated.
He felt that England was ignominiously
supplying those with funds whom she knew to
be aiming at his assassination. He was indignant
that the Bourbon princes should assume,
that he, elected to the chief magistracy of
France by the unanimous voice of the nation,
was to be treated as a dog—to be shot in a
ditch. “If this game is continued,” said he,
one day, “I will teach those Bourbons a lesson
which they will not soon forget.”

A conspiracy was now organized in London,
by Count d’Artois and others of the French
emigrants, upon a gigantic scale. Count de
Lisle, afterward Louis XVIII., was then residing
at Warsaw. The plot was communicated
to him; but he repulsed it. The plan involved
the expenditure of millions, which were furnished
by the British government. Mr. Hammond,
under secretary of state at London, and
the English ministers at Hesse, at Stuttgard,
and at Bavaria, all upon the confines of France,
were in intimate communication with the disaffected
in France, endeavoring to excite civil
war. Three prominent French emigrants, the
Princes of Condé, grandfather, son, and grandson,
were then in the service and pay of
Great Britain, with arms in their hands
against their country, and ready to obey any
call for active service. The grandson, the Duke
d’Enghien, was in the duchy of Baden, awaiting
on the banks of the Rhine, the signal for his
march into France; and attracted to the village
of Ettenheim, by his attachment for a young
lady there, a Princess de Rohan. The plan of
the conspirators was this: A band of a hundred
resolute men, headed by the daring and indomitable
George Cadoudal, were to be introduced
stealthily into France to waylay Napoleon when
passing to Malmaison, disperse his guard, consisting
of some ten outriders, and kill him upon
the spot. The conspirators flattered themselves
that this would not be considered assassination,
but a battle. Having thus disposed of the First
Consul, the next question was, how, in the
midst of the confusion that would ensue, to regain
for the Bourbons and their partisans their
lost power. To do this, it was necessary to
secure the co-operation of the army.

In nothing is the infirmity of our nature more
conspicuous, than in the petty jealousies which
so often rankle in the bosoms of great men.
General Moreau had looked with an envious eye
upon the gigantic strides of General Bonaparte
to power. His wife, a weak, vain, envious
woman, could not endure the thought that General
Moreau should be only the second man in
the empire; and she exerted all her influence
over her vacillating and unstable husband, to
convince him that the conqueror of Hohenlinden
was entitled to the highest gifts France had to
confer. One day, by accident, she was detained
a few moments in the ante-chamber of
Josephine. Her indignation was extreme. General
Moreau was in a mood of mind to yield to
the influence of these reproaches. As an indication
of his displeasure, he allowed himself to
repel the favors which the First Consul showered
upon him. He at last was guilty of the
impropriety of refusing to attend the First Consul
at a review. In consequence, he was omitted
in an invitation to a banquet, which Napoleon
gave on the anniversary of the republic.
Thus coldness increased to hostility. Moreau,
with bitter feelings, withdrew to his estate at
Grosbois, where, in the enjoyment of opulence,
he watched with an evil eye, the movements
of one whom he had the vanity to think his
rival.

Under these circumstances, it was not thought
difficult to win over Moreau, and through him
the army. Then, at the very moment when Napoleon
had been butchered on his drive to Malmaison,
the loyalists all over France were to
rise; the emigrant Bourbons, with arms and
money, supplied by England, in their hands,
were to rush over the frontier; the British navy[Pg 618]
and army were to be ready with their powerful
co-operation; and the Bourbon dynasty was to
be re-established. Such was this famous conspiracy
of the Bourbons.

EXECUTION OF THE DUKE D’ENGHIEN.

But in this plan there was a serious difficulty.
Moreau prided himself upon being a very
decided republican; and had denounced even
the consulate for life, as tending to the establishment
of royalty. Still it was hoped that the
jealousy of his disposition would induce him to
engage in any plot for the overthrow of the
First Consul. General Pichegru, a man illustrious
in rank and talent, a warm advocate of
the Bourbons, and alike influential with monarchists
and republicans, had escaped from the
wilds of Sinamary, where he had been banished
by the Directory, and was then residing in London.
Pichegru was drawn into the conspiracy,
and employed to confer with Moreau. Matters
being thus arranged, Cadoudal, with a band of
bold and desperate men, armed to the teeth, and
with an ample supply of funds, which had been
obtained from the English treasury, set out from
London for Paris. Upon the coast of Normandy,
upon the side of a precipitous craggy cliff,
ever washed by the ocean, there was a secret
passage formed, by a cleft in the rock, known
only to smugglers. Through the cleft, two or
three hundred feet in depth, a rope-ladder could
be let down to the surface of the sea. The
smugglers thus scaled the precipice, bearing
heavy burdens upon their shoulders. Cadoudal[Pg 619]
had found out this path, and easily purchased its
use. To facilitate communication with Paris, a
chain of lodging-places had been established, in
solitary farm-houses, and in the castles of loyalist
nobles; so that the conspirators could pass
from the cliff of Biville to Paris without exposure
to the public roads, or to any inn. Captain
Wright, an officer in the English navy, a bold
and skillful seaman, took the conspirators on
board his vessel, and secretly landed them at the
foot of this cliff. Cautiously, Cadoudal, with some
of his trusty followers, crept along, from shelter
to shelter, until he reached the suburbs of Paris.
From his lurking place he dispatched emissaries,
bought by his abundance of gold, to different
parts of France, to prepare the royalists to rise.
Much to his disappointment, he found Napoleon
almost universally popular, and the loyalists
themselves settling down in contentment under
his efficient government. Even the priests were
attached to the First Consul, for he had rescued
them from the most unrelenting persecution. In
the course of two months of incessant exertions,
Cadoudal was able to collect but about thirty
men, who, by liberal pay, were willing to run the
risk of trying to restore the Bourbons. While
Cadoudal was thus employed with the royalists,
Pichegru and his agents were sounding Moreau
and the republicans. General Lajolais, a former
officer of Moreau, was easily gained over. He
drew from Moreau a confession of his wounded
feelings, and of his desire to see the consular
government overthrown in almost any way. Lajolais
did not reveal to the illustrious general the
details of the conspiracy, but hastening to London,
by the circuitous route of Hamburg, to avoid
detection, told his credulous employers that Moreau
was ready to take any part in the enterprise.
At the conferences now held in London, by this
band of conspirators, plotting assassination, the
Count d’Artois had the criminal folly to preside—the
future monarch of France guiding the deliberations
of a band of assassins. When Lajolais
reported that Moreau was ready to join Pichegru
the moment he should appear, Charles, then
Count d’Artois, exclaimed with delight, “Ah!
let but our two generals agree together, and I
shall speedily be restored to France!” It was
arranged that Pichegru, Rivière, and one of the
Polignacs, with others of the conspirators, should
immediately join George Cadoudal, and, as soon
as every thing was ripe, Charles and his son, the
Duke of Berri, were to land in France, and take
their share in the infamous project. Pichegru
and his party embarked on board the vessel of
Captain Wright, and were landed, in the darkness
of the night, beneath the cliff of Biville.
These illustrious assassins climbed the smugglers’
rope, and skulking from lurking-place to
lurking-place, joined the desperado, George Cadoudal,
in the suburbs of Paris. Moreau made
an appointment to meet Pichegru by night upon
the boulevard de la Madelaine.

It was a dark and cold night, in the month of
January, 1804, when these two illustrious generals,
the conqueror of Holland and the hero of
Hohenlinden, approached, and, by a preconcerted
signal, recognized each other. Years had elapsed
since they had stood side by side as soldiers in
the army of the Rhine. Both were embarrassed,
for neither of these once honorable men was accustomed
to deeds of darkness. They had hardly
exchanged salutations, when George Cadoudal
appeared, he having planned the meeting, and
being determined to know its result. Moreau,
disgusted with the idea of having any association
with such a man, was angry in being subjected
to such an interview; and appointing another
meeting with Pichegru at his own house, abruptly
retired. They soon met, and had a long and serious
conference. Moreau was perfectly willing
to conspire for the overthrow of the consular
government, but insisted that the supreme power
should be placed in his own hands, and not in
the hands of the Bourbons. Pichegru was grievously
disappointed at the result of this interview.
He remarked to the confidant who conducted
him to Moreau’s house, and thence back to his
retreat, “And this man too has ambition, and
wishes to take his turn in governing France.
Poor creature! he could not govern her for four-and-twenty
hours.” When Cadoudal was informed
of the result of the interview, he impetuously
exclaimed, “If we must needs have any
usurper, I should infinitely prefer Napoleon to
this brainless and heartless Moreau!” The conspirators
were now almost in a state of despair.
They found, to their surprise, in entire contradiction
to the views which had been so confidently
proclaimed in England, that Napoleon was
admired and beloved by nearly all the French
nation; and that it was impossible to organize
even a respectable party in opposition to him.

MADAME POLIGNAC INTERCEDING FOR HER HUSBAND.

Various circumstances now led the First Consul
to suspect that some serious plot was in progress.
The three English ministers at Hesse,
Wirtemberg, and Bavaria, were found actively
employed in endeavoring to foment intrigues in
France. The minister at Bavaria, Mr. Drake,
had, as he supposed, bribed a Frenchman to act
as his spy. This Frenchman carried all Drake’s
letters to Napoleon, and received from the First
Consul drafts of the answers to be returned.
In this curious correspondence Drake remarks in
one of his letters, “All plots against the First
Consul must be forwarded; for it is a matter of
right little consequence by whom the animal be
stricken down, provided you are all in the hunt.”
Napoleon caused these letters to be deposited in
the senate, and to be exhibited to the diplomatists
of all nations, who chose to see them. Some
spies had also been arrested by the police, and
condemned to be shot. One, on his way to execution,
declared that he had important information
to give. He was one of the band of George
Cadoudal, and confessed the whole plot. Other
conspirators were soon arrested. Among them
M. Lozier, a man of education and polished manners,
declared that Moreau had sent to the royalist
conspirators in London, one of his officers,
offering to head a movement in behalf of the
Bourbons, and to influence the army to co-op[Pg 620]erate
in that movement. When the conspirators,
relying upon this promise, had reached Paris, he
continued, Moreau took a different turn, and
demanded that he himself should be made the
successor of the First Consul. When first intimation
of Moreau’s guilt was communicated to
Napoleon, it was with difficulty that he could
credit it. The First Consul immediately convened
a secret council of his ministers. They
met in the Tuileries at night. Moreau was a
formidable opponent even for Napoleon to attack.
He was enthusiastically admired by the
army, and his numerous and powerful friends
would aver that he was the victim of the jealousy
of the French Consul. It was suggested by
some of the council that it would be good policy
not to touch Moreau. Napoleon remarked,
“they will say that I am afraid of Moreau. That
shall not be said. I have been one of the most
merciful of men; but, if necessary, I will be one
of the most terrible. I will strike Moreau as I
would strike any one else, as he has entered into
a conspiracy, odious alike for its objects and for
the connections which it presumes.” It was
decided that Moreau should be immediately arrested.
Cambacères, a profound lawyer, declared
that the ordinary tribunals were not sufficient to
meet this case, and urged that Moreau should
be tried by a court martial, composed of the
most eminent military officers, a course which
would have been in entire accordance with existing
laws. Napoleon opposed the proposition.
“It would be said,” he remarked, “that I had
punished Moreau, by causing him, under the[Pg 621]
form of law, to be condemned by my own partisans.”
Early in the morning, Moreau was arrested
and conducted to the Temple. Excitement
spread rapidly through Paris. The friends
of Moreau declared that there was no conspiracy,
that neither George Cadoudal nor Pichegru were
in France, that the whole story was an entire
fabrication to enable the First Consul to get rid
of a dangerous rival. Napoleon was extremely
sensitive respecting his reputation. It was the
great object of his ambition to enthrone himself
in the hearts of the French people as a great
benefactor. He was deeply wounded by these
cruel taunts. “It is indeed hard,” said he, “to
be exposed to plots the most atrocious, and then
to be accused of being the inventor of those
plots; to be charged with jealousy, when the
vilest jealousy pursues me; to be accused of
attempts upon the life of another, when the most
desperate attacks are aimed at my own.” All
the enthusiasm of his impetuous nature was
now aroused to drag the whole plot to light in
defense of his honor. He was extremely indignant
against the royalists. He had not overturned
the throne of the Bourbons. He had
found it overturned, France in anarchy, and the
royalists in exile and beggary. He had been
the generous benefactor of these royalists, and
had done every thing in his power to render
them service. In defiance of deeply-rooted popular
prejudices, and in opposition to the remonstrances
of his friends, he had recalled the
exiled emigrants, restored to them, as far as
possible their confiscated estates, conferred upon
them important trusts, and had even lavished
upon them so many favors as to have drawn
upon himself the accusation of meditating the
restoration of the Bourbons. In return for such
services they were endeavoring to blow him up
with infernal machines, and to butcher him on
the highway. As for Moreau, he regarded him
simply with pity, and wished only to place upon
his head the burden of a pardon. The most
energetic measures were now adopted to search
out the conspirators in their lurking places.
Every day new arrests were made. Two of the
conspirators made full confessions. They declared
that the highest nobles of the Bourbon
Court were involved in the plot, and that a distinguished
Bourbon prince was near at hand,
ready to place himself at the head of the royalists
as soon as Napoleon should be slain.

The first Consul, exasperated to the highest
degree, exclaimed, “These Bourbons fancy that
they may shed my blood like that of some wild
animal. And yet my blood is quite as precious
as theirs. I will repay them the alarm with
which they seek to inspire me. I pardon Moreau
the weakness and the errors to which he is urged
by a stupid jealousy. But I will pitilessly
shoot the very first of these princes who shall
fall into my hands. I will teach them with what
sort of a man they have to deal.”

Fresh arrests were still daily made, and the
confessions of the prisoners all established the
point that there was a young prince who occasionally
appeared in their councils, who was
treated with the greatest consideration, and who
was to head the movement. Still Cadoudal,
Pichegru, and other prominent leaders of the
conspiracy, eluded detection. As there was ample
evidence that these men were in Paris, a law
was passed by the Legislative Assembly, without
opposition, that any person who should shelter
them should be punished by death, and that
whosoever should be aware of their hiding-place,
and yet fail to expose them, should be punished
with six years imprisonment. A strict guard
was also placed, for several days, at the gates
of Paris, allowing no one to leave, and with orders
to shoot any person who should attempt to
scale the wall. Pichegru, Cadoudal, and the other
prominent conspirators were now in a state of terrible
perplexity. They wandered by night from
house to house, often paying one or two thousand
dollars for the shelter of a few hours. One evening
Pichegru, in a state of despair, seized a pistol
and was about to shoot himself through the
head, when he was prevented by a friend. On
another occasion, with the boldness of desperation,
he went to the house of M. Marbois, one
of the ministers of Napoleon, and implored shelter.
Marbois, knowing the noble character of
the master whom he served, with grief, but without
hesitancy, allowed his old companion the
temporary shelter of his roof, and did not betray
him. He subsequently informed the First Consul
of what he had done. Napoleon, with characteristic
magnanimity, replied to this avowal in
a letter expressive of his high admiration of his
generosity, in affording shelter, under such circumstances,
to one, who though an outlaw, had
been his friend.

At length Pichegru was betrayed. He was
asleep at night. His sword and loaded pistols
were by his side, ready for desperate defense.
The gendarmes cautiously entered his room, and
sprang upon his bed. He was a powerful man,
and he struggled with herculean but unavailing
efforts. He was, however, speedily overpowered,
bound, and conducted to the Temple. Soon
after, George Cadoudal was arrested. He was
in a cabriolet. A police officer seized the bridle
of the horse. Cadoudal drew a pistol, and
shot him dead upon the spot. He then leaped
from the cabriolet, and severely wounded another
officer who attempted to seize him. He
made the utmost efforts to escape on foot under
cover of the darkness of the night; but, surrounded
by the crowd, he was soon captured.
This desperado appeared perfectly calm and self-possessed
before his examiners. There were
upon his person a dagger, pistols, and twelve
thousand dollars in gold and in bank notes.
Boldly he avowed his object of attacking the
First Consul, and proudly declared that he
was acting in co-operation with the Bourbon
princes.

The certainty of the conspiracy was now established,
and the senate transmitted a letter of
congratulation to the First Consul upon his
escape. In his reply, Napoleon remarked, “I[Pg 622]
have long since renounced the hope of enjoying
the pleasures of private life. All my days are
occupied in fulfilling the duties which my fate
and the will of the French people have imposed
upon me. Heaven will watch over France and
defeat the plots of the wicked. The citizens
may be without alarm; my life will last as long
as it will be useful to the nation. But I wish
the French people to understand, that existence,
without their confidence and affection, would
afford me no consolation, and would, as regards
them, have no beneficial objects.”

Napoleon sincerely pitied Moreau and Pichegru,
and wished to save them from the ignominious
death they merited. He sent a messenger
to Moreau assuring him that a frank confession
should secure his pardon and restoration to favor.
But it was far more easy for Napoleon to
forgive than for the proud Moreau to accept his
forgiveness. With profound sympathy Napoleon
contemplated the position of Pichegru. As
he thought of this illustrious general, condemned
and executed like a felon, he exclaimed to M.
Real, “What an end for the conqueror of Holland!
But the men of the Revolution must not
thus destroy each other. I have long thought
about forming a colony at Cayenne. Pichegru
was exiled thither, and knows the place well;
and of all our generals, he is best calculated to
form an extensive establishment there. Go and
visit him in his prison, and tell him that I pardon
him; that it is not toward him or Moreau,
or men like them that I am inclined to be severe.
Ask him how many men, and what amount of
money he would require for founding a colony
in Cayenne, and I will supply him, that he may
go thither and re-establish his reputation in rendering
a great service to France.” Pichegru was
so much affected by this magnanimity of the
man whose death he had been plotting, that he
bowed his head and wept convulsively. The
illustrious man was conquered.

But Napoleon was much annoyed in not
being able to lay hold upon one of those Bourbon
princes who had so long been conspiring against
his life, and inciting others to perils from which
they themselves escaped. One morning in his
study he inquired of Talleyrand and Fouché respecting
the place of residence of the various
members of the Bourbon family. He was told
in reply that Louis XVIII. and the Duke d’Angouléme
lived in Warsaw; the Count d’Artois
and the Duke de Berri in London, where also
were the Princes of Condé with the exception
of the Duke d’Enghien, the most enterprising
of them all, who lived at Ettenheim near Strasburg.
It was in this vicinity that the British
ministers Taylor, Smith, and Drake had been
busying themselves in fomenting intrigues. The
idea instantly flashed into the mind of the First
Consul that the Duke d’Enghien was thus lurking
near the frontier of France to take part in
the conspiracy. He immediately sent an officer
to Ettenheim to make inquiries respecting the
Prince. The officer returned with the report
that the Duke d’Enghien was living there with
a Princess of Rohan, to whom he was warmly
attached. He was often absent from Ettenheim,
and occasionally went in disguise to Strasburg.
He was in the pay of the British government, a
soldier against his own country, and had received
orders from the British Cabinet to repair to the
banks of the Rhine, to be ready to take advantage
of any favorable opportunity which might
be presented to invade France.

On the very morning in which this report
reached Paris, a deposition was presented to
Napoleon, made by the servant of George Cadoudal,
in which he stated that a prince was at the
head of the conspiracy, that he believed this
Prince to be in France, as he had often seen at
the house of Cadoudal a well dressed man, of
distinguished manners, whom all seemed to treat
with profound respect. This man, thought Napoleon,
must certainly be the Duke d’Enghien,
and his interviews with the conspirators will account
for his frequent absence from Ettenheim.
Another very singular circumstance greatly
strengthened this conclusion. There was a
Marquis de Thumery in the suite of the Duke
d’Enghien. The German officer, who repeated
this fact, mispronounced the word so that it
sounded like Dumuner, a distinguished advocate
of the Bourbons. The officer sent by Napoleon
to make inquiries, consequently reported that
General Dumuner was with the Duke d’Enghien.
All was now plain to the excited mind of the
First Consul. The Duke d’Enghien was in the
conspiracy. With General Dumuner and an
army of emigrants he was to march into France,
by Strasburg, as soon as the death of the First
Consul was secured; while the Count d’Artois.
aided by England, would approach from London.

A council was immediately called, to decide
what should be done. The ministers were divided
in opinion. Some urged sending a secret
force to arrest the Duke, with all his papers and
accomplices, and bring them to Paris. Cambacères,
apprehensive of the effect that such a
violation of the German territory might produce
in Europe, opposed the measure. Napoleon replied
to him kindly, but firmly, “I know your
motive for speaking thus—your devotion to me,
I thank you for it. But I will not allow myself
to be put to death without resistance. I will
make those people tremble, and teach them to
keep quiet for the time to come.”

Orders were immediately given for three hundred
dragoons to repair to the banks of the
Rhine, cross the river, dash forward to Ettenheim,
surround the town, arrest the Prince and
all his retinue, and carry them to Strasburg.
As soon as the arrest was made, Colonel Caulaincourt
was directed to hasten to the Grand-duke
of Baden, with an apology from the First Consul
for violating his territory, stating that the gathering
of the hostile emigrants so near the frontiers
of France, authorized the French government
to protect itself, and that the necessity for
prompt and immediate action rendered it impossible
to adopt more tardy measures. The duke[Pg 623]
of Baden expressed his satisfaction with the
apology.

On the 15th of March, 1804, the detachment
of dragoons set out, and proceeded with such
rapidity as to surround the town before the Duke
could receive any notice of their approach. He
was arrested in his bed, and hurried, but partially
clothed, into a carriage, and conveyed with
the utmost speed to Strasburg. He was from
thence taken to the Castle of Vincennes, in the
vicinity of Paris. A military commission was
formed composed of the colonels of the garrison,
with General Hullin as President. The Prince
was brought before the Commission. He was
calm and haughty, for he had no apprehension
of the fate which awaited him. He was accused
of high treason, in having sought to excite civil
war, and in bearing arms against France. To
arraign him upon this charge was to condemn
him, for of this crime he was clearly guilty.
Though he denied all knowledge of the plot in
question, boldly and rather defiantly he avowed
that he had borne arms against France, and that
he was on the banks of the Rhine for the purpose
of serving against her again. “I esteem,”
said he, “General Bonaparte as a great man,
but being myself a prince of the house of Bourbon,
I have vowed against him eternal hatred.”
“A Condé,” he added, “can never re-enter
France but with arms in his hands. My birth,
my opinions render me for ever the enemy of
your government.” By the laws of the Republic,
for a Frenchman to serve against France was
a capital offense. Napoleon, however, would not
have enforced this law in the case of the Duke,
had he not fully believed that he was implicated
in the conspiracy, and that it was necessary, to
secure himself from assassination, that he should
strike terror into the hearts of the Bourbons.
The Prince implored permission to see the First
Consul. The court refused this request, which,
if granted would undoubtedly have saved his life.
Napoleon also commissioned M. Real to proceed
to Vincennes, and examine the prisoner. Had
M. Real arrived in season to see the Duke, he
would have made a report of facts which would
have rescued the Prince from his tragical fate;
but, exhausted by the fatigue of several days
and nights, he had retired to rest, and had given
directions to his servants to permit him to sleep
undisturbed. The order of the First Consul was,
consequently, not placed in his hands until five
o’clock in the morning. It was then too late.
The court sorrowfully pronounced sentence of
death. By torch light the unfortunate Prince
was led down the winding staircase, which led
into a fosse of the chateau. There he saw
through the gray mist of the morning, a file of
soldiers drawn up for his execution. Calmly
he cut off a lock of his hair, and, taking his watch
from his pocket, requested an officer to solicit
Josephine to present those tokens of his love to
the Princess de Rohan. Turning to the soldiers
he said, “I die for my King and for France;”
and giving the command to fire, he fell, pierced
by seven balls.

While these scenes were transpiring, Napoleon
was in a state of intense excitement. He
retired to the seclusion of Malmaison, and for
hours, communing with no one, paced his apartment
with a countenance expressive of the most
unwavering determination. It is said that Josephine
pleaded with him for the life of the Prince,
and he replied “Josephine, you are a woman,
and know not the necessities of political life.”
As pensive and thoughtful he walked his room,
he was heard in low tones to repeat to himself
the most celebrated verses of the French poets
upon the subject of clemency. This seemed to
indicate that his thoughts were turned to the
nobleness of pardon. He however remained
unrelenting. He was deeply indignant that the
monarchs of Europe should assume that he was
an upstart, whom any one might shoot in the
street. He resolved to strike a blow which
should send consternation to the hearts of his
enemies, a blow so sudden, so energetic, so terrible
as to teach them that he would pay as little
regard for their blood, as they manifested for
his. The object at which he aimed was fully
accomplished. Says Thiers “It is not much to
the credit of human nature to be obliged to confess,
that the terror inspired by the First Consul
acted effectually upon the Bourbon Princes and
the emigrants. They no longer felt themselves
secure, now that even the German territory had
proved no safeguard to the unfortunate Duke
d’Enghien; and thenceforth conspiracies of that
kind ceased.” There are many indications that
Napoleon subsequently deplored the tragical fate
of the Prince. It subsequently appeared that
the mysterious stranger to whom the prisoners
so often alluded, was Pichegru. When this fact
was communicated to Napoleon, he was deeply
moved and musing long and painfully, gave
utterance to an exclamation of grief, that he
had consented to the seizure of the unhappy
Prince.

He, however, took the whole responsibility of
his execution upon himself. In his testament
at St. Helena, he wrote, “I arrested the Duke
d’Enghien because that measure was necessary
to the security, the interest, and the honor of the
French people, when the Count d’Artois maintained,
on his own admission, sixty assassins.
In similar circumstances I would do the same.”
The spirit is saddened in recording these terrible
deeds of violence and of blood. It was a period
of anarchy, of revolution, of conspiracies, of
war. Fleets were bombarding cities, and tens
of thousands were falling in a day upon a single
field of battle. Human life was considered of
but little value. Bloody retaliations and reprisals
were sanctified by the laws of contending
nations. Surrounded by those influences, nurtured
from infancy in the minds of them, provoked
beyond endurance by the aristocratic arrogance
which regarded the elected sovereign
of France as an usurper beyond the pale of
law, it is only surprising that Napoleon could
have passed through a career so wonderful
and so full of temptations, with a character so[Pg 624]
seldom sullied by blemishes of despotic injustice.

This execution of a prince of the blood royal
sent a thrill of indignation through all the courts
of Europe. The French embassadors were treated
in many instances with coldness amounting
to insult. The Emperor Alexander sent a remonstrance
to the First Consul. He thus
provoked a terrible reply from the man who
could hurl a sentence like a bomb-shell. The
young monarch of Russia was seated upon the
blood-stained throne, from which the daggers
of assassins had removed his father. And yet,
not one of these assassins had been punished.
With crushing irony, Napoleon remarked,
“France has acted, as Russia under similar circumstances
would have done; for had she been
informed that the assassins of Paul were assembled
at a day’s march from her frontier, would
she not, at all hazards, have seized upon them
there?” This was not one of these soft answers
which turn away wrath. It stung Alexander to
the quick.

Absorbed by these cares, Napoleon had but
little time to think of the imprisoned conspirators
awaiting their trial. Pichegru, hearing no
further mention of the First Consul’s proposal,
and informed of the execution of the Duke
d’Enghien, gave himself up for lost. His proud
spirit could not endure the thought of a public
trial and an ignominious punishment. One night,
after having read a treatise of Seneca upon suicide,
he laid aside his book, and by means of his
silk-cravat, and a wooden-peg, which he used as
a tourniquet, he strangled himself. His keepers
found him in the morning dead upon his bed.

The trial of the other conspirators soon came
on. Moreau, respecting whom great interest
was excited, as one of the most illustrious of
the Republican generals, was sentenced to two
years imprisonment. Napoleon immediately pardoned
him, and granted him permission to retire
to America. As that unfortunate general wished
to dispose of his estate, Napoleon gave orders
for it to be purchased at the highest price. He
also paid the expenses of his journey to Barcelona,
preparatory to his embarkation for the new
world. George Cadoudal, Polignac, Revière,
and several others, were condemned to death.
There was something in the firm and determined
energy of Cadoudal which singularly interested
the mind of the First Consul. He wished
to save him. “There is one man,” said Napoleon,
“among the conspirators whom I regret—that
is George Cadoudal. His mind is of the
right stamp. In my hands, he would have done
great things. I appreciate all the firmness of
his character, and I would have given it a right
direction. I made Real say to him, that if he
would attach himself to me, I would not only
pardon him, but would give him a regiment.
What do I say? I would have made him one
of my aides-de-camp. Such a step would have
excited a great clamor; but I should not have
cared for it. Cadoudal refused every thing. He
is a bar of iron. What can I now do? He must
undergo his fate; for such a man is too dangerous
in a party. It is a necessity of my situation.”

The evening before his execution, Cadoudal
desired the jailer to bring him a bottle of excellent
wine. Upon tasting the contents of the
bottle brought, and finding it of an inferior
quality, he complained, stating that it was not
such wine as he desired. The jailer brutally
replied, “It is good enough for such a miscreant
as you.” Cadoudal, with perfect deliberation
and composure, corked up the bottle, and, with
his herculean arm hurled it at the head of the
jailer, with an aim so well directed that he fell
helpless at his feet. The next day, with several
of the conspirators, he was executed.

Josephine, who was ever to Napoleon a ministering
angel of mercy, was visited by the wife
of Polignac, who, with tears of anguish, entreated
Josephine’s intercession in behalf of her condemned
husband. Her tender heart was deeply
moved by a wife’s delirious agony, and she
hastened to plead for the life of the conspirator.
Napoleon, endeavoring to conceal the struggle
of his heart beneath a severe exterior, replied,
“Josephine, you still interest yourself for my
enemies. They are all of them as imprudent
as they are guilty. If I do not teach them a
lesson they will begin again, and will be the
cause of new victims.” Thus repulsed, Josephine,
almost in despair, retired. But she knew
that Napoleon was soon to pass through one of
the galleries of the chateau. Calling Madame
Polignac, she hastened with her to the gallery,
and they both threw themselves in tears before
Napoleon. He for a moment glanced sternly at
Josephine, as if to reproach her for the trial to
which she had exposed him. But his yielding
heart could not withstand this appeal. Taking
the hand of Madame Polignac, he said, “I am
surprised in finding, in a plot against my life,
Armand Polignac, the companion of my boyhood
at the military school. I will, however,
grant his pardon to the tears of his wife. I
only hope that this act of weakness on my part
may not encourage fresh acts of imprudence.
Those princes, madame, are most deeply culpable
who thus compromise the lives of their
faithful servants without partaking their perils.”

General Lajolais had been condemned to death.
He had an only daughter, fourteen years of age,
who was remarkably beautiful. The poor child
was in a state of fearful agony in view of the
fate of her father. One morning, without communicating
her intentions to any one, she set
out alone and on foot, for St. Cloud. Presenting
herself before the gate of the palace, by her
youth, her beauty, her tears, and her woe, she
persuaded the keeper, a kind-hearted man, to
introduce her to the apartment of Josephine and
Hortense. Napoleon had said to Josephine that
she must not any more expose him to the pain
of seeing the relatives of the condemned; that
if any petitions were to be offered, they must be
presented in writing. Josephine and Hortense
were, however, so deeply moved by the anguish[Pg 625]
of the distracted child, that they contrived to
introduce her to the presence of Napoleon as
he was passing through one of the apartments
of the palace, accompanied by several of his
ministers. The fragile child, in a delirium of
emotion, rushed before him, precipitated herself
at his feet, and exclaimed, “Pardon, sire! pardon
for my father!”

Napoleon, surprised at this sudden apparition,
exclaimed in displeasure, “I have said that I
wish for no such scenes. Who has dared to
introduce you here, in disregard of my prohibition?
Leave me, miss!” So saying, he turned
to pass from her.

But the child threw her arms around his
knees, and with her eyes suffused with tears,
and agony depicted in every feature of her beautiful
upturned face, exclaimed, “Pardon! pardon!
pardon! it is for my father!”

“And who is your father?” said Napoleon,
kindly. “Who are you?”

“I am Miss Lajolais,” she replied, “and my
father is doomed to die.” Napoleon hesitated
for a moment; and then exclaimed, “Ah, miss,
but this is the second time in which your father
has conspired against the state. I can do nothing
for you!”

“Alas, sire!” the poor child exclaimed, with
great simplicity, “I know it: but the first time,
papa was innocent; and to-day I do not ask for
justice—I implore pardon, pardon for him!”

Napoleon was deeply moved. His lip trembled,
tears filled his eyes, and, taking the little
hand of the child in both of his own, he tenderly
pressed it, and said:

“Well, my child! yes! For your sake, I will
forgive your father. This is enough. Now rise
and leave me.”

At these words the suppliant fainted, and fell
lifeless upon the floor. She was conveyed to
the apartment of Josephine, where she soon
revived, and, though in a state of extreme exhaustion,
proceeded immediately to Paris. M.
Lavalette, then aid-de-camp of Napoleon, and
his wife, accompanied her to the prison of the
Conciergerie, with the joyful tidings. When she
arrived in the gloomy cell where her father was
immured, she threw herself upon his neck, and
her convulsive sobbings, for a time, stifled all possible
powers of utterance. Suddenly, her frame
became convulsed, her eyes fixed, and she fell
in entire unconsciousness into the arms of Madame
Lavalette. When she revived, reason had
fled, and the affectionate daughter was a hopeless
maniac!

Napoleon, in the evening, was informed of
this new calamity. He dropped his head in
silence, mused painfully, brushed a tear from
his eye, and was heard to murmur, in a low tone
of voice, “Poor child! poor child!—a father
who has such a daughter is still more culpable.
I will take care of her and of her mother.”

Six others of the conspirators also soon received
a pardon. Such was the termination of
the Bourbon conspiracy for the assassination
of Napoleon.

“WHO MURDERED DOWNIE?”

About the end of the eighteenth century,
whenever any student of the Marischal College,
Aberdeen, incurred the displeasure of the
humbler citizens, he was assailed with the question,
“Who murdered Downie?” Reply and
rejoinder generally brought on a collision between
“town and gown;” although the young
gentlemen were accused of what was chronologically
impossible. People have a right to be
angry at being stigmatized as murderers, when
their accusers have probability on their side;
but the “taking off” of Downie occurred when
the gownsmen, so maligned, were in swaddling
clothes.

But there was a time, when to be branded as
an accomplice in the slaughter of Richard Downie,
made the blood run to the cheek of many a youth,
and sent him home to his books, thoughtful and
subdued. Downie was sacrist or janitor at Marischal
College. One of his duties consisted in
securing the gate by a certain hour; previous
to which all the students had to assemble in the
common hall, where a Latin prayer was delivered
by the principal. Whether, in discharging
this function, Downie was more rigid than his
predecessor in office, or whether he became
stricter in the performance of it at one time
than another, can not now be ascertained; but
there can be no doubt that he closed the gate
with austere punctuality, and that those who
were not in the common hall within a minute
of the prescribed time, were shut out, and were
afterward reprimanded and fined by the principal
and professors. The students became irritated
at this strictness, and took every petty
means of annoying the sacrist; he, in his turn,
applied the screw at other points of academic
routine, and a fierce war soon began to rage between
the collegians and the humble functionary.
Downie took care that in all his proceedings he
kept within the strict letter of the law; but his
opponents were not so careful, and the decisions
of the rulers were uniformly against them, and
in favor of Downie. Reprimands and fines having
failed in producing due subordination, rustication,
suspension, and even the extreme sentence of expulsion
had to be put in force; and, in the end,
law and order prevailed. But a secret and deadly
grudge continued to be entertained against
Downie. Various schemes of revenge were
thought of.

Downie was, in common with teachers and
taught, enjoying the leisure of the short New
Year’s vacation—the pleasure being no doubt
greatly enhanced by the annoyances to which
he had been subjected during the recent bickerings—when,
as he was one evening seated
with his family in his official residence at the
gate, a messenger informed him that a gentleman
at a neighboring hotel wished to speak with
him. Downie obeyed the summons, and was
ushered from one room into another, till at
length he found himself in a large apartment
hung with black, and lighted by a solitary candle.
After waiting for some time in this strange[Pg 626]
place, about fifty figures also dressed in black,
and with black masks on their faces, presented
themselves. They arranged themselves in the
form of a Court, and Downie, pale with terror,
was given to understand that he was about to
be put on his trial.

A judge took his seat on the bench; a clerk
and public prosecutor sat below; a jury was
empanelled in front; and witnesses and spectators
stood around. Downie at first set down
the whole affair as a joke; but the proceedings
were conducted with such persistent gravity,
that, in spite of himself, he began to believe in
the genuine mission of the awful tribunal. The
clerk read an indictment, charging him with
conspiring against the liberties of the students;
witnesses were examined in due form, the public
prosecutor addressed the jury; and the judge
summed up.

“Gentlemen,” said Downie, “the joke has
been carried far enough—it is getting late, and
my wife and family will be getting anxious about
me. If I have been too strict with you in time
past, I am sorry for it, and I assure you I will
take more care in future.”

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the judge,
without paying the slightest attention to this
appeal, “consider your verdict; and, if you wish
to retire, do so.”

The jury retired. During their absence the
most profound silence was observed; and except
renewing the solitary candle that burnt
beside the judge, there was not the slightest
movement.

The jury returned, and recorded a verdict of
Guilty.

The judge solemnly assumed a huge black
cap, and addressed the prisoner.

“Richard Downie! The jury have unanimously
found you guilty of conspiring against
the just liberty and immunities of the students
of Marischal College. You have wantonly provoked
and insulted those inoffensive lieges for
some months, and your punishment will assuredly
be condign. You must prepare for death. In
fifteen minutes the sentence of the Court will
be carried into effect.”

The judge placed his watch on the bench. A
block, an ax, and a bag of sawdust were brought
into the Centre of the room. A figure more terrible
than any that had yet appeared came forward,
and prepared to act the part of doomster.

It was now past midnight, there was no sound
audible save the ominous ticking of the judge’s
watch. Downie became more and more alarmed.

“For any sake, gentlemen,” said the terrified
man, “let me home. I promise that you never
again shall have cause for complaint.”

“Richard Downie,” remarked the judge, “you
are vainly wasting the few moments that are left
you on earth. You are in the hands of those
who must have your life. No human power can
save you. Attempt to utter one cry, and you
are seized, and your doom completed before you
can utter another. Every one here present has
sworn a solemn oath never to reveal the proceedings
of this night; they are known to none
but ourselves; and when the object for which
we have met is accomplished, we shall disperse
unknown to any one. Prepare, then, for death;
other five minutes will be allowed, but no more.”

The unfortunate man in an agony of deadly
terror raved and shrieked for mercy: but the
avengers paid no heed to his cries. His fevered,
trembling lips then moved as if in silent
prayer; for he felt that the brief space between
him and eternity was but as a few more tickings
of that ominous watch.

“Now!” exclaimed the judge.

Four persons stepped forward and seized
Downie, on whose features a cold, clammy
sweat had burst forth. They bared his neck,
and made him kneel before the block.

“Strike!” exclaimed the judge.

The executioner struck the ax on the floor;
an assistant on the opposite side lifted at the
same moment a wet towel, and struck it across
the neck of the recumbent criminal. A loud
laugh announced that the joke had at last come
to an end.

But Downie responded not to the uproarious
merriment—they laughed again—but still he
moved not—they lifted him, and Downie was
dead!

Fright had killed him as effectually as if the
ax of a real headsman had severed his head
from his body.

It was a tragedy to all. The medical students
tried to open a vein, but all was over; and the
conspirators had now to bethink themselves of
safety. They now in reality swore an oath
among themselves; and the affrighted young
men, carrying their disguises with them, left the
body of Downie lying in the hotel. One of their
number told the landlord that their entertainment
was not yet quite over, and that they did
not wish the individual that was left in the room
to be disturbed for some hours. This was to
give them all time to make their escape.

Next morning the body was found. Judicial
inquiry was instituted, but no satisfactory result
could be arrived at. The corpse of poor
Downie exhibited no mark of violence internal
or external. The ill-will between him and the
students was known: it was also known that
the students had hired apartments in the hotel
for a theatrical representation—that Downie had
been sent for by them; but beyond this, nothing
was known. No noise had been heard, and no
proof of murder could be adduced. Of two
hundred students at the college, who could point
out the guilty or suspected fifty? Moreover, the
students were scattered over the city, and the
magistrates themselves had many of their own
families among the number, and it was not desirable
to go into the affair too minutely. Downie’s
widow and family were provided for, and his
slaughter remained a mystery; until, about fifteen
years after its occurrence, a gentleman on
his death-bed disclosed the whole particulars, and
avowed himself to have belonged to the obnoxious
class of students who murdered Downie.

[Pg 627]

FRAGMENTS FROM A YOUNG WIFE’S
DIARY.[3]

I have been married seven weeks. * * * I do
not rave in girlish fashion about my perfect
happiness—I do not even say I love my husband.
Such words imply a separate existence—a gift
consciously bestowed on one being from another.
I feel not thus: my husband is to me as my own
soul.

Long, very long, it is since I first knew this.
Gradually, not suddenly, the great mystery of
love overshadowed me, until at last I found out
the truth, that I was my own no more. All the
world’s beauty I saw through his eyes—all the
world’s goodness and greatness came reflected
through his noble heart. In his presence I was
as a child: I forgot myself, my own existence,
hopes, and aims. Every where—at all times and
all places—his power was upon me. He seemed
to absorb and inhale my whole soul into his,
until I became like a cloud melting away in sunshine,
and vanishing from the face of heaven.

All this reads very wild and mad; but, oh!
Laurence—Laurence! none would marvel at it
who had once looked on thee! Not that he is a
perfect Apollo—this worshiped husband of mine:
you may meet a score far handsomer. But who
cares? Not I! All that is grand, all that is
beautiful, all that makes a man look godlike
through the inward shining of his godlike soul—I
see in my Laurence. His eyes, soft, yet
proud—his wavy hair—his hand that I sit and
clasp—his strong arm that I lean on—all compose
an image wherein I see no flaw. Nay, I
could scarce believe in any beauty that bore no
likeness to Laurence.

Thus is my husband—what am I? His wife—and
no more. Every thing in me is only a reflection
of him. Sometimes I even marvel that
he loved me, so unworthy as I seem: yet, when
heaven rained on me the rich blessing of his love,
my thirsty soul drank it in, and I felt that had it
never come, for lack of it I must have died. I
did almost die, for the joy was long in coming.
Though—as I know now—he loved me well and
dearly; yet for some reason or other he would
not tell me so. The vail might never have fallen
from our hearts, save for one blessed chance. I
will relate it. I love to dream over that brief
hour, to which my whole existence can never
show a parallel.

We were walking all together—my sisters,
Laurence Shelmerdine, and I—when there came
on an August thunder-storm. Our danger was
great, for we were in the midst of a wood. My
sisters fled; but I, being weak and ill—alas!
my heart was breaking quietly, though he knew
it not—I had no strength to fly. He was too
kind to forsake me: so we staid in an open
space of the wood, I clinging to his arm, and
thinking—God forgive me!—that if I could only
die then, close to him, encompassed by his gentle
care, it would be so happy—happier far than
my life was then. What he thought, I knew
not. He spoke in hurried, broken words, and
turned his face from me all the while.

It grew dark, like night, and there came flash
after flash, peal after peal. I could not stand—I
leaned against his arm. At last there shone
all around us a frightful glare, as if the whole
wood were in flames—a crash of boughs—a roar
above, as though the heavens were falling—then,
silence.

Death had passed close by us, and smote us
not—and Death was the precursor of Love.

We looked at one another, Laurence and I:
then, with a great cry, our hearts—long-tortured—sprang
together. There never can be such a
meeting, save that of two parted ones, who meet
in heaven. No words were spoken, save a murmur—”Adelaide!”
“Laurence!”—but we knew
that between us two there was but one soul. We
stood there—all the while the storm lasted. He
sheltered me in his arms, and I felt neither the
thunder nor the rain. I feared not life nor death,
for I now knew that in either I should never be
divided from him.

* * * Ours was a brief engagement. Laurence
wished it so; and I disputed not—I never disputed
with him in any thing. Besides, I was
not happy at home—my sisters did not understand
him. They jested with me because he was
grave and reserved—even subject to moody fits
sometimes. They said, “I should have a great
deal to put up with; but it was worth while, for
Mr. Shelmerdine’s grand estate atoned for all.”
My Laurence! as if I had ever thought whether
he were rich or poor! I smiled, too, at my sisters’
jests about his melancholy, and the possibility
of his being “a bandit in disguise.” None
truly knew him—none but I! Yet I was half
afraid of him at times; but that was only from
the intensity of my love. I never asked him of
his for me—how it grew—or why he had so long
concealed it; enough for me that it was there.
Yet it was always calm: he never showed any
passionate emotion, save one night—the night
before our wedding day.

I went with him to the gate myself, walking
in the moonlight under the holly trees. I trembled
a little; but I was happy—very happy. He
held me long in his arms ere he would part with
me—the last brief parting ere we would have no
need to part any more. I said, looking up from
his face unto the stars, “Laurence, in our full
joy, let us thank God, and pray Him to bless
us.”

His heart seemed bursting: he bowed his
proud head, dropped it down upon my shoulder,
and cried, “Nay, rather pray Him to forgive me.
Adelaide, I am not worthy of happiness—I am
not worthy of you.”

He, to talk in this way! and about me! but
I answered him soothingly, so that he might feel
how dear was my love—how entire my trust.

He said, at last, half mournfully, “You are
content to take me then, just as I am; to forgive
my past—to bear with my present—to give[Pg 628]
hope to my future. Will you do this, my love,
my Adelaide?”

I answered, solemnly, “I will.” Then, for
the first time, I dared to lift my arms to his
neck; and as he stooped I kissed his forehead.
It was the seal of this my promise—which may
God give me strength to keep evermore!

We were laughing to-day—Laurence and I—about
first loves. It was scarcely a subject for
mirth; but one of his bachelor friends had been
telling us of a new-married couple, who, in some
comical fashion, mutually made the discovery of
each other’s “first loves.” I said to my husband,
smiling happily, “that he need have no
such fear.” And I repeated, half in sport, the
lines—

So it was with your poor Adelaide.” Touched
by the thought, my gayety melted almost into
tears. But I laughed them off, and added,
“Come, Laurence, confess the same. You
never, never loved any one but me?”

He looked pained, said coldly, “I believe I
have not given cause—” then stopped. How I
trembled; but I went up to him, and whispered,
“Laurence, dearest, forgive me.” He looked at
me a moment, then caught me passionately to
his breast. I wept there a little—my heart was
so full. Yet I could not help again murmuring
that question—”You love me? you do love
me?”

“I love you as I never before loved woman.
I swear this in the sight of heaven. Believe it,
my wife!” was his vehement answer. I hated
myself for having so tried him. My dear, my
noble husband! I was mad to have a moment’s
doubt of thee.

* * * Nearly a year married, and it seems a
brief day: yet it seems, also, like a lifetime—as
if I had never known any other. My Laurence!
daily I grow closer to him—heart to heart. I
understand him better—if possible, I love him
more: not with the wild worship of my girlhood,
but with something dearer—more home-like. I
would not have him an “angel,” if I could. I
know all his little faults and weaknesses quite
well—I do not shut my eyes on any of them;
but I gaze openly at them, and love them down.
There is love enough in my heart to fill up all
chasms—to remove all stumbling-blocks from
our path. Ours is truly a wedded life: not two
jarring lives, but an harmonious and complete
one.

I have taken a long journey, and am somewhat
dreary at being away, even for three days,
from my pleasant home. But Laurence was
obliged to go, and I would not let him go alone;
though, from tender fear, he urged me to stay.
So kind and thoughtful he was too. Because
his engagements here would keep him much
from me, he made me take likewise my sister
Louisa. She is a good girl, and a dear girl;
but I miss Laurence; I did especially in my
walk to-day, through a lovely, wooded country
and a sweet little village. I was thinking of
him all the time; so much so, that I quite started
when I heard one of the village children
shouted after as “Laurence.”

Very foolish it is of me—a loving weakness I
have not yet got over—but I never hear the
name my husband bears without a pleasant
thrill; I never even see it written up in the
street without turning again to look at it. So,
unconsciously, I turned to the little rosy urchin,
whom his grandam honored by the name of
“Laurence.”

A pretty, sturdy boy, of five or six years old—a
child to glad any mother. I wondered had
he a mother! I staid and asked.—I always
notice children now. Oh! wonderful, solemn
mystery sleeping at my heart, my hope—my joy—my
prayer! I think, with tears, how I may
one day watch the gambols of a boy like this;
and how, looking down in his little face, I may
see therein my Laurence’s eyes. For the sake
of this future—which God grant!—I went and
kissed the little fellow who chanced to bear my
husband’s name. I asked the old woman about
the boy’s mother. “Dead! dead five years.”
And his father? A sneer—a muttered curse—bitter
words about “poor folk” and “gentle-folk.”
Alas! alas! I saw it all. Poor, beautiful,
unhappy child!

My heart was so pained, that I could not tell
the little incident to Laurence. Even when my
sister began to talk of it, I asked her to cease.
But I pondered over it the more. I think, if I
am strong enough, I will go and see the poor
little fellow again to-morrow. One might do
some good—who knows?

To-morrow has come—to-morrow has gone.
What a gulf lies between that yesterday and its
to-morrow!

* * * Louisa and I walked to the village—she
very much against her will. “It was wrong
and foolish,” she said; “one should not meddle
with vice.” And she looked prudent and stern.
I tried to speak of the innocent child—of the
poor dead mother; and the shadow of motherhood
over my own soul taught me compassion
towards both. At last, when Louisa was half
angry, I said I would go for I had a secret reason
which she did not know.—Thank heaven
those words were put into my lips.

So, we went. My little beauty of a boy was
not there; and I had the curiosity to approach
the cottage where his grandmother lived. It
stood in a garden, with a high hedge around. I
heard a child’s laugh, and could not forbear
peeping through. There was my little favorite,
held aloft in the arms of a man, who stood half
hidden behind a tree.

“He looks like a gentleman: perhaps it is the
wretch of a father!” whispered Louisa. “Sister,
we ought to come away.” And she walked
forward indignantly.

But I still staid—still looked. Despite my[Pg 629]
horror of the crime, I felt a sort of attraction:
it was some sign of grace in the man that he
should at least acknowledge and show kindness
to his child. And the miserable mother! I, a
happy wife, could have wept to think of her. I
wondered, did he think of her, too? He might;
for, though the boy laughed and chattered, lavishing
on him all those pet diminutives which
children make out of the sweet word “father,”
I did not hear this father answer by a single
word.

Louisa came to hurry me away. “Hush!”
I said: “one moment and I will go.”

The little one had ceased chattering: the
father put it down, and came forth from his
covert.

Heaven it was my husband!

* * * I think I should then have fallen down
dead, save for one thing—I turned and met my
sister’s eyes. They were full of horror—indignation—pity.
She, too, had seen.

Like lightning there flashed across me all the
future: my father’s wrath—the world’s mockery—his
shame.

I said—and I had strength to say it quite
calmly—”Louisa, you have guessed our secret;
but keep it—promise!”

She looked aghast—confounded.

“You see,” I went on, and I actually smiled,
“you see, I know all about it, and so does Laurence.
It is—a friend’s child.”

May heaven forgive me for that lie I told: it
was to save my husband’s honor.

Day after day, week after week, goes by, and
yet I live—live, and living, keep the horrible
secret in my soul. It must remain there buried
forever, now.

It so chanced; that after that hour I did not
see my husband for some weeks: Louisa and I
were hastily summoned home. So I had time
to think what I was to do.

I knew all now—all the mystery of his fits of
gloom—his secret sufferings. It was remorse,
perpetual remorse. No marvel! And for a
moment my stern heart said, “Let it be so.” I,
too, was wronged. Why did he marry me, and
hide all this? O vile! O cruel! Then the
light broke on me: his long struggle against his
love—his terror of winning mine. But he did
love me: half-maddening as I was, I grasped
at that. Whatever blackness was on the past,
he loved me now—he had sworn it—”more
than he ever loved woman.”

I was yet young: I knew little of the wickedness
of the world; but I had heard of that
mad passion of a moment, which may seize on
a heart not wholly vile, and afterward a whole
lifetime of remorse works out the expiation. Six
years ago! he must have been then a mere boy.
If he had thus erred in youth, I, who knew his
nature, knew how awful must have been the repentance
of his manhood. On any humbled sinner
I would have mercy—how much rather must
I have mercy on my husband?

I had mercy. Some, stern in virtue, may condemn
me—but God knoweth all.

He is—I believe it in my soul—he is a good
man now, and striving more and more after good.
I will help him—I will save him. Never shall
he know that secret, which out of pride or bitterness
might drive him back from virtue, or make
him feel shame before me.

I took my resolution—I have fulfilled it. I
have met him again, as a faithful wife should
meet her husband: no word, no look, betrays,
or shall betray, what I know. All our outward
life goes on as before: his tenderness for me is
constant—overflowing. But oh! the agony,
worse than death, of knowing my idol fallen—that
where I once worshiped, I can only pity,
weep, and pray.

He told me yesterday he did not feel like the
same man that he was before his marriage. He
said I was his good angel: that through me he
became calmer, happier every day. It was true:
I read the change in his face. Others read it
too. Even his aged mother told me, with tears,
how much good I had done to Laurence. For
this, thank God!

My husband! my husband! At times I could
almost think this horror was some delirious
dream, cast it all to the winds, and worship him
as of old. I do feel, as I ought, deep tenderness—compassion.
No, no! let me not deceive myself:
I love him; in defiance of all I love him,
and shall do evermore.

Sometimes his olden sufferings come over him,
and then I, knowing the whole truth, feel my
very soul moved within me. If he had only
told me all: if I could now lay my heart open
before him, with all its love and pardon; if he
would let me comfort him, and speak of hope,
of heaven’s mercy—of atonement, even on earth.
But I dare not—I dare not.

Since, from this silence which he has seen fit
to keep, I must not share the struggle, but must
stay afar off—then, like the prophet who knelt on
the rock, supplicating for Israel in the battle, let
my hands fall not, nor my prayer cease, until
heaven sendeth the victory.

Nearer and nearer comes the hour which will
be to me one of a double life, or of death. Sometimes,
remembering all I have lately suffered,
there comes to me a heavy foreboding. What,
if I, so young, to whom, one little year ago, life
seemed an opening paradise—what, if I should
die—die and leave him, and he never know how
deeply I have loved—how much I have forgiven?

Yes; he might know, and bitterly. Should
Louisa tell. But I will prevent that.

In my husband’s absence, I have sat up half
the night writing; that, in case of my death, he
may be made acquainted with the whole truth,
and hear it from me alone. I have poured out
all my sufferings—all my tenderness: I have
implored him, for the love of heaven, for the love
of me, that he would in every way atone for the
past, and lead for the future a righteous life;[Pg 630]
that his sin may be forgiven, and that, after
death, we may meet in joy evermore.

I have been to church with Laurence—for the
last time, as I think. We knelt together, and
took the sacrament. His face was grave, but
peaceful. When we came home, we sat in our
beautiful little rose-garden: he, looking so
content—even happy; so tender over me—so full
of hope for the future. How should this be, if
he had on his soul that awful sin? All seemed
a delusion of my own creating: I doubted even
the evidence of my own senses. I longed to
throw myself on his bosom, and tell him all.
But then, from some inexplicable cause, the
olden cloud came over him; I read in his face,
or thought I read, the torturing remorse which
at once repelled me from him, and yet drew me
again, with a compassion that was almost stronger
than love.

I thought I would try to say, in some passing
way, words that, should I die, might afterward
comfort him, by telling him how his misery had
wrung my heart, and how I did not scorn him,
not even for his sin.

“Laurence,” I said, very softly, “I wish that
you and I had known one another all our lives—from
the time we were little children.”

“Oh! that we had! then I had been a better
and a happier man, my Adelaide!” was his answer.

“We will not talk of that. Please God, we
may live a long and worthy life together; but if
not—”

He looked at me with fear. “What is that
you say? Adelaide, you are not going to die?
you, whom I love, whom I have made happy,
you have no cause to die.”

Oh, agony! he thought of the one who had
cause—to whose shame and misery death was
better than life. Poor wretch! she, too, might
have loved him. Down, wife’s jealousy! down,
woman’s pride! It was long, long ago. She is
dead; and he—Oh! my husband! may God forgive
me according as I pardon you!

I said to him once more, putting my arm round
his neck, leaning so that he could only hear, not
see me. “Laurence, if I should die, remember
how happy we have been, and how dearly we
have loved one another. Think of nothing sad
or painful; think only that, living or dying, I
loved you as I have loved none else in the world.
And so, whatever chances, be content.”

He seemed afraid to speak more, lest I should
be agitated; but as he kissed me, I felt on my
cheek tears—tears that my own eyes, long sealed
by misery, had no power to shed.

* * * I have done all I wished to do. I have
set my house in order. Now, whichever way
God wills the event, I am prepared. Life is not
to me what it once was: yet, for Laurence’s
sake, and for one besides—Ah! now I dimly
guess what that poor mother felt, who, dying,
left her child to the mercy of the bitter world.
But, heaven’s will be done. I shall write here
no more—perhaps forever.

* * * It is all past and gone. I have been a
mother—alas! have been; but I never knew it.
I woke out of a long blank dream—a delirium of
many weeks—to find the blessing had come, and
been taken away. One only giveth—ONE only
taketh. Amen!

For seven days, as they tell me, my babe lay
by my side—its tiny hands touched mine—it
slept at my breast. But I remember nothing—nothing!
I was quite mad all the while. And
then—it died—and I have no little face to dream
of—no memory of the sweetness that has been.
it is all to me as if I had never seen my child.

If I had only had my senses for one day—one
hour: if I could but have seen Laurence when
they gave him his baby boy. Bitterly he grieves,
his mother says, because he has no heir.

* * * My first waking fear was horrible. Had
I betrayed any thing during my delirium? I
think not. Louisa says I lay all the time silent,
dull, and did not even notice my husband, though
he bent over me like one distracted. Poor Laurence!
I see him but little now: they will not
suffer me. It is perhaps well: I could not bear
his grief and my own too: I might not be able
to keep my secret safe.

I went yesterday to look at the tiny mound—all
that is left to me of my dream of motherhood.
Such a happy dream as it was, too!
How it comforted me, many a time: how I used
to sit and think of my darling that was to come:
to picture it lying in my arms—playing at my
feet—growing in beauty—a boy, a youth, a man!
And this—this is all—this little grave.

Perhaps I may never have another child. If
so, all the deep love which nature teaches, and
which nature has even now awakened in my
heart, must find no object, and droop and wither
away, or be changed into repining. No! please
God, that last shall never be: I will not embitter
the blessings I have, by mourning over those
denied.

But I must love something, in the way that I
would have loved my child. I have lost my
babe; some babe may have lost a mother. A
thought comes—I shudder—I tremble—yet I
follow it. I will pause a little, and then—

In Mr. Shelmerdine’s absence, I have accomplished
my plan. I have contrived to visit the
place where lives that hapless child—my husband’s
child.

I do believe my love to Laurence must be
such as never before was borne to man by woman.
It draws me even toward this little one:
forgetting all wife-like pride, I seem to yearn
over the boy. But is this strange? In my first
girlish dreams, many a time I have taken a book
he had touched—a flower he had gathered—hid
it from my sisters, kissed it, and wept over it for
days. It was folly; but it only showed how
precious I held every thing belonging to him.
And should I not hold precious what is half himself—his
own son?

I will go and see the child to-morrow.

[Pg 631]

Weeks have passed, and yet I have had no
strength to tell what that to-morrow brought.
Strange book of human fate! each leaf closed
until the appointed time—if we could but turn
it, and read. Yet it is best not.

I went to the cottage—alone, of course. I
asked the old woman to let me come in and rest,
for I was a stranger, weak and tired. She did
so kindly, remembering, perhaps, how I had
once noticed the boy. He was her grandson
she told me—her daughter’s child.

Her daughter! And this old creature was
a coarse, rough-spoken woman—a laborer’s
wife. Laurence Shelmerdine—the elegant—the
refined—what madness must have possessed
him!

“She died very young, then, your daughter?”
I found courage to say.

“Ay, ay; in a few months after the boy’s
birth. She was but a weakly thing at best, and
she had troubles enow.”

Quickly came the blood to my heart—to my
cheek—in bitter, bitter shame. Not for myself,
but for him. I shrank like a guilty thing before
that mother’s eye. I dared not ask—what I
longed to hear—concerning the poor girl, and
her sad history.

“Is the child like her?” was all I could say,
looking to where the little one was playing, at
the far end of the garden. I was glad not to
see him nearer. “Was his mother as beautiful
as he?”

“Ay, a good-looking lass enough; but the
little lad’s like his father, who was a gentleman
born: though Laurence had better ha’ been a
plowman’s son. A bad business Bess made
of it. To this day I dunnot know her right
name, nor little Laurence’s there; and so I
canna make his father own him. He ought, for
the lad’s growing up as grand a gentleman as
himself: he’ll never do to live with poor folk
like granny.”

“Alas!” I cried, forgetting all but my compassion;
“then how will the child bear his lot
of shame!”

“Shame!” and the old woman came up fiercely
to me. “You’d better mind your own business:
my Bess was as good as you.”

I trembled violently, but could not speak.
The woman went on:

“I dunnot care if I blab it all out, though
Bess begged me not. She was a fool, and the
young fellow something worse. His father
tried—may-be he wished to try, too—but they
couldna undo what had been done. My girl
was safe married to him, and the little lad’s a
gentleman’s lawful son.”

Oh! joy beyond belief! Oh! bursting blessed
tears! My Laurence! my Laurence!

* * * I have no clear recollection of any thing
more, save that I suppose the woman thought
me mad, and fled out of the cottage. My first
consciousness is of finding myself quite alone,
with the door open, and a child looking in at me
in wonderment, but with a gentleness such as I
have seen my husband wear. No marvel I had
loved that childish face: it was such as might
have been his when he was a boy.

I cried, tremulously, “Laurence! little Laurence!”
He came to me, smiling and pleased.
One faint struggle I had—forgive me, poor dead
girl!—and then I took the child in my arms,
and kissed him as though I had been his mother
For thy sake—for thy sake—my husband!

I understood all the past now. The wild,
boyish passion, making an ideal out of a poor village
girl—the unequal union—the dream fading
into common day—coarseness creating repulsion—the
sting of one folly which had marred
a lifetime—dread of the world, self-reproach,
and shame—all these excuses I could find: and
yet Laurence had acted ill. And when the end
came: no wonder that remorse pursued him, for
he had broken a girl’s heart. She might, she
must, have loved him. I wept for her—I, who
so passionately loved him too.

He was wrong, also, grievously wrong, in not
acknowledging the child. Yet there might have
been reasons. His father ruled with an iron
hand; and, then, when he died, Laurence had
just known me. Alas! I weave all coverings
to hide his fault. But surely this strong, faithful
love was implanted in my heart for good. It
shall not fail him now: it shall encompass him
with arms of peace: it shall stand between him
and the bitter past: it shall lead him on to a
worthy and happy future.

There is one thing which he must do: I will
strengthen him to do it. Yet, when I tell him
all, how will he meet it? No matter; I must
do right. I have walked through this cloud of
misery—shall my courage fail me now?

He came home, nor knew that I had been
away. Something oppressed him: his old grief
perhaps. My beloved! I have a balm even for
that, now.

* * * I told him the story, as it were in a
parable, not of myself, but of another—a friend
I had. His color came and went—his hands
trembled in my hold. I hid nothing: I told of
the wife’s first horrible fear—of her misery—and
the red flush mounted to his very brow. I
could have fallen at his feet, and prayed forgiveness;
but I dared not yet. At last I spoke of
the end, still using the feigned names I had
used all along.

He said, hoarsely, “Do you think the wife—a
good and pure woman—would forgive all this?”

“Forgive! Oh! Laurence—Laurence!” and
I clung to him and wept.

A doubt seemed to strike him. “Adelaide—tell
me—”

“I have told. Husband, forgive me! I know
all, and still I love you—I love you!”

I did not say, I pardon. I would not let him
think that I felt I had need to pardon.

Laurence sank down at my feet, hid his face
on my knees, and wept.

* * * The tale of his youth was as I guessed.
He told it me the same night, when we sat in
the twilight gloom. I was glad of this—that[Pg 632]
not even his wife’s eyes might scan too closely
the pang it cost him to reveal these long-past
days. But all the while he spoke my head was
on his breast, that he might feel I held my place
there still, and that no error, no grief, no shame,
could change my love for him, nor make me
doubt his own, which I had won.

My task is accomplished. I rested not, day
or night, until the right was done. Why should
he fear the world’s sneer, when his wife stands
by him—his wife, who most of all might be
thought to shrink from this confession that must
be made? But I have given him comfort—ay,
courage. I have urged him to do his duty,
which is one with mine.

My husband has acknowledged his first marriage,
and taken home his son. His mother,
though shocked and bewildered at first, rejoiced
when she saw the beautiful boy—worthy to be
the heir of the Shelmerdines. All are happy in
the thought. And I—

I go, but always secretly, to the small daisy-mound.
My own lost one! my babe, whose
face I never saw! If I have no child on earth,
I know there is a little angel waiting me in
heaven.

Let no one say I am not happy, as happy as
one can be in this world: never was any woman
more blessed than I am in my husband and my
son—mine. I took him as such: I will fulfill
the pledge while I live.

* * * The other day, our little Laurence did
something wrong. He rarely does so—he is his
father’s own child for gentleness and generosity.
But here he was in error: he quarreled with his
Aunt Louisa, and refused to be friends. Louisa
was not right either: she does not half love the
boy.

I took my son on my lap, and tried to show
him the holiness and beauty of returning good
for evil, of forgetting unkindness, of pardoning
sin. He listened, as he always listens to me.
After a while, when his heart was softened, I
made him kneel down beside me, saying the
prayer—”Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive
them that trespass against us.“

Little Laurence stole away, repentant and
good. I sat thoughtful: I did not notice that
behind me had stood my Laurence—my husband.
He came and knelt where his boy had knelt.
Like a child, he laid his head on my shoulder,
and blessed me, in broken words. The sweetest
of all were:

“My wife! my wife who has saved her husband!”

A SOLDIER’S FIRST BATTLE.

THE CAPTURE OF A REDOUBT.

A military friend of mine, who died of
fever, in Greece, a few years ago, one day
related to me the first affair in which he had
been engaged. His recital made such an impression
upon me that I wrote it down from
memory as soon as I had leisure. Here it is:

“I joined my regiment on the 4th of September,
in the evening. I found my colonel at the
bivouac. He received me at first very bluntly;
but when he had read my letter of recommendation
from General B——, he altered his manner.
and addressed some civil words to me.

“I was presented by him to my captain, who
had that instant returned from reconnoitering
the movements of the enemy. This captain,
though I had scarce time to observe him, was a
tall, sunburnt man, of harsh and repulsive aspect.
He had been a private soldier, and had
gained his epaulets and his cross of the Legion
on the field of battle. His voice, which was
hoarse and weak, contrasted oddly with his almost
gigantic height. They told me afterward
that he owed his strange voice to a ball which
had cut his windpipe across at the battle of Jena.

“On learning that I had come from the military
school of Fontainebleau, he made a grimace,
and said, ‘My lieutenant was killed yesterday’—I
understood what he would have added: ‘It
is you that should take his place, but you are
not fit.’ An angry retort was on my lips, but I
contained myself.

“The moon rose behind the redoubt of Cheverino,
situated about two gun-shots from our
bivouac. It was large and red, as usual at first
rising. But this evening the moon seemed to
me of extraordinary size. For an instant the
redoubt stood out from the dark night against
the broad red disc of the moon. It looked like
the cone of a volcano at the moment of an eruption.

“An old soldier, near whom I stood, remarked
upon the color of the moon—’She is very red,’
said he, ‘it is a sign that it will cost us dear to
take it—this famous redoubt!’ I have always
been superstitious, and this augury, especially
at this moment, affected me considerably.

“I went to rest, but could not sleep. I rose,
and walked about for some time in the dark,
looking at the immense line of watch-fires which
covered the heights about the village of Cheverino.

“When I found the cold, keen night-air had
sufficiently cooled my blood, I went back to the
fire; I wrapped myself carefully in my cloak,
and shut my eyes, hoping not to open them
again before daylight. But sleep fled my eyelids.
My thoughts unconsciously assumed a
gloomy aspect. I reflected that I had not a
single friend among the hundred thousand men
who covered this plain. If I were wounded, I
would be carried to an hospital, and treated
without respect, by perhaps ignorant surgeons.
All that I had heard of surgical operations came
into my mind. My heart beat with violence,
and mechanically I placed, as a kind of cuirass,
the handkerchief and the portfolio which I had
with me, about my breast. Fatigue overwhelmed
me; I grew sleepier each instant; but some unlucky
thought suddenly flashed upon my mind,
and I woke up again with a start.

“But fatigue prevailed, and when the drums
beat to arms, they awoke me from a sound sleep.[Pg 633]
We were put in battle array, and challenged the
enemy, then we piled arms, and all said we were
going to have a quiet day.

“About three o’clock, an aid-de-camp galloped
up, bringing an order. We stood to our arms
again; our sharpshooters spread themselves over
the plain; we followed them slowly, and in
about twenty minutes we saw the advanced
posts of the Russians turning back and entering
within the redoubt.

“A battery of artillery had established itself
on our right, another on our left, but both were
well in advance of us. They began a brisk fire
upon the enemy, who replied vigorously, and
the redoubt of Cheverino was very soon hid
under a thick cloud of smoke.

“Our regiment was almost secure against the
fire of the Russians by a rising-ground in our
front. Their bullets—a rare thing for us—(for
their gunners fired more accurately than ours)
went over our heads, or at most covered us with
earth and little stones.

“As soon as the order to advance had been
given us, my captain eyed me with a look which
obliged me, two or three times, to pass my hand
over my young mustache with as unconcerned
an air as I could. Indeed, I was not frightened,
and the only fear I had was, lest any one about
me should imagine I was afraid. These inoffensive
bullets of the Russians still continued
to preserve my heroic calmness. My self-esteem
whispered to me that I ran a real danger, and
that I was under the fire of a battery. I was
delighted at feeling myself so much at my ease,
and I thought of the pleasure with which I
should relate the capture of the redoubt of Cheverino,
in the salon of Madame de B——, in the
Rue de Provence.

“The colonel passed before our company; he
said to me, ‘Well, sir! you are soon going to
make your début.’

“I smiled, with a martial air, brushing at the
same time the sleeve of my coat, upon which a
bullet, that had fallen about thirty paces from
me, had sent a little dust.

“It seemed that the Russians had perceived
the bad success of their firing, for they replaced
their cannon with howitzers, which could better
reach us in the hollow where we were posted.
Suddenly a stunning blow knocked off my shako,
and a ball killed the man behind me.

“‘I congratulate you,’ said the captain to me,
as I put on my shako again, ‘you are safe for
the day.’ I knew of the military superstition,
which holds that the axiom non bis in idem has
its application on the field of battle as well as in
the court of justice. I put on my shako somewhat
haughtily. ‘This causes one to salute
without ceremony,’ said I, as gayly as I could.
This wretched pleasantry, under the circumstances,
seemed excellent. ‘I wish you joy,’
replied the captain, ‘you will not be hit again,
and you will command a company this night;
for I feel sure that the furnace is heated for me.
Every time that I have been wounded, the officer
behind me has received some mortal ball, and,’
he added, in a low tone, and as if ashamed of
what he was about to say, ‘their names always
began with a P.’

“I felt stout-hearted now; many people would
have done as I did; many would, like myself,
have been struck with these prophetic words.
Conscript as I was, I felt that I could confide
my sentiments to no one, and that I ought only
to appear coolly intrepid.

“At the lapse of about half an hour the fire
of the Russians sensibly diminished; and then
we sallied from our cover, to march upon the
redoubt.

“Our regiment was composed of three battalions.
The second was ordered to turn the redoubt
on the side of the defile; the two others
were ordered to make the assault. I belonged
to the third battalion.

“In moving out from behind the shoulder of
the rising ground which had hitherto protected
us, we were met by volleys of musketry, which,
however, did little execution among our ranks.
The whistling of the bullets surprised me; I
frequently turned my head, and thus excited
considerable pleasantry among those of my comrades
who were more familiar than myself with
this kind of music. Taking all things, said I to
myself, a battle is not so terrible a thing after
all.

“We advanced at a running pace, preceded
by the skirmishers. All at once the Russians
set up three hurras—three distinct hurras; then
they remained silent, and entirely ceased firing.
‘I don’t like this quiet,’ said my captain, ‘it
bodes us no good.’ I found our people becoming
rather blustering, and I could not help at the
moment contrasting their noisy exclamations
with the imposing silence of the enemy.

“We soon reached the foot of the redoubt,
the palisades of which had been broken and the
earth scattered by our cannon-balls. The soldiers
rushed over the ruins, with cries of Vive
l’Empereur! louder than one could have expected
of men who had already been shouting so
much.

“I raised my eyes, and never shall I forget
the scene which I saw before me. The greater
part of the smoke had risen, and hung, suspended
like a canopy, twenty feet above the redoubt.
Beyond a bluish vapor, we could see
behind their half-destroyed parapet the Russian
grenadiers, with muskets raised, immovable as
statues. I think I still see each soldier, his left
eye fixed on us, his right hidden behind his musket.
In an embrasure, some feet from us, a man,
holding a match, stood beside a cannon.

“I shuddered, and I thought that my last hour
was come. ‘Now the dance is about to begin!’
said my captain. ‘Good-night!’ These were
the last words I heard him speak.

“A roll of drums resounded through the redoubt.
I saw them lower their muskets. I shut
my eyes, and then I heard a terrific discharge,
followed by cries and groans. I opened my
eyes again, surprised to find myself still unharmed.
The redoubt was again enveloped in[Pg 634]
smoke. I was surrounded by dead and wounded.
My captain lay stretched at my feet. His head
was pounded by a bullet, and I was spattered
with his blood and his brains. Of all my company,
there remained alive only six men besides
myself.

“A moment of stupor succeeded to this carnage.
The colonel, putting his hat on the point
of his sword, clambered up the parapet the first,
crying Vive l’Empereur! and he was soon followed
by the survivors. I have no distinct
recollection of what occurred. We entered the
redoubt, I don’t know how. We fought, man
to man, amid a smoke so thick that we could
scarcely see each other. I must have struck
like the rest, for I found my sabre all bloody.
At last I heard the cry of ‘Victory!’ and, the
smoke diminishing, I saw that blood and dead
bodies almost covered the ground of the redoubt.
The cannons were almost buried under the heaps
of corpses. About two hundred men standing,
in French uniforms, were grouped without order,
some charging their pieces, others wiping their
bayonets. Eleven Russian prisoners stood by
them.

“The colonel lay stretched, all bloody, upon
a broken wagon, near the defile. Some soldiers
pressed round him. I approached. ‘Who is
the senior captain?’ he asked of a sergeant.
The sergeant shrugged his shoulders in a most
expressive manner. ‘And the senior lieutenant?’
‘This officer who arrived to-day!’ said
the sergeant, calmly. The colonel smiled sadly.
‘Come, sir,’ said he to me, ‘you command in
chief. You must at once fortify the redoubt,
and barricade the defile with wagons, for the
enemy is in force; but General C—— will support
you.’ ‘Colonel,’ said I to him, ‘you are
seriously wounded.’ ‘F——, my dear fellow,
but the redoubt is taken.'”

MEMORY AND ITS CAPRICES.

There is no faculty so inexplicable as memory.
It is not merely that its powers vary
so much in different individuals, but that every
one has found their own liable to the most unaccountable
changes and chances. Why vivid
impressions should appear to become utterly
obliterated, and then suddenly spring to light, as
if by the wand of a magician, without the slightest
effort of our own, is a mystery which no
metaphysician has ever been able to explain.
We all have experience of this, when we have
striven in vain to recollect a name, a quotation,
or a tune, and find it present itself unbidden, it
may be, at a considerable interval of time, when
the thoughts are engaged on another subject.
We all know the uneasy feeling with which we
search for the missing article, and the relief
when it suddenly flashes across the mind, and
when, as if traced by invisible ink, it comes out
unexpectedly, bright and clear.

It is most happily ordered, that pleasing sensations
are recalled with far greater vividness
than those of a distressing nature. A charming
scene which we loved to contemplate, a perfume
which we have inhaled, an air to which we have
listened, can all be reverted to with a degree of
pleasure not far short of that which we experienced
in the actual enjoyment; but bodily pain,
which, during its continuance, occasions sensations
more absorbing than any thing else, can
not be recalled with the same vividness. It is
remembered in a general way as a great evil,
but we do not recall the suffering so as to communicate
the sensation of the reality. In fact,
we remember the pain, but we recollect the
pleasure—for the difference between remembrance
and recollection is distinct. We may
remember a friend, whose person we have forgotten,
but we can not have forgotten the appearance
of one whom we recollect. Surely a
benevolent Providence can be traced in the provision
which enables us to enjoy the sensations
again which gave pleasure, but which does not
oblige us to feel those which gave pain. The
memory of the aged, which is so impaired by
years, is generally clear as to the most pleasurable
period of existence, and faint and uncertain
as to that which has brought the infirmities and
“ills which flesh is heir to;” and the recollection
of schoolboy days, with what keen delight
are all their merry pranks and innocent pleasures
recalled, while the drudgery of learning and the
discipline of rules, once considered so irksome,
fill but a faint outline in the retrospective picture;
the impressions of joy and gayety rest on
the mind, while those which are felt in the first
moments of some great calamity are so blunted
by its stunning effect, that they can not be accurately
recalled. Indeed, it frequently happens
that the memory loses every trace of a sudden
misfortune, while it retains all the events which
have preceded it.

Of such paramount importance is a retentive
memory considered, that the improvement of the
faculty by constant exercise is the first object in
education, and artificial aids for its advantage
have been invented. So essential did the ancients
regard its vigor for any work of imagination,
that “they described the muses as the
daughters of memory.” Though a retentive memory
may be found where there is no genius, yet
genius, though sometimes, is rarely deficient in
this most valuable gift. There are so many examples
of its great power in men of transcendent
abilities, that every one can name a host. Some
of these examples would appear incredible, had
they not been given on unquestionable authority.
Themistocles, we are told, could call by their
names every citizen of Athens, though they
amounted to twenty thousand. Cyrus knew the
name of every soldier in his army. Hortentius,
after attending a public sale for the day, gave an
account in the evening of every article which had
been sold, the prices, and the names of the purchasers.
On comparing it with that taken at
the sale by the notary, it was found to agree as
exactly with it as if it had been a copy. “Memory
Corner Thompson,” so called from the extraordinary
power which he possessed, drew,
in the space of twenty-two hours, a correct[Pg 635]
plan of the parish of St. James’s, Westminster,
with parts of the parishes of St. Marylebone, St.
Ann, and St. Martin. In this were included all
the squares, streets, courts, lanes, alleys, markets,
and all other entries; every church, chapel, and
public building; all stables and yards; all the
public-houses and corners of streets, with every
pump, post, tree, house, bow-window; all the minutiæ
about St. James’s Palace; this he did in the
presence of two gentlemen, without any plan or
notes of reference, but solely from his memory.
He afterward completed the plans of other parishes.
A house being named in any public street,
he could tell the trade of the shop, either on the
right or left hand. He could from memory furnish
an inventory of every thing contained in
any house where he was intimate, from the garret
to the cellar.

The extraordinary powers of calculation entirely
from memory are very surprising. The
mathematician Wallis, in bed, and in the dark,
extracted the cube root from a number consisting
of thirty figures. George III. had a memory
remarkably retentive. He is said never to
have forgotten the face he had once seen, or the
name once heard. Carolan’s memory was remarkably
quick and retentive. On one occasion,
he met a celebrated musician at the house of an
Irish nobleman. He challenged him to a trial
of musical skill. The musician played the fifth
Concerto of Vivaldi on his violin, to which Carolan,
who had never heard it, listened with
deep attention. When it was finished, he took
his harp, and played the Concerto from beginning
to end, without missing a single note. An
instance of great memory is related of La Motte,
who was invited by Voltaire, then a young man,
to hear a tragedy which he had just finished.
La Motte listened with great attention, and was
delighted with it. However, he said he had one
fault to find with it. On being urged by Voltaire
to say what that was, he replied, that he
regretted that any part of it should have been
borrowed. Voltaire, chagrined and incredulous,
requested that he would point this out. He
named the second scene of the fourth act, saying,
that, when he had met with it, it had struck
him so much, that he took the trouble of transmitting
it to memory. He then recited the scene,
just as Voltaire had read it, with the animation
which showed how much it pleased him. Voltaire,
utterly confounded, remained silent; the
friends who were present looked at each other
in amazement; a few moments of embarrassment
and dismay ensued. La Motte at length
broke the silence: “Make yourself easy, sir,”
said he, “the scene belongs to no one but you. I
was so charmed by its beauty that I could not
resist the temptation of committing it to memory.”

It is not uncommon to find the memory retentive
on some subjects, yet extremely defective
on others. The remarkable powers of some
are limited to dates and names. A lady with
whom we were acquainted could tell the number
of stairs contained in each flight in the houses
of all her acquaintance, but her memory was
not particularly retentive in any thing else. In
the notice of the death of Miss Addison, daughter
of the celebrated Addison, which took place
in 1797, it is stated, that “she inherited her
father’s memory, but none of the discriminating
powers of his understanding; with the retentive
faculties of Jedediah Buxton, she was a perfect
imbecile. She could go on in any part of her
father’s works, and repeat the whole, but was
incapable of speaking or writing an intelligible
sentence.” Cases of occasional forgetfulness
on matters of interest to the mind are among
the strange caprices of memory. When Dr.
Priestley was preparing the dissertations prefixed
to his “Harmony of the Gospels,” he had
taken great pains to inform himself on a subject
which had been under discussion, relative to the
Jewish passover. He transcribed the result of
his researches, and laid the paper aside. His
attention being called to something else, a fortnight
elapsed before the subject again occurred
to his mind. The same pains were taken which
he had bestowed on it before. The fruits of his
labor were again written out. So completely
had he forgotten that he had before copied out
exactly the same paragraphs and reflections, that
it was only when he found the papers on which
he had transcribed them that it was recalled to
his recollection. At times he has read his own
published writings without recognizing them.

John Hunter’s memory once failed him. When
he was in the house of a friend, he totally forgot
where he was, in whose house, in what
room, or in what street, or where he lived himself.
He was conscious of this failure, and tried
to restore his recollection by looking out of the
window to ascertain where he was, but to no
purpose. After some time, recollection gradually
returned. It is well known that a young
man of great ability, and for whom his friends
looked for the most brilliant success, totally forgot
what he had been about to say, when making
his first, and, as it proved, his only parliamentary
speech. He tried to resume the thread of
his argument, but all was a cheerless blank—he
came to a dead stop; and thus his parliamentary
career ended: he never attempted to
address the house again. An actor, who was
performing in a play which had a great run, all
at once forgot a speech which he had to make.
“How,” said he, when he got behind the scenes,
and offered, as he thought, a very sufficient excuse,
“how could it be expected that I should
remember it forever. Haven’t I repeated it
every night for the last thirty nights!”

We are told in the “Psychological Magazine,”
that many cases have occurred in which persons
have forgotten their own names. On one occasion,
a gentleman had to turn to his companion,
when about to leave his name at a door where
they called to visit, to ask him what it was, so
completely and suddenly had he forgotten it.
After severe attacks of illness and great hardship,
loss of memory is not infrequent. Some
who recovered from the plague at Athens, as[Pg 636]
Thucydides relates, had lost their memories so
entirely that no friend, no relation, nothing connected
with their personal identity, was remembered.
It is said, that, among those who had
escaped with life the disasters of the memorable
campaign in Russia, and the disease which was
so fatal to the troops at Wilna, there were some
who had utterly lost their memory—who preserved
not the faintest recollection of country,
home, or friends. The fond associations of
other days had left nothing but a dreary blank.

As the body has been made the vehicle for the
exercise of the faculties of the mind, and as they
are united in some mysterious manner, we find
injuries to the one often hurtful, and sometimes
fatal to the other. Mental shocks frequently
impede, or in some cases utterly put an end to
that exercise which the union of body and mind
produces. The memory is often disturbed or
upset by some injury to the brain. A fall, a
sudden blow, or disease, may obliterate all recollection.
We have heard of those who have suffered
from such who have forgotten every friend
and relation, and never knew the face of one
belonging to them again. But the effects are
sometimes very strange and partial, and totally
beyond our comprehension. The functions of
the memory, in some cases, are suspended for a
time, but, on recovery, take up at the very point
where they were deprived of their power. Dr.
Abercrombie was acquainted with a lady who
had an apoplectic seizure while at cards. From
Thursday evening till Sunday morning she was
quite unconscious. At length she spoke, and the
first words she uttered were, “What is trump?”
Beattie mentions a gentleman who had a similar
attack, in the year 1761, from which he recovered,
but all recollection of the four years previous to
the attack was gone, while all that had happened
in the preceding years was accurately recollected.
He had to refer to the public journals of the forgotten
years, in which he had taken great interest
at the time, for information about the passing
events of those years, and read the details
with great satisfaction and surprise. By a fall
from his horse, a gentleman, who was an admirable
scholar, received a severe hurt on the
head. He recovered, but his learning was gone,
and he had actually to commence his education
again by the very first step, the learning of the
alphabet. A less unfortunate scholar, meeting
with a similar accident, lost none of his acquirements
but his Greek; but it was irrevocably lost.
A strange caprice of memory is recorded in the
case of Dr. Broussannet. An accident which
befell him brought on an attack of apoplexy.
When he recovered, he had utterly lost the
power of pronouncing or writing proper names,
or any substantive, while his memory supplied
adjectives in profusion, by the application of
which he distinguished whatever he wished to
mention. In speaking of any one, he would
designate him by calling him after the shape or
color for which he was remarkable. If his hair
was red, he called him “red;” if above the usual
height, he named him “tall;” if he wanted his
hat, he asked for his “black;” if his “blue” or
“brown” was required, it was a coat of the color
that he called for. The same mode of mentioning
plants was that which he made use of. As
he was a good botanist, he was well acquainted
with a vast number, but he could never call them
by their names.

Mr. Millingen quotes from Salmuth an account
of a man who could pronounce words,
though he had forgotten how to write them;
and of another, who could only recollect the first
syllable of the words he used. Some have confused
substantives altogether, calling their watch
a hat, and ordering up paper when they wanted
coals; others have transposed the letters of the
words which they intended to use. A musician,
laboring under the partial loss of memory, was
known to call his flute a tufle, thus employing
every letter in the right word. Curious anagrams,
it is stated, have been made in this way,
and innumerable names for persons and things
invented. An extraordinary case of periodic recollection
had occurred in an old man, who had
forgotten all the events of his former life, unless
they were recalled to his memory by some occurrence;
yet every night he regularly recollected
some one particular circumstance of his early
days. There are, indeed, very extraordinary
cases of a sudden rush of recollections. A gentleman
with whom we are acquainted, mentioned
that at one time he was in imminent danger of
being drowned, and that in the brief space of
some moments all the events of his life were
vividly recalled. There have been similar instances;
indeed, were we to transcribe one-third
of the remarkable cases of the caprice
of memory, we should far exceed our limits.
Some very wonderful details are given of those
which have been known to occur in the somnambulist
state. Dr. Dyce of Aberdeen describes
the case of a girl who was subject to
such attacks. During these, she would converse
with the bystanders, answering their questions.
Once she went through the whole of the baptismal
service of the Church of England. On
awakening, she had no recollection of what
had occurred in her state of somnambulism,
but, on falling into it again, she would talk
over all that had passed and been said while it
continued. During one of these paroxysms, she
was taken to church, where she appeared to attend
to the service with great devotion. She
was much affected by the sermon, and shed
tears at one passage. When restored to the
waking state, she had not the faintest recollection
whatever of the circumstance; but,
in the following paroxysm, her recollection of
the whole matter was most accurate; her account
of it was as vivid as possible. Not only
did she describe every thing, but she gave the
subject of the sermon, repeating verbatim the
passage at which she had wept. Thus she appeared
endowed with two memories—one for
the walking state, and the other for that mysterious
sleep.

There are some very affecting cases of the[Pg 637]
partial loss of memory from sudden misfortune
and from untoward accidents. The day was
fixed for the marriage of a young clergyman
and one to whom he was most tenderly attached.
Two days before the appointed time, he went out
with a young friend, who was going to shoot.
The gun went off accidentally. He instantly
fell, and it was found that part of the charge had
lodged in his forehead. For some days his life
was despaired of; but at the end of that time
he was pronounced out of danger. The happiness,
however, which had hung on his existence
was forever gone. She who had watched by
him night and day had a trial more bitter than
his death: he was deranged; his memory retained
nothing but the idea of his approaching
marriage. Every recollection, every thought was
absorbed in that one idea. His whole conversation
related to the preparations. He never would
speak on any other subject. It was always
within two days of the happy time. Thus years
and years went over. Youth passed, and still
two days more would wed him to her who was
fondly loved as ever. And thus he reached his
eightieth year, and sunk into the grave.

It has sometimes happened that the recollection
of a sudden calamity has been lost in the
very shock which it has produced. A curate of
St. Sulpice, never weary of doing good, practiced
the most rigid self-denial, that he might
have the means of serving others. He adopted
an English orphan boy, who repaid his kindness
with a fond affection, which increased every
year—in short, they loved like a father and a son.
The poor boy was an apt scholar, and his protector
took special delight in teaching him. But
his predominant taste was for music, for which
he evinced the enthusiasm that ever marks
genius. His taste was cultivated, for many of
those whom the curate instructed were the sons
of artists, and were themselves well skilled in
the delightful art, and he got them to give lessons
to his protégé. He soon excelled upon the
harp, and his voice, though not powerful, was
capable of all those touching modulations which
find their way to the heart. Accompanied by the
chords, which he so well knew how to waken,
more enchanting melody could scarcely be heard;
and the poor curate found no more delightful relaxation
than listening to his music; and the
kind old man felt pride as well as delight in the
progress of his son, as he always called the young
musician. But peace and harmony was sadly interrupted.
The attachment of the curate to the
Archbishop of Arles was the cause of his being
thrown into confinement with him in the convent
of the Carmelites. His poor son pined to share
the prison of one so much beloved—the one in
whom all his feelings of affection and gratitude
centred. At length his entreaties succeeded,
and the pupil and his preceptor were together
again. But even this melancholy companionship
was to be rent asunder. The convent was
attacked. The particulars of the massacre of
the 2d of September, 1792, are too well known
to need repetition. Some sought concealment
among the branches of the trees into which they
had climbed; but pikes and bullets soon reached
them. The archbishop, attended by thirty of the
clergy, went with steady steps up to the altar in
the chapel at the end of the garden. It was there
that these martyrs were sacrificed, as it has been
beautifully told by Mr. Alison, with eyes raised
to the image of their crucified Redeemer, and
offering a prayer for their cruel assassins. Poor
Capdeville, the good curate, it is said, recited at
this awful moment the prayers of persons in the
last agonies. The youth flew about the house
in a state of bewildered distraction, seeking for
his benefactor; at one moment bursting into an
agony of tears, and then uttering the wildest lamentations;
then, brushing away his tears, he
would listen for some sound which might direct
him to the spot where he might find his father.
Some of the neighbors, who had been led by
compassion to the melancholy scene, tried to induce
the boy to escape, but he pursued his way
wildly, till he found his benefactor. Nothing
could persuade him to leave him. He appeared
riveted to the spot, and refused to quit
his side. But soon after the murder of the archbishop,
the death-blow was aimed at Capdeville.
He cast a last look, full of compassion and tenderness,
on the beloved boy, and expired. Even
as he lay, with his head resting on the step of
the altar, it seemed as if he still observed his favorite
with looks of kindness. The poor child’s
mind was quite upset. He would not believe
him dead. He insisted that he slept. He forgot
the scene of carnage by which he was surrounded.
He sat by the bleeding corpse for
three hours, expecting every moment that he
would awaken. He rushed for his harp, and,
returning to his patron’s side, he played those
plaintive airs in which he had taken especial delight.
At length, worn out by watching for the
moment of his awaking, he fell into a profound
sleep, and the compassionate people about him
bore him away and laid him on a bed. The
sleep, or, more properly speaking, the stupor,
continued for forty-eight hours. It was thought
that when consciousness returned he might be
somewhat composed; but his senses were never
restored. As his affliction met with great commiseration,
and as he was perfectly harmless,
he was allowed the free range of the house. He
would remain, as it were, in abstracted thought,
pacing silently along the apartments, till the
clock struck three; then he would bound away
and fetch his harp, and, leaning against the fragments
of the altar, he would play the tunes his
preceptor had loved to hear. There was a
touching expression of anxious hope in his countenance,
but, when hours passed on, it was gradually
succeeded by utter sadness. It was observed
that at the hour of six he ceased to play,
and slowly moving, he would say, “Not yet,
not yet; but he will soon speak to his child;”
and then he would throw himself on his knees,
and appear for a while rapt in devotion, and,
heaving a sigh as he rose, he would glide softly
about, as if fearing to disturb his friend, whom[Pg 638]
he thought was sleeping; and then he would
again fall into a state of abstraction till the next
day. How it happened that there was such
regularity in the time of his commencing and
ceasing to play, has not been suggested. It may
have been that the exact time of his last interview
with his friend was impressed upon his
mind, or it may have been, which seems to us
most likely, that these were the hours in which
the poor curate was in the habit of seeking the
relaxation of music to soothe and elevate his
spirit after the labors of the day. Every one
pitied the poor demented boy, and could not see
unmoved how he clung to affection and to hope,
though bereft of reason and of recollection.

BLEAK HOUSE.[4]

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

CHAPTER XX.—A New Lodger.

The long vacation saunters on toward term-time,
like an idle river very leisurely strolling
down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppy saunters
along with it congenially. He has blunted
the blade of his penknife, and broken the point
off, by sticking that instrument into his desk in
every direction. Not that he bears the desk any
ill-will, but he must do something; and it must
be something of an unexciting nature, which will
lay neither his physical nor his intellectual energies
under too heavy contribution. He finds that
nothing agrees with him so well, as to make little
gyrations on one leg of his stool, and stab his
desk, and gape.

Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the
articled clerk has taken out a shooting license and
gone down to his father’s, and Mr. Guppy’s two
fellow stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr.
Guppy, and Mr. Richard Carstone divide the dignity
of the office. But Mr. Carstone is for the
time being established in Kenge’s room, whereat
Mr. Guppy chafes. So exceedingly, that he with
biting sarcasm informs his mother, in the confidential
moments when he sups with her off a lobster
and lettuce, in the Old Street Road, that he
is afraid the office is hardly good enough for swells,
and that if he had known there was a swell coming,
he would have got it painted.

Mr. Guppy suspects every body who enters on
the occupation of a stool in Kenge and Carboy’s
office, of entertaining, as a matter of course, sinister
designs upon him. He is clear that every
such person wants to depose him. If he be ever
asked how, why, when, or wherefore, he shuts up
one eye and shakes his head. On the strength
of these profound views, he in the most ingenious
manner takes infinite pains to counterplot, when
there is no plot; and plays the deepest games of
chess without any adversary.

It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy,
therefore, to find the new comer constantly
poring over the papers in Jarndyce and Jarndyce;
for he well knows that nothing but confusion and
failure can come of that. His satisfaction communicates
itself to a third saunterer through the
long vacation in Kenge and Carboy’s office; to
wit, Young Smallweed.

Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically
called Small and eke Chick Weed, as it were
jocularly to express a fledgling), was ever a boy,
is much doubted in Lincoln’s Inn. He is now
something under fifteen, and an old limb of the
law. He is facetiously understood to entertain a
passion for a lady at a cigar shop, in the neighborhood
of Chancery Lane; and for her sake to
have broken off a contract with another lady, to
whom he had been engaged some years. He is
a town-made article, of small stature and weazen
features; but may be perceived from a considerable
distance by means of his very tall hat. To
become a Guppy is the object of his ambition.
He dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is
patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds
himself entirely on him. He is honored with Mr.
Guppy’s particular confidence; and occasionally
advises him, from the deep wells of his experience,
on difficult points in private life.

Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all
the morning, after trying all the stools in succession,
and finding none of them easy, and after
several times putting his head into the iron safe
with a notion of cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has
been twice dispatched for effervescent drinks, and
has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers
and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr.
Guppy propounds, for Mr. Smallweed’s consideration,
the paradox that the more you drink the
thirstier you are; and reclines his head upon the
window-sill in a state of hopeless languor.

While thus looking out into the shade of Old
Square, Lincoln’s Inn, surveying the intolerable
bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomes conscious
of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered
walk below, and turning itself up in the direction
of his face. At the same time, a low whistle is
wafted through the Inn, and a suppressed voice
cries, “Hip! Guppy!”

“Why, you don’t mean it?” says Mr. Guppy,
aroused. “Small! Here’s Jobling!” Small’s
head looks out of window too, and nods to Jobling.

“Where have you sprung up from?” inquires
Mr. Guppy.

“From the Market Gardens down by Deptford.
I can’t stand it any longer. I must enlist. I
say! I wish you’d lend me half-a-crown. Upon
my soul I’m hungry.”

Jobling looks hungry, and also has the appearance
of having run to seed in the Market Gardens
down by Deptford.

“I say! Just throw out half-a-crown, if you
have got one to spare. I want to get some dinner.”

“Will you come and dine with me?” says Mr.
Guppy, throwing out the coin, which Mr. Jobling
catches neatly.

“How long should I have to hold out?” says
Jobling.

“Not half an hour. I am only waiting here,[Pg 639]
till the enemy goes,” returns Mr. Guppy, butting
inward with his head.

“What enemy?”

“A new one. Going to be articled. Will you
wait?”

“Can you give a fellow any thing to read in
the mean time?” says Mr. Jobling.

Smallweed suggests the Law List. But Mr.
Jobling declares, with much earnestness, that he
“can’t stand it.”

“You shall have the paper,” says Mr. Guppy.
“He shall bring it down. But you had better
not be seen about here. Sit on our staircase and
read. It’s a quiet place.”

Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence.
The sagacious Smallweed supplies him with the
newspaper; and occasionally drops his eye upon
him from the landing as a precaution against his
becoming disgusted with waiting, and making
an untimely departure. At last the enemy retreats,
and then Smallweed fetches Mr. Jobling
up.

“Well, and how are you?” says Mr. Guppy,
shaking hands with him.

“So, so. How are you?”

Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to
boast of, Mr. Jobling ventures on the question,
“How is she?” This Mr. Guppy resents as a
liberty; retorting, “Jobling, there are chords in
the human mind—” Jobling begs pardon.

“Any subject but that!” says Mr. Guppy,
with a gloomy enjoyment of his injury. “For
there are chords, Jobling—”

Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.

During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed,
who is of the dinner party, has written in
legal characters on a slip of paper, “Return immediately.”
This notification to all whom it
may concern, he inserts in the letter-box; and
then putting on the tall hat, at the angle of inclination
at which Mr. Guppy wears his, informs
his patron that they may now make themselves
scarce.

Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighboring
dining-house, of the class known among
its frequenters by the denomination Slap-Bang,
where the waitress, a bouncing young female of
forty, is supposed to have made some impression
on the susceptible Smallweed; of whom it may
be remarked that he is a weird changeling, to
whom years are nothing. He stands precociously
possessed of centuries of owlish wisdom. If he
ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he must have
lain there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye,
has Smallweed; and he drinks, and smokes, in a
monkeyish way; and his neck is stiff in his
collar; and he is never to be taken in; and he
knows all about it, whatever it is. In short, in
his bringing up, he has been so nursed by Law
and Equity that he has become a kind of fossil
Imp, to account for whose terrestrial existence it
is reported at the public offices that his father
was John Doe, and his mother the only female
member of the Roe family; also that his first
long-clothes were made from a blue bag.

Into the Dining House, unaffected by the
seductive show in the window, of artificially
whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant baskets
of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints
ready for the spit, Mr. Smallweed leads the way.
They know him there, and defer to him. He has
his favorite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is
down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more
than ten minutes afterward. It is of no use trying
him with any thing less than a full-sized
“bread,” or proposing to him any joint in cut,
unless it is in the very best cut. In the matter
of gravy he is adamant.

Conscious of his elfin power, and submitting to
his dread experience, Mr. Guppy consults him in
the choice of that day’s banquet; turning an
appealing look toward him as the waitress repeats
the catalogue of viands, and saying “What do
you take, Chick?” Chick, out of the profundity
of his artfulness, preferring “veal and ham and
French beans—And don’t you forget the stuffing,
Polly,” (with an unearthly cock of his venerable
eye); Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling give the like
order. Three pint pots of half-and-half are
super-added. Quickly the waitress returns, bearing
what is apparently a model of the tower of Babel,
but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin
dish-covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving of what
is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity
into his ancient eye, and winks upon her. Then,
amid a constant coming in, and going out, and
running about, and a clatter of crockery, and a
rumbling up and down of the machine which
brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill
crying for more nice cuts down the speaking-pipe,
and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that
have been disposed of, and a general flush and
steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably
heated atmosphere in which the soiled
knives and table-cloths seem to break out spontaneously
into eruptions of grease and blotches
of beer, the legal triumvirate appease their
appetites.

Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere
adornment might require. His hat presents at
the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening
nature, as if it had been a favorite snail-promenade.
The same phenomenon is visible on some
parts of his coat, and particularly at the seams.
He has the faded appearance of a gentleman in
embarrassed circumstances; even his light whiskers
droop with something of a shabby air.

His appetite is so vigorous, that it suggests
spare living for some little time back. He makes
such a speedy end of his plate of veal and ham,
bringing it to a close while his companions are
yet midway in theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes
another. “Thank you, Guppy,” says Mr. Jobling,
“I really don’t know but what I will take
another.”

Another being brought, he falls to with great
good-will.

Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals,
until he is half way through this second
plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at his[Pg 640]
pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed), and
stretches out his legs and rubs his hands. Beholding
him in which glow of contentment, Mr.
Guppy says:

“You are a man again, Tony!”

MR. GUPPY’S ENTERTAINMENT.

“Well, not quite, yet,” says Mr. Jobling.
“Say, just born.”

“Will you take any other vegetables? Grass?
Peas? Summer cabbage?”

“Thank you, Guppy,” says Mr. Jobling. “I
really don’t know but what I will take summer
cabbage.”

Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from
Mr. Smallweed) of “Without slugs, Polly!”
And cabbage produced.

“I am growing up, Guppy,” says Mr. Jobling,
plying his knife and fork with a relishing steadiness.

“Glad to hear it.”

“In fact, I have just turned into my teens,”
says Mr. Jobling.

He says no more until he has performed his
task, which he achieves as Messrs. Guppy and
Smallweed finish theirs; thus getting over the
ground in excellent style, and beating those two
gentlemen easily by a veal and ham and a
cabbage.

“Now, Small,” says Mr. Guppy, “what would
you recommend about pastry?”

“Marrow puddings,” says Mr. Smallweed instantly.

“Ay, ay!” cries Mr. Jobling, with an arch
look. “You’re there, are you? Thank you,
Guppy, I don’t know but what I will take a
marrow pudding.”

Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr.
Jobling adds, in a pleasant humor, that he is
coming of age fast. To these succeed, by command
of Mr. Smallweed, “three Cheshires;” and
to those, “three small rums.” This apex of the
entertainment happily reached, Mr. Jobling puts
up his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own
side of the box to himself), leans against the
wall, and says, “I am grown up, now, Guppy.
I have arrived at maturity.”

“What do you think, now,” says Mr. Guppy,
“about—you don’t mind Smallweed?”

“Not the least in the world. I have the
pleasure of drinking his good health.”

“Sir, to you!” says Mr. Smallweed.

[Pg 641]

“I was saying, what do you think now,” pursues
Mr. Guppy, “of enlisting?”

“Why, what I may think after dinner,” returns
Mr. Jobling, “is one thing, my dear Guppy,
and what I may think before dinner is another
thing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the
question, What am I to do? How am I to live?
Ill fo manger, you know,” says Mr. Jobling, pronouncing
that word as if he meant a necessary
fixture in an English stable. “Ill fo manger.
That’s the French saying, and mangering is as
necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Or
more so.”

Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion “much
more so.”

“If any man had told me,” pursues Jobling,
“even so lately as when you and I had the frisk
down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove over to
see that house at Castle Wold—”

Mr. Smallweed corrects him: “Chesney Wold.”

“Chesney Wold. (I thank my honorable friend
for that cheer.) If any man had told me, then,
that I should be as hard up at the present time
as I literally find myself, I should have—well, I
should have pitched into him,” says Mr. Jobling,
taking a little rum-and-water with an air of desperate
resignation; “I should have let fly at his
head.”

“Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of
the post then,” remonstrates Mr. Guppy. “You
were talking about nothing else in the gig.”

“Guppy,” says Mr. Jobling, “I will not deny
it. I was on the wrong side of the post. But I
trusted to things coming round.”

That very popular trust in flat things coming
round! Not in their being beaten round, or
worked round, but in their “coming” round!
As though a lunatic should trust in the world’s
“coming” triangular!

“I had confident expectations that things
would come round and be all square,” says Mr.
Jobling, with some vagueness of expression, and
perhaps of meaning, too. “But I was disappointed.
They never did. And when it came
to creditors making rows at the office, and to
people that the office dealt with making complaints
about dirty trifles of borrowed money,
why there was an end of that connection. And
of any new professional connection, too; for if I
was to give a reference to-morrow, it would be
mentioned, and would sew me up. Then, what’s
a fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the
way, and living cheap, down about the market-gardens;
but what’s the use of living cheap when
you have got no money? You might as well live
dear.”

“Better,” Mr. Smallweed thinks.

“Certainly. It’s the fashionable way; and
fashion and whiskers have been my weaknesses,
and I don’t care who knows it,” says Mr. Jobling.
“They are great weaknesses—Damme, sir,
they are great. Well!” proceeds Mr. Jobling,
after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, “what
can a fellow do, I ask you, but enlist?”

Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation,
to state what, in his opinion, a fellow can
do. His manner is the gravely impressive manner
of a man who has not committed himself in
life, otherwise than as he has become the victim
of a tender sorrow of the heart.

“Jobling,” says Mr. Guppy, “myself and our
mutual friend Smallweed—”

(Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, “Gentlemen
both!” and drinks.)

“Have had a little conversation on this matter
more than once, since you—”

“Say, got the sack!” cries Mr. Jobling, bitterly.
“Say it, Guppy. You mean it.”

“N-o-o! Left the Inn,” Mr. Smallweed delicately
suggests.

“Since you left the Inn, Jobling,” says Mr.
Guppy; “and I have mentioned, to our mutual
friend Smallweed, a plan I have lately thought
of proposing. You know Snagsby, the stationer?”

“I know there is such a stationer,” returns
Mr. Jobling. “He was not ours, and I am not
acquainted with him.”

“He is ours, Jobling, and I am acquainted with
him,” Mr. Guppy retorts. “Well, sir! I have
lately become better acquainted with him, through
some accidental circumstances that have made
me a visitor of his in private life. Those circumstances
it is not necessary to offer in argument.
They may—or they may not—have some reference
to a subject, which may—or may not—have
cast its shadow on my existence.”

As it is Mr. Guppy’s perplexing way, with
boastful misery to tempt his particular friends
into this subject, and the moment they touch it,
to turn on them with that trenchant severity
about the chords in the human mind; both Mr.
Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline the pitfall, by
remaining silent.

“Such things may be,” repeats Mr. Guppy,
“or they may not be. They are no part of the
case. It is enough to mention, that both Mr.
and Mrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me;
and that Snagsby has, in busy times, a good deal
of copying work to give out. He has all Tulkinghorn’s,
and an excellent business besides. I
believe, if our mutual friend Smallweed were put
into the box, he could prove this?”

Mr. Smallweed nods, and appears greedy to be
sworn.

“Now, gentlemen of the jury,” says Mr. Guppy, “—I
mean, now Jobling—you may say this
is a poor prospect of a living. Granted. But
it’s better than nothing, and better than enlistment.
You want time. There must be time
for these late affairs to blow over. You might
live through it on much worse terms than by
writing for Snagsby.”

Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt, when the
sagacious Smallweed checks him with a dry
cough, and the words, “Hem! Shakspeare!”

“There are two branches to this subject, Jobling,”
says Mr. Guppy. “That is the first. I
come to the second. You know Krook, the Chancellor,
across the lane. Come, Jobling,” says Mr.
Guppy, in his encouraging cross-examination[Pg 642]
tone, “I think you know Krook, the Chancellor,
across the lane?”

“I know him by sight,” says Mr. Jobling.

“You know him by sight. Very well. And
you know little Flite?”

“Every body knows her,” says Mr. Jobling.

“Every body knows her. Very well. Now it
has been one of my duties of late, to pay Flite a
certain weekly allowance, deducting from it the
amount of her weekly rent: which I have paid
(in consequence of instructions I have received)
to Krook himself, regularly, in her presence.
This has brought me into communication with
Krook, and into a knowledge of his house and
his habits. I know he has a room to let. You
may live there, at a very low charge, under
any name you like; as quietly as if you were a
hundred miles off. He’ll ask no questions; and
would accept you as a tenant, at a word from
me—before the clock strikes, if you chose. And
I’ll tell you another thing, Jobling,” says Mr.
Guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voice, and
become familiar again, “he’s an extraordinary
old chap—always rummaging among a litter of
papers, and grubbing away at teaching himself to
read and write; without getting on a bit, as it
seems to me. He is a most extraordinary old
chap, sir. I don’t know but what it might be
worth a fellow’s while to look him up a bit.”

“You don’t mean—?” Mr. Jobling begins.

“I mean,” returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his
shoulders with becoming modesty, “that I can’t
make him out. I appeal to our mutual friend
Smallweed, whether he has or has not heard me
remark, that I can’t make him out.”

Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony,
“A few!”

“I have seen something of the profession, and
something of life, Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, “and
it’s seldom I can’t make a man out more or less.
But such an old card as this; so deep, so sly, and
secret (though I don’t believe he is ever sober;)
I never came across. Now, he must be precious
old, you know, and he has not a soul about him,
and he is reported to be immensely rich; and
whether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed
pawnbroker, or a money-lender—all of
which I have thought likely at different times—it
might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge
of him. I don’t see why you shouldn’t go
in for it when every thing else suits.”

Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed,
all lean their elbows on the table, and their chins
upon their hands, and look at the ceiling. After
a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their
hands in their pockets, and look at one another.

“If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!”
says Mr. Guppy with a sigh. “But there are
chords in the human mind—”

Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment
in rum and water, Mr. Guppy concludes
by resigning the adventure to Tony Jobling, and
informing him that, during the vacation and
while things are slack, his purse, “as far as three
or four or even five pound goes,” will be at his
disposal. “For never shall it be said,” Mr. Guppy
adds with emphasis, “that William Guppy turned
his back upon his friend!”

The latter part of the proposal is so directly to
the purpose, that Mr. Jobling says with emotion,
“Guppy, my trump, your fist!” Mr. Guppy presents
it, saying, “Jobling, my boy, there it is!”
Mr. Jobling returns. “Guppy, we have been
pals now for some years!” Mr. Guppy replies,
“Jobling, we have.” They then shake hands,
and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner, “Thank
you, Guppy, I don’t know but what I will take
another glass for old acquaintance sake.”

“Krook’s last lodger died there,” observes Mr.
Guppy, in an incidental way.

“Did he though!” says Mr. Jobling.

“There was a verdict. Accidental death. You
don’t mind that?”

“No,” says Mr. Jobling, “I don’t mind it;
but he might as well have died somewhere else.
It’s devilish odd that he need go and die at my
place!” Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty;
several times returning to it with such remarks
as, “There are places enough to die in, I should
think!” or, “He wouldn’t have liked my dying
at his place, I dare say!”

However, the compact being virtually made,
Mr. Guppy proposes to dispatch the trusty Smallweed
to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home, as in
that case they may complete the negotiation without
delay. Mr. Jobling approving, Smallweed
puts himself under the tall hat and conveys it
out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner.
He soon returns with the intelligence that Mr.
Krook is at home, and that he has seen him
through the shop-door, sitting in his back premises,
sleeping, “like one o’clock.”

“Then I’ll pay,” says Mr. Guppy, “and we’ll
go and see him. Small, what will it be?”

Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of
the waitress with one hitch of his eyelash, instantly
replies as follows: “Four veals and hams
is three and four potatoes is three and four and
one summer cabbage is three and six and three
marrows is four and six and six breads is five and
three Cheshires is five and three and four pints
of half-and-half is six and three and four small
rums is eight and three and three Pollys is eight
and six. Eight and six in half a sovereign, Polly,
and eighteen-pence out!”

Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations,
Smallweed dismisses his friends, with a
cool nod, and remains behind to take a little admiring
notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve,
and to read the daily papers: which are so very
large in proportion to himself, shorn of his hat,
that when he holds up The Times to run his eye
over the columns, he seems to have retired for
the night, and to have disappeared under the bedclothes.

Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag
and bottle shop, where they find Krook still sleeping
like one o’clock; that is to say, breathing
stertorously with his chin upon his breast, and
quite insensible to any external sounds, or even[Pg 643]
to gentle shaking. On the table beside him,
among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin
bottle and glass. The unwholesome air is so
stained with this liquor, that even the green eyes
of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut
and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk.

“Hold up here!” says Mr. Guppy, giving the
relaxed figure of the old man another shake. “Mr.
Krook! Halloa, sir!”

But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle
of old clothes, with a spirituous heat smouldering
in it. “Did you ever see such a stupor as he
falls into, between drink and sleep?” says Mr.
Guppy.

“If this is his regular sleep,” returns Jobling,
rather alarmed, “it’ll last a long time one of these
days, I am thinking.”

“It’s always more like a fit than a nap,” says
Mr. Guppy, shaking him again. “Halloa, your
lordship! Why he might be robbed, fifty times
over! Open your eyes!”

After much ado, he opens them, but without
appearing to see his visitors, or any other objects.
Though he crosses one leg on another, and folds
his hands, and several times closes and opens
his parched lips, he seems to all intents and purposes
as insensible as before.

“He is alive at any rate,” says Mr. Guppy.
“How are you, my Lord Chancellor. I have
brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter
of business.”

The old man still sits, often smacking his dry
lips, without the least consciousness. After some
minutes, he makes an attempt to rise. They
help him up, and he staggers against the wall,
and stares at them.

“How do you do, Mr. Krook?” says Mr. Guppy,
in some discomfiture. “How do you do sir?
You are looking charming, Mr. Krook. I hope
you are pretty well?”

The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at
Mr. Guppy, or at nothing, feebly swings himself
round, and comes with his face against the wall.
So he remains for a minute or two, heaped up
against it; and then staggers down the shop to
the front door. The air, the movement in the
court, the lapse of time, or the combination of
these things, recovers him. He comes back pretty
steadily, adjusting his fur cap on his head, and
looking keenly at them.

“Your servant, gentlemen; I’ve been dozing.
Hi! I am hard to wake, odd times.”

“Rather so, indeed, sir,” responds Mr. Guppy.

“What? You’ve been a-trying to do it, have
you?” says the suspicious Krook.

“Only a little,” Mr. Guppy explains.

The old man’s eye resting on the empty bottle,
he takes it up, examines it, and slowly tilts it
upside down.

“I say!” he cries, like the Hobgoblin in the
story. “Somebody’s been making free here!”

“I assure you we found it so,” says Mr. Guppy.
“Would you allow me to get it filled for
you?”

“Yes, certainly I would!” cries Krook, in high
glee. “Certainly I would! Don’t mention it!
Get it filled next door—Sol’s Arms—the Lord
Chancellor’s fourteenpenny. Bless you, they
know me!”

He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy,
that that gentleman, with a nod to his friend,
accepts the trust, and hurries out and hurries in
again with the bottle filled. The old man receives
it in his arms like a beloved grandchild,
and pats it tenderly.

“But, I say!” he whispers, with his eye
screwed up, after tasting it, “this ain’t the Lord
Chancellor’s fourteenpenny. This is eighteen-penny!”

“I thought you might like that better,” says
Mr. Guppy.

“You’re a nobleman, sir,” returns Krook, with
another taste—and his hot breath seems to come
toward them like a flame. “You’re a baron of
the land.”

Taking advantage of this auspicious moment,
Mr. Guppy presents his friend under the impromptu
name of Mr. Weevle, and states the
object of their visit. Krook, with his bottle under
his arm (he never gets beyond a certain point
of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes time to
survey his proposed lodger, and seems to approve
of him. “You’d like to see the room, young
man?” he says. “Ah! It’s a good room!
Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with
soft soap and soda. Hi! It’s worth twice the
rent; letting alone my company when you want
it, and such a cat to keep the mice away.”

Commending the room after this manner, the
old man takes them up-stairs, where indeed they
do find it cleaner than it used to be, and also
containing some old articles of furniture which
he has dug up from his inexhaustible stores.
The terms are easily concluded—for the Lord
Chancellor can not be hard on Mr. Guppy, associated
as he is with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce
and Jarndyce, and other famous claims on his
professional consideration—and it is agreed that
Mr. Weevle shall take possession on the morrow.

Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy then repair to Cook’s
Court, Cursitor Street, where the personal introduction
of the former to Mr. Snagsby is effected,
and (more important) the vote and interest of
Mrs. Snagsby are secured. They then report
progress to the eminent Smallweed, waiting at
the office in his tall hat for that purpose, and
separate; Mr. Guppy explaining that he would
terminate his little entertainment by standing
treat at the play, but that there are chords in
the human mind which would render it a hollow
mockery.

On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr.
Weevle modestly appears at Krook’s, by no means
incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself
in his new lodging; where the two eyes in
the shutters stare at him in his sleep, as if they
were full of wonder. On the following day Mr.
Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind
of young fellow, borrows a needle and thread of[Pg 644]
Miss Flite, and a hammer of his landlord, and
goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains,
and knocking up apologies for shelves, and
hanging up his two tea-cups, milk-pot, and crockery
sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like
a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.

But what Mr. Weevle prizes most, of all his
few possessions (next after his light whiskers, for
which he has an attachment that only whiskers
can awaken in the breast of man), is a choice
collection of copper-plate impressions from that
truly national work, The Divinities of Albion, or
Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty, representing
ladies of title and fashion in every variety of
smirk that art, combined with capital, is capable
of producing. With these magnificent portraits,
unworthily confined in a band-box during his
seclusion among the market-gardens, he decorates
his apartment; and as the Galaxy Gallery
of British Beauty wears every variety of fancy-dress,
plays every variety of musical instrument,
fondles every variety of dog, ogles every variety
of prospect, and is backed up by every variety of
flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very imposing.

But fashion is Mr. Weevle’s, as it was Tony
Jobling’s weakness. To borrow yesterday’s paper
from the Sols’ Arms of an evening, and read
about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that
are shooting across the fashionable sky in every
direction, is unspeakable consolation to him. To
know what member of what brilliant and distinguished
circle accomplished the brilliant and
distinguished feat of joining it yesterday, or contemplates
the no less brilliant and distinguished
feat of leaving it to-morrow, gives him a thrill
of joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery
of British Beauty is about and means to be about,
and what Galaxy marriages are on the tapis, and
what Galaxy rumors are in circulation, is to become
acquainted with the most glorious destinies
of mankind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence,
to the Galaxy portraits implicated;
and seems to know the originals, and to be known
of them.

For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy
shifts and devices as before mentioned, able to
cook and clean for himself as well as to carpenter,
and developing social inclinations after the
shades of evening have fallen on the court. At
those times, when he is not visited by Mr. Guppy,
or by a small light in his likeness quenched
in a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room—where
he has inherited the deal wilderness of
desk bespattered with a rain of ink—and talks to
Krook, or is “very free,” as they call it in the
court, commendingly, with any one disposed for
conversation. Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who leads
the court, is impelled to offer two remarks to
Mrs. Perkins: Firstly, that if her Johnny was to
have whiskers, she could wish ’em to be identically
like that young man’s; and secondly, Mark
my words, Mrs. Perkins, ma’am, and don’t you
be surprised, Lord bless you, if that young man
comes in at last for old Krook’s money!

CHAPTER XXI.—The Smallweed Family.

In a rather ill-favored and ill-savored neighborhood,
though one of its rising grounds bears
the name of Mount Pleasant, the Elfin Smallweed,
christened Bartholomew, and known on
the domestic hearth as Bart, passes that limited
portion of his time on which the office and its
contingencies have no claim. He dwells in a little
narrow street, always solitary, shady, and sad,
closely bricked in on all sides like a tomb, but
where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest
tree, whose flavor is about as fresh and natural
as the Smallweed smack of youth.

There has been only one child in the Smallweed
family for several generations. Little old
men and women there have been, but no child,
until Mr. Smallweed’s grandmother, now living,
became weak in her intellect, and fell (for the
first time) into a childish state. With such infantine
graces as a total want of observation,
memory, understanding and interest, and an
eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire and
into it, Mr. Smallweed’s grandmother has undoubtedly
brightened the family.

Mr. Smallweed’s grandfather is likewise of
the party. He is in a helpless condition as to
his lower, and nearly so as to his upper limbs;
but his mind is unimpaired. It holds, as well as
it ever held, the first four rules of arithmetic, and
a certain small collection of the hardest facts.
In respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and
other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse
off than it used to be. Every thing that Mr.
Smallweed’s grandfather ever put away in his
mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last.
In all his life he has never bred a single butterfly.

The father of this pleasant grandfather of the
neighborhood of Mount Pleasant was a horny-skinned,
two-legged, money-getting species of
spider, who spun webs to catch unwary flies, and
retired into holes until they were entrapped.
The name of this old pagan’s God was Compound
Interest. He lived for it, married it, died
of it. Meeting with a heavy loss in an honest
little enterprise in which all the loss was intended
to have been on the other side, he broke something—something
necessary to his existence;
therefore it couldn’t have been his heart—and
made an end of his career. As his character
was not good; and he had been bred at a Charity
School, in a complete course, according to question
and answer, of those ancient people the
Amorites and Hittites; he was frequently quoted
as an example of the failure of education.

His spirit shone through his son, to whom he
had always preached of “going out,” early in
life, and whom he made a clerk in a sharp scrivener’s
office at twelve years old. There, the young
gentleman improved his mind, which was of a
lean and anxious character; and, developing the
family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the
discounting profession. Going out early in life
and marrying late, as his father had done before
him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded
son; who, in his turn, going out early in life[Pg 645]
and marrying late, became the father of Bartholomew
and Judith Smallweed, twins. During
the whole time consumed in the slow growth
of this family tree, the house of Smallweed,
always early to go out and late to marry, has
strengthened itself in its practical character, has
discarded all amusements, discountenanced all
story-books, fairy tales, fictions, and fables, and
banished all levities whatsoever. Hence the
gratifying fact, that it has had no child born to
it; and that the complete little men and women
whom it has produced, have been observed to
bear a likeness to old monkeys with something
depressing on their minds.