[Pg i]

HARPER’S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

VOLUME V.

JUNE TO NOVEMBER, 1852.

NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

329 & 331 PEARL STREET,

FRANKLIN SQUARE.

MDCCCLII.

[Pg ii]

ADVERTISEMENT.

Harper’s New Monthly Magazine closes its Fifth Semi-annual
Volume with a circulation of more than One Hundred Thousand copies. The
Publishers have spared neither labor nor expense to render it the most
attractive Magazine of General Literature ever offered to the public;
and they confidently present this Volume as evidence that their efforts
to add to the value and interest of the work have kept pace with the
increase of its circulation.

Special arrangements have been made, and will continue to be made,
to render the next Volume still more worthy of public favor than its
predecessor has been. The abundant facilities at the command of the
Publishers insure an unlimited field for the choice and selection of
material, while the ample space within the pages of the Magazine enables
the Editors to present matter suited to every variety of taste and mood
of the reading community. The Pictorial Illustrations will maintain
the attractive and varied character by which they have been heretofore
distinguished, while their number will be still farther increased.

In the general conduct and scope of the Magazine no change is
contemplated. Each Number will contain as hitherto:

First.—Original Articles by popular American authors,
illustrated, whenever the subject demands, by wood-cuts executed in the
best style of the art.

Second.—Selections from the current literature of the day,
whether in the form of articles from foreign periodicals or extracts
from new books of special interest. This department will include such
serial tales by the leading authors of the time, as may be deemed of
peculiar interest; but these will not be suffered to interfere with a
due degree of variety in the contents of the Magazine.

Third.—A Monthly Record, presenting an impartial condensed
and classified history of the current events of the times.

Fourth.—An Editor’s Table, devoted to the careful and
elaborate discussion of the higher questions of principles and ethics.

Fifth.—An Editor’s Easy Chair and Drawer,
containing literary and general gossip, the chat of town and country,
anecdotes and reminiscences, wit and humor, sentiment and pathos,
and whatever, in general, belongs to an agreeable and entertaining
miscellany.

Sixth.—Critical Notices of all the leading books of the day.
These will present a fair and candid estimate of the character and value
of the works continually brought before the public.

Seventh.—Literary Intelligence, concerning books, authors,
art, and whatever is of special interest to cultivated readers.

Eighth.—Pictorial Comicalities, in which wit and humor will
be addressed to the eye; and affectations, follies, and vice, chastised
and corrected. The most scrupulous care will be exercised that in this
department humor shall not pass into vulgarity, or satire degenerate
into abuse.

Ninth.—The Fashions appropriate for the season, with notices
of whatever novelties in material or design may make their appearance.

The Publishers here renew the expression of their thanks to the Press
and the Public in general, for the favor which has been accorded to the
New Monthly Magazine, and solicit such continuance of that favor as the
merits of the successive Numbers may deserve.

[Pg iii]

CONTENTS OF VOLUME V.

Smoking at a Railway Station, 141. The Childish
Teetotal Movement; Deference to the Sex, 142. Illustration
of Humbug; Rules for Health; Finance for
Young Ladies, 281. Maine-Law Petitioners, 282. Anti-Maine-Law
Petitioners, 283. Matrimony Made Easy,
284. Favorite Investments; An Agreeable Partner, 285.
Delicacy; The Dog-Days; The American Crusaders;
Poetical Cookery-Book, 286. Mr. Bull’s Ideas on the
Musquito Question; Starvation for the Delicate, 427.
Young New York Hard-up; A Victim of the Tender
Passion, 428. A Striking Expression; Scene in a
Fashionable Ladies’ Groggery, 429. Rather a Bad Look-out;
The Attentive Husband in August, 430. A Great
Nuisance, 569. Tea-Room before Tea, 570. Tea-Room
after Tea, 571. A Midsummer Night’s Dream; Blow
like sweet Roses, 572. New Illustrations to Shakspeare,
573. A Superfluous Question; Children must
be paid for, 574. New Illustrations to Byron, 717.
The Dog and his Enemies; Scenes from a Dog’s Life
in Dog-Days, 718. Some Punkins; Advice to the Poor
Gratis, 861. A Natural Consequence; Proper Prudence,
862.

Legal Examinations; Anecdotes of Beau Brummell,
131. The Disgusted Wife to her Husband; The extempore
Hair-cutter, 132. Sonnet on a Youth who died of
eating Fruit-pie; Mussulman Scruples; Letter from
Algeria, 133. Steam in Palestine; The Puzzled Chinaman;
Hints on Popping the Question, 134. A new
Family of Plants; Lamartine as Conservative; As
Traveler; An Irish Joke; Doubling prohibited, 135.
An original Crest; Mr. Caw; The Scotch Blacksmith,
136. Bustles in Africa; Skeleton for Poets; Wives in
China; A Persian Fable; Gents and Gentlemen; The
Ugly Man, 271. The Queen’s Dog; “Unused as I am
to Public Speaking;” The Sold Troop-Horse; Philosophical
Explanation; Differences in Childhood, 272.
Execution of Montrose; Rothschild; Hot Soup at Railway
Stations, 273. A “Sonnick,” by Thackeray; What
is Pleasure? Working Clothes; Legal Maxims; The
Mazurka; Miss Trephina and Miss Trephosa; Spanish
Self-Glorification; The Two Hogarths; Dionysius the
Tyrant; The Pope in a Dilemma; Anecdotes of Horne
Tooke; Orthography of English Names; E Pluribus
Unum; The Statue of Pasquin, 274. A Matter-of-Fact
Man, 416. Gambling, a new Species of it; Country
Quietude; Mons. le General Court de Boston, 417. A
Needle-Eye for a Camel to go through; A Levy; Squaring
the Account; For Bachelors; Old Proverbs excepted
to, 418. Model Presentation Verses; Modern Dictionary;
Governor Chittenden and the Thief; The Puzzled
Publican; How do you like the Doctor? 419. How to
prevent Riches from flying; Anecdote of Louis Philippe;
Tongues vs. Tongs; Spilling Water in the Street, 420.
An Epigram; Sydney Smith’s Son; Hint to Shoppers,
Borrowing Books; Head and Bonnets; Allen, Internal
and External Costumer; Hair changing Color; An
Epitaph, 421. About that “Tea-Room” and the Amateur
Alderman, 557. A bad Head better than none;
Patent Hen Persuader; Difference between a Bull and
a Bully; How to grow Rich; Taking things Coolly, a
Triad of Instances; Beautiful Superstition; The Ruling
Passion, 558. Humanity of Nelson; An accurate Receipt;
Firing Dutch Cheeses; Getting slewed; An unwelcome
Shower-Bath; Nautical Technicalities, 559.
A Gem from Lydgate; Examination in Anatomy; Becoming
“Dark;” Betting to Win; An inordinate Petition,
560. Try Again; Newport Notions; Putting
one’s Foot in; A Story of a Hog; Catachresis, 561.
The Poetry of Ballooning; A Maniac’s Voyage to the
Moon, 706. About Umbrellas; “Sucker” Office-seeker;
Remedy for a Broken Leg, 707. How to double your
Wealth; The Biter bit—a Tale of the Mustard-pot;
The Lord and the Lackey; A Squint at a Crooked Leg;
The Miseries of Pic-nicking, 708. A Frenchman’s
Experience in Ladies’ Schools; Carlyle on Stars;
Twisting; A Belle, 709. Lays of the Cavaliers; Pursuit
of Knowledge under Difficulties; Partition of
Turkey; A Second-hand President; The Lazy Man;
Odd Names, 710. Prevention better than Cure; The
Lady and the Doctor; Inscription; Epitaph; Gipsies;
Hogg, 711. An Artist’s Gratitude; Pilgrimage to the
Tomb of Juliet at Verona, 712. A Lover’s Letter;
What’s the Matter; A Professor posed; Doctoring;
Thanksgiving, 848. How to be Happy; the Sheriff and
the Peddler; Thoughts by a Tailor, 849. About Matrimony;
Negro Banking; Being Busted; Coughing
Concert, 850. Mr. Benton; A Poser; Voyage of Life;
Gulliver; Johnson and Smith on the Scotch, 851. A
great Pity; First Glimpse in the Glass; Desirable Ignorance;
Witchcraft; A Simile, 852. Anecdote of
Whitfield; Hotel Scenes; Hint to the Married; Grace
before Meat; For Bachelors, 853. Doubly Mistaken;
a Steamboat Race, 854.

Still more about the Weather; Spring Floods, 126.
Rapid Changes; Niagara in Winter; Spring again;
New Park; Kossuth; Jenny Lind Goldschmidt, 127.
Summer Traveling; Western Scenery; Autograph
Lottery, and Dumas’s Sequel, 128. An Old Gentleman’s[Pg iv]
Letter—The Bride of Landeck, 129, 269, 414, 554,
702, 844. A July Chair, 265. Parks; Imaginary Rambles;
A Duo and a Triad of Verses; Leafy June; The
Washington Monument Intermittent Fever; Political
Conventions; Ole Bull, 266. The Maine Law at Watering
Places; Home-made Wines; Pleasuring to the
Rocky Mountains; New Lake in Minnesota; Summer
Contentments, 267. Authors becoming Millionaires;
Dying for Love, 268. Provincials in Paris, 411. Americans
Abroad; The Grand Tour in Six Weeks; M. de
Broglie’s Description of Washington, 412. A little Mule
will grow; The Town at Midsummer, 413. Fruits and
Flowers; Poor Generals; Alboni, with a Hint to Musical
Critics; Monkeys at the Opera House, 414. The
Tender Passion in French Courts of Justice, 552. Summer
at Saratoga; Saratoga out of Season, and a Glance
at the Good Time coming, 553. Back to Town, 842.
The Opera and Concerts; Alboni, Sontag, and Paul
Jullien; The new Hotels, and what will come of them,
843. Relief for Broadway; Our World’s Fair; Our
own Political Position; Letter from the Editor, 844.

On Education, 123. A Nation’s Birthday, 262.
Moral Influences of the Theatre, 406. The Ideal of the
Statesman, 548. The Sabbath, 699. Morality of Steamboat
Accidents, 836.

Life and Correspondence of Niebuhr; Weber’s Romance
of Natural History; Ivar, or, the Skjuts-Boy;
Queechy; The Daltons; Brace’s Hungary in 1851;
James’s Pequinillo; English Synonyms, 137. Sargent’s
Standard Speaker; Spring’s Glory of Christ;
Anthon’s Manual of Grecian Antiquities; Works of
President Olin; Mountford’s Thorpe; Life of Burns;
Fancies of a Whimsical Man; Alice Carey’s Lyra;
McMullen’s Hand-Book of Wines, 138. Stuart’s Naval
Dry Docks; Hervey’s Principles of Courtesy; Harrison’s[Pg v]
Laws of the Latin Language; Fasquelle’s New
French Method; The Two Families; Owen’s Greek
Reader; Lamartine’s Restoration, 277. Clifton; Fourth
Volume of Cosmos; Dollars and Cents; Trench’s Study
of Words; Life and Correspondence of Jeffrey, 278.
Clarke’s Eleven Weeks in Europe; Waverley Novels,
279. Curtis’s Lotus-Eating; Strong’s Harmony of the
Gospels; Fox and Hoyt’s Quadrennial Register; Abbott’s
Mother at Home; Waverley Novels; Herbert’s
Knights of England, France, and Scotland, 422. Marco
Paul’s Voyages and Travels; Woodbury’s Shorter German
Course; Todd’s Summer Gleanings; Hildreth’s
United States; Halleck’s Poems; Elliott’s Mysteries,
423. Life of Dr. Chalmers, 4th vol., 564. Meyer’s Universum;
Niebuhr’s Lectures on Ancient History; Atlantic
and Transatlantic; Sketches Afloat and Ashore;
Butler’s Analogy; The Napoleon Dynasty, 565. Waverley
Novels; Shaw’s Outlines of English Literature,
with a Sketch of American Literature; Personal Adventures
of “Our Own Correspondent” in Italy; St. Helena
and the Cape of Good Hope; Haydock’s Catholic Family
Bible; The New Rhetorical Reader, 566. Parisian
Sights and French Principles; The Discarded Daughter;
The Mormons, or Latter-Day Saints; Tusculan
Questions, Anthon’s edition; Sargent’s Life of Henry
Clay, 713. Stray Meditations; Anna Hammer; Mrs.
Judson’s Olio of Domestic Verses; Life and Works of
Burns, Vol. IV.; The Master Builder; Bartlett’s Natural
Philosophy; Upjohn’s Rural Architecture; The Dodd
Family Abroad; The Old Engagement; Single Blessedness;
Lydia, A Woman’s Book; De Bow’s Industrial
Resources of the Southern and Western States, 714.
Goodrich’s Select British Eloquence; Buckingham’s
Personal Memoirs, 856. Guizot’s Corneille and his
Times; Chasles’s Anglo-American Literature; Philosophers
and Actresses; Hawthorne’s Life of Pierce;
Tuckerman’s Sicily; Champlin’s and Kuehner’s Greek
Grammars; James’s Life of Vicissitudes; Mrs. Hale’s
New Book of Cookery, 857. Docharty’s Algebra; Oehlschlaeger’s
German Dictionary; The School for Fathers;
March’s Webster and his Contemporaries; New Editions
of Dickens; Morse’s Geography; Anthon’s Cornelius
Nepos, 858.

Life of Kirby; Longman’s Announcements; Life of
Lord Langdale; Wellington’s Executor; Memoir of Dr.
Pye Smith; Mary Howitt’s New Juvenile Magazine;
Niebuhr’s Lectures; Oersted’s Soul of Nature; Forthcoming
Works by Tennyson, Thackeray, and Author
of the Bachelor of Albany, 139. Ronge; Resignation
of Professor Wilson; Demand for old Books in America;
Criticisms on the Howadji; Leigh Hunt’s Illness;
Lady Morgan on a Monument to Moore; Emerson in
French; Forgeries of Talleyrand’s Letters, 140. Caudle
Lectures; Anthon’s Anabasis; Ik. Marvel; Resignation
of Prof. Wilson; Candidates for his Chair, 279.
Milton’s Agreement for Paradise Lost; Cassagnac’s
[OE]uvres Litteraires; Fleury’s Portraits Politiques et
Révolutionnaires; Grimm’s German Dictionary; MS.
of Rempen; Leipzig Easter Catalogue, 280. Church
Historians of England; Macdougall’s Papers; Sermons
by the Author of Alton Locke; Translation of Plato’s
Republic; Life of Moir; Life of Chalmers; Monument
to Mackintosh; Literary Fund Anniversary; Notice of
Sterling, 424. Queechy; The English Press on Curtis’s
Books; Authorship of the “Imitation of Christ,” 425.
The Germans on Margaret Fuller; Wagner’s Scientific
Expedition to America; Amulet of Byron; Prof. Lichtenstein;
Medal to Swedenborg; Swedish Books; St.
Hilaire’s Resignation; St. Beauve’s Causeries du Lundi;
Dramatic Literature in France, 426. Signor Volpe’s
Lectures on the Italian Poets; Miss Lothrop’s Dollars
and Cents; Proposed Foreign Members of the Council
of the Royal Society; Jared Sparks and Lord Mahon.
Prof. Grimm on the English Language, 566. James
Russell Lowell and American Literature; Lamartine’s
Constituent Assembly; Works by the Countess D’Orsay
and Marquis de Foudres, 567. New Literary Society
in France; New Editions of Buffon and Cuvier,
Thiers’s New Works; New Italian Books; Printing in
England, Germany, and France; Oehlenschlager’s and
Temminck’s Successors; Browning and Hawthorne in
Germany; German Juvenile Literature; Edinburgh Review
on Niebuhr’s Life and Letters, 568. Literary Pensions,
714. Cyclopæedia Biographica; Stiles’s Austria;
Webster’s Dictionary, Guizot’s Republic in England,
Relic of Burns; Translation of Gorgey’s Memoirs,
Chalmers’s Correspondence; Macaulay’s new Volume[Pg vi]
Gervinus’s South American Republics: Lamartine’s
Sixth Volume of the Restoration; Resigning French
Professors; European Litterateurs, 715. Saint Theresa’s
Works; George Sand; Buffon; New Edition of
Luther’s Works; German Publications, 716. Retrospective
Review; Webster’s Dictionary; Coleridge’s
Dramatic Works; Sonnet by Hartley Coleridge; Julian
Fane; Lord Mahon and Mr. Sparks, 860. Professor
Ferrier; Lang’s New South Wales; Deacon’s Annette;
Merle D’Aubigne’s new Volume; Statues to St. Pierre
and Delavigne; New Members of the British Association,
860.

John Young; B. B. Edwards; Solomon Van Rensselaer;
James A. Meriwether; Bishop Heading, 118. Dr.
Pfaff, 280. Henry Clay, 402. M. Burnouf, 568. Marshal
Excelmans, 698. Tony Johannot; Count D’Orsay;
Gen. Gourgeaud; Dr. Wulfsberg, 716. Bishop Chase;
Vanderlyn the Painter; Dr. McGuire, 835. The Duke
of Wellington, 836. Herbert Mayo; Dr. Macgillivray;
Napoleon Landais; M. Dize; Dr. Stieffel; Pompeo
Litta, 860.

Congressional Caucuses, 116. Congressional Doings:
Miscellaneous, 116, 255, 403, 543, 692; Intervention, 116;
Collins Steamers, 116, 255, 543; Resolutions on the
Compromise, 117; Japanese Expedition, 117; Free Land
Bill, 255; Debate on the Fisheries, 544, 692; New Postage
Law, 692; Isthmus of Tehuantepec, 694; Adjournment,
692. Adjournment of New York Legislature, 117.
Whig Convention in Virginia, 117. Election in Connecticut,
117. Election in Rhode Island, 117. Mr.
Webster on the Compromise, 117. Gen. Scott nominated
by Whigs in N. Y. Legislature, 118. Whigs in
North Carolina, 118. Floods at the West, 118. Steamboat
Disasters, 118. Letter from Mr. Clay respecting
Kossuth, 118. Kossuth, 118, 257, 403. California: Miscellaneous,
119, 257, 403, 546, 695; Governor’s Message
respecting Chinese, 257; Chinamen, 403; Affray in
Court, 545. Correspondence with Hulsemann, 255.
Democratic Convention at Baltimore, and Nomination
of Pierce and King, 256. Mr. Webster in Boston, 256,
544. New York Canal Law pronounced unconstitutional,
256. State Convention in South Carolina, 256.
Maine Law in Massachusetts, 257. Anniversary Week,
257. Presbyterian General Assemblies, 256. Arrival
of Meagher, 257. Whig Convention at Baltimore, and
Nomination of Scott and Graham, 402. Agricultural
Convention, 403. Art-Union a Lottery, 403. Arrival
of Alboni, 403. Indian and Mexican Disturbances in
Texas, 403. New Mexico, 404. Utah, 404, 545. Oregon,
696. Mr. Webster on the Fishery Question, 543.
Lundy Lane Celebration, 544. Native American Nominations,
544. Case of Messrs. Stephens, Toombs, and
others, 544. Case of Thomas Kaine, 544. Destruction
of Life on board the Steamer Henry Clay, 544. Guano
Question, 693. New Constitution for Louisiana, 695.
Loss of Life on board the Steamer Atlantic, 695; and
on board the Reindeer, 645. Free Democratic Convention
at Pittsburgh, and Nomination of Hale and Julian,
695. Agricultural Convention of Southern States, 695.
Floods in the Northwest, 696. Nominations in New
York, 833. Liberty Party Nominations, 833. Webster
Meeting in Boston, 833. Nominations in Massachusetts,
833. Mr. Hale’s Acceptance, 833. Women’s
Rights Convention, 833. Elections in Vermont and
Maine, 833. Southern Rights Nominations, 833. Odd
Fellow’s Meeting, 833. General Scott, at the West,
833. Dinner to Mr. Baring, 834. Mr. Graham’s Letter,
834. Mr. Benton on the Tehuantepec Question, 834.
Consul Rice, 834. Minister to England, 834. Anti-Rent[Pg vii]
Outrage, 834. The India-Rubber Case, 834. Billy
Bowlegs, 835. Concerts, 835. Episcopal Bishop of
New York, 835. Methodist Book Concern, 835. The
Fisheries, 835. Canadian Intelligence, 835.

Mexico: Miscellaneous, 120, 257, 404, 545, 697, 836.
Rejection of the Tehuantepec Treaty, 120, 257. Remonstrances
of European Powers, 120. Laws respecting
Foreigners, 120. Difficulties at Acapulco, 120, 404,
545. President’s Address, 404. Tehuantepec Question,
836.—South America: Affairs in Buenos Ayres,
257, 405, 696, 836. Executions in Chili, 257, 405. Yellow
Fever in Brazil, 257, 836. Expedition of Flores,
258, 696, 836. Message of the President of Ecuador, 258.
New Ministry in Peru, 546. Argentine Republic, 696,
836. Affairs in Brazil, 696. Military Preparations in
Peru, 836.—Cuba: New Conspiracies, 696. Hostile
Proceedings, 836.—South Seas: Miscellaneous, 119,
257. American Products free of Duty, 119. Eruption
of Mauna Loa, 119. Revolt in Society Islands, 257,
546. Capture of American Vessel at the Galapagos,
546.

Miscellaneous, 120, 260, 405. Undecided Course of the
Ministers, 120. Protection, 120. Loss of the Birkenhead,
120. The Crystal Palace, 120, 260, 697. Rumors
of Sir John Franklin’s Vessels, 121. Gold in Australia,
121. Meeting of Parliament, 258. Parliamentary Proceedings:
Debate on India, 258; on Duties on Paper
and Advertisements, 258; on the Militia Bill, 258, 405,
546; on Disfranchisement, 258; Tenant Right Bill, 259;
Case of Mr. Murray, 259; The Chancellor’s Budget,
259; Proposed Criminal Convention with France, 405;
English Missionaries in Austria, 546; Chancery Reform,
546; Debate on Course of Ministry, 546; Prorogation,
and Queen’s Speech, 546. Royal Academy Dinner, 259.
Dispute among Booksellers, 259. Starvation of Missionaries
in Patagonia, 260. Petition for Pardon of Irish
Exiles, 260. Mr. Disraeli and Lord Derby on Protection,
405. Lord John Russell to his Constituents, 405. Case
of Mr. Mather, 405. Irish Exhibition, 406. Proclamation
against Catholic Ceremonies, 406. Elections for
New Parliament, 547, 697. Royal Agricultural Society
Dinner, 547. Riot at Stockport, 547. Emigration to
Australia, 547, 697. Mazzini, 547. The Fishery Question,
697. Kossuth in England, 697. The Fisheries in
the Colonies, 835. Canadian Politics, 836. Death of
the Duke of Wellington, with a Sketch of his Life, 837.
Report of the Society for the Advancement of Knowledge,
837. The Guano Question, 838.

Meeting of the Legislative Bodies, and President’s
Speech, 121. The Budget, 121. Taking the Oaths, 121.
Organization of the National Guard, 122. Reconstitution
of the University, 122. Orleans Estates, 122, 261,
548. The Swiss Refugee Question, 122. The May
Fêtes, 260. Charge by General Changarnier against
the President, 260. Counter-charges against Changarnier
by M. Cassagnac, 260. Refusal of Lamoriciere and
Arago to take the Oaths, 261. Letter from the Count de
Chambord, 261. Views of the Three Powers on the Empire,
261, 406, 698. Sale of Marshal Soult’s Pictures,
262. Difficulties of the Press, 406. Message of the
President, 547. Discussion on the Budget, 547. Executions,
548. Opening of the Strasbourg Railway, 697.
Change in the Ministry, 697. Odilon Barrot abandons
Public Life, 697. Recall of Exiles, 697. Indifference at
Elections, 697. Fête of Napoleon’s Birthday, 698. Anniversary
of the Capture of the Bastille, 838. Petitions for
the Establishment of the Empire, 838. President’s
Speech at Lyons, 838. French Press on the Duke of
Wellington, 838.

Austria: Death of Schwarzenberg, and Formation
of New Ministry, 122. Batthyani’s Estates, 122. New
Restraints on the Press, 406. Return of the Emperor
from Hungary, 698. Deficit in the Revenue, 698. The
Crown of St. Stephen, 838.—Prussia: Famine in Silesia,
122. Debate on abolishing the Constitution, 262.
Settlement of the Danish Succession, 262. The Zollverein,
838. The Cholera, 838.—Netherlands: Railroad
Amalgamation, 698. Speech of King of Holland,
837.—Affairs in Switzerland, 698.—Spain: Dismissal
of Concha, 122. Postal Convention with Austria, 838—Italy:
Abolition of the Constitution in Tuscany[Pg viii]
262. Arrests in Venice and Mantua, 698. Funeral of
Mazzini’s Mother, 698. Restrictions on Petitions in
Piedmont, 698. Closing of Protestant School in Naples,
698. Envoy from England, 838. Conspiracy, 838.
Eruption of Etna, 838.—Greece: Case of Dr. King,
122, 698, 838.—Turkey: Reinstatement of Reshid
Pacha, 122. Settlement of the Egyptian Question, 262,
838. New Discoveries in Nineveh, 698.

[Pg x]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

[Pg 1]

HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. XXV.—JUNE, 1852.—Vol. V.

AULD ROBIN GRAY

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

THE CONTINUATION.

[Pg 4]

THE SUMMER TOURIST.—SCENERY OF THE FRANCONIA MOUNTAINS, N.H.

BY WILLIAM M’LEOD.

The approach of summer will turn the thoughts and steps of thousands
toward those sections of our wide country whose picturesque beauty
makes them ample amends for comparative sterility of soil and poverty
of population. New Hampshire, with due allowance for the exaggerations
of patriotism, may well be styled the Switzerland of America; and,
although they are inferior in magnificent sublimity to the regal Alps,
few tourists through the Northern States would leave the White Mountains
unvisited.

Though it forms part of this great chain, the inhabitants of the
Franconia range, jealously claim for their hills a separate name,
character, and interest, having no connection with the more eminent firm
of Washington, Adams, and Co. Like the latter, the Franconians boast a
chief to their clan—Mount Lafayette, a “Notch,” and other important
features of a distinct and complete establishment, which combine to make
it no mean rival to the great Patriot Group. We propose, with pen and
pencil, to make a brief excursion through these picturesque localities.

These remarkable scenes are chiefly comprised within the extraordinary
defile, or “notch,” formed by the Franconia Mountains for a distance
of five miles. The northern and southern approaches to this singular
pass, have their peculiar advantages. Coming from the south, the
tourist, from a very great distance, sees the outlines of its grander
features rising far above the beautiful valley he follows; but, perhaps,
this long and constantly visible approach, interesting as it is, begets
a familiarity that weakens the impression of their sublimity when he
finally confronts their more palpable magnificence. Not so with the
approach from the north, where the views being more abrupt, shifting,
and at times wholly concealed, their effect is the more startling upon
the traveler, brought suddenly before them. Thus, in approaching the
Franconia Notch from Bethlehem, we shall find the slow ascent of the
dull steep hill eastward of that village, to be an excellent preparative
for the superb prospect that bursts upon our vision, on reaching its
top. Across the Franconia Valley lying beneath us, we see the lofty
summits, forming the “Notch,” “swell from the vale,” and receding in
peaks of picturesque irregularity—

There is no general view in the White Mountains equal to this distant
prospect of the Franconia Notch, in respect to picturesque majesty
of outline and massive breadth. Descending into the valley, our road
suddenly turns eastward, and as we begin the opposite slow ascent to
the Notch, the view before us assumes a finely-grouped concentrated
character—losing that diffuseness so destructive of picturesqueness
and point in the American landscape generally. This scene is attempted
in the accompanying sketch, showing Mount Lafayette filling the centre
of the view, the irregular peaks of the Notch on the right, while
below, the eye is cheered with the snug farm-house by the road-side, and
other rural accessories charmingly arranged for the artist’s purpose.

FRANCONIA NOTCH.

Keeping the grander points of this fine prospect before us as we
continue our ascent, every step reveals more distinctly the volcano-like
crest and seamed bosom of Lafayette, than which not Washington himself,
though five hundred feet taller, presents a form of more august
character.[Pg 5] Lafayette is not only distinguished over his fellows by
his height, but also by the rocky bareness of his peaked summit, that
descends with converging rows of ravines and hemlock-topped cliffs into
an immense verdant basin presented toward us. In fine weather, the dry
rocks of these ravines shine like bars of silver, and after heavy rains
they glisten with the torrents disappearing into the vast shadowy basin
below.

No tourist that has made this ascent to the Notch during the dog-days,
can forget the grateful change of the hot, treeless road, for the shady
coolness of the wooded avenue he enters at the top, and through whose
green twilight his now recruited steeds drag him merrily for two miles
to the Lafayette House at the entrance of the Notch. Just before
reaching the hotel, we see through the fine birchen groves, skirting
our avenue, Echo Lake, a small sheet of water of great depth and
transparency, the mountainous sides of which clothed with an unbroken
forest of dreary hemlock, deprive it of all beauty of setting, or of
interest aside from its marvelously distinct echoes.

The Franconia Notch hardly deserves more than the name of a
pass—even for its narrowest point near the Lafayette House, where it
is about a quarter of a mile in width. It has no such jaws—projecting
tusks, and other palpable signs of violent disrupture, as make the
expressive title of “Notch” so fitly applied to its great rival in
the White Mountains. Still its features are distinctive, and grandly
unique, and though not so sublimely rugged as those of its rival,
they are infinitely more picturesque, and this peculiar difference of
character extends to all the scenery lying within the two rival regions.
But the wonder and pride of the Franconia Notch is the “Old Man” of
the Profile Mountain, that forms its western wall, and which, ascending
on the north side with a gradual wooded slope, to a height of two
thousand feet, abruptly terminates in a perpendicular rocky precipice,
five hundred feet high, which in a bare “granite front” extends along
the eastern face of the mountain for two miles. An exquisite sheet
of water, in size and purity similar to Echo Lake, lies between the
mountain and our road, from which through a clearing, we have an
admirable view of the mountain, rising wave-like from its lake—its rich
rolling groves, overtopped by a pinnacle of rock, like the comb of a
breaking billow, and in the fantastic outlines of that granite crest,
juts out as perfect an outline of an old man’s head, as human hand
itself could execute!

PROFILE MOUNTAIN.

Every tourist through the White Mountains knows the propensity of the
natives to increase the interest of their region, by pointing out all
sorts of fancied zoological likenesses in their rocks and mountains—so
that before he sees the “Old Man,” he will be apt to rank him, in
advance, with the facial pretensions he has already seen. But, no!
this time the artist has made a hit, and the likeness is admirable.
There is nothing vague, imperfect, or disproportioned about him. You
are not forced to imagine a brow to the nose, or go in search of a
chin to support the mouth. They are all there!—a bent, heavy brow, not
stern, but earnest—a straight, sharp nose—lips thin and with the very
weakness of extreme senility in their pinched-up lines—and a chin,
long and massive, thrown forward with a certain air of obstinacy, that
completes the character of the likeness!

The mass of rock forming this extraordinary profile is said to be eighty
feet in height; is fifteen hundred feet above the lake, and about half a
mile from a spectator in the road—from which point it appears to be at
the top of the mountain though it is really five hundred feet below the[Pg 6]
summit. The “Old Man” does not change his countenance under the closest
scrutiny of the spy-glass, constantly leveled at him by the starers
“beneath his notice.” Under such inspection the likeness loses none of
its human character, though the cheeks of the veteran appear woefully
cut-up and scarred. But it seems rude to peer thus impertinently into
the wrinkles and “crow’s-feet” of his grim visage that has faced,
perhaps, centuries of sun and tempest. Nor is it advisable to take your
first look at him when the sun lights up the chasms of his granite
cheek, and the cavernous mystery of his bent brow. Go to him when in
the solemn light of evening the mountain heaves up from the darkening
lake its vast wave of luxuriant foliage—sit on one of those rocks by
the road-side, and look, if you can, without awe, at the Granite Face
hung against the luminous sky—human in its lineaments—supernatural
in size and position—weird-like in its shadowy mystery, but its sharp
outline wearing an expression of mortal sadness that gives it the
most fascinating interest! If this singular profile has existed long
enough, it must have been an object of veneration to the aborigines.
Mr. Oakes, in his White Mountain Scenery, says it was first publicly
made known to the whites only as far back as forty years ago. It is
curious to observe the odd changes of the profile, as we advance or
recede along the road. Now it resembles an old woman—now it flattens
like a negro’s face, and now its nose presents an “eagle-beak,” like
the Duke of Wellington’s! A peculiar feature of beauty in the Profile
Mountain is the rare luxuriance of its forest of birch and beech, with
an occasional hemlock rising spire-like from its groves. The “Old Man”
has a remarkable echo, with which (after a becoming deliberate pause) he
will retort every appeal, grave, quizzical, and sentimental that may
be shouted up to him by the gay idlers on the lake side.

THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.

On the opposite side of the Notch, and immediately overhanging the
hotel, a tremendous cliff is separated from the crest of the mountain by
a huge chasm, and with its numerous jagged and splintered rocks, seems
every moment about to topple down. This is the famous Eagle Cliff—so
called from a pair of eagles having made their habitation a few seasons
since on its topmost crag; and a prouder eyry for that majestic bird can
not be imagined. It is this noble cliff, with its adjacent craggy peaks,
that furnishes that picturesque irregularity of outline we have already
described as peculiar to the Franconia Notch, and which is visible for
such a great distance to the traveler coming either from the north or
south. The latter approach, however, furnishes the finest view of Eagle
Cliff. When within a mile of it, its stupendous crags fill up the centre
of the view above the road before us, and the luxuriant birches on
either side form a graceful framework, whose light airy boughs contrast
finely with the massive riven cliff they inclose. In the evening, when
the sun’s rays are withdrawn from the valley below, and the rosy light
falls alone on its rocky crags, vividly relieved by the broad shadows
of its chasm, Eagle Cliff forms indeed a worthy pendant to the “Old
Man” over the way. The accompanying sketch is taken from this point in
the road, to the left of which is seen a portion of the exquisite lake
“sweetly slumbering” between these magnificent mountains.

But the glories of the Notch are not fully seen, unless the tourist
visit it when that unrivaled colorist, Jack Frost, has lavished upon
its foliage the hues of his gorgeous pallet—their tempered brilliancy
glowing through the voluptuous haze of autumn! What a singular contrast
the opposite[Pg 7] sides of the Notch then present! Eagle Cliff allows no
motley-dressed dandies to vegetate upon his stern crags—exclusively a
mass of granite and sombre evergreens; and the hemlock-covered eastern
wall into which he extends, has its funereal vestments only here and
there slashed with stripes of bright yellow birches that mark the
mountain torrents and land-slides. But Frost, the artist, has a fairer
field for his brush on the opposite side, where the rich rolling groves
of the Profile Mountain present a bravely variegated mantle descending
from the very neck of the “Old Man,” who, with grim visage, unmoved by
so rare “a coat of many colors,” seems as indisposed as ever to bend
down that obstinate chin and take a look at himself and his finery in
the lake lying like a mirror at his feet! And even after the glory of
the leaf has passed, it is well worth a trip to see these peaks in their
cloudy costume, when the wind howls through the defile with a force
shaking the hemlock “moored in the rifted rock,” but not silencing
the muffled roar of the unseen mountain torrents. Nor as one of the
attractions of a late season must be omitted the chance of seeing
Lafayette peering with whitened head over his clansmen’s shoulders,
while perhaps the defile reposes in groves of bright and brilliant
foliage. But in spite of splendid foliage, and fresh, bracing weather,
but few tourists visit the Franconia Notch when in its heightened
glory. The artist, the wood-cutter, and the partridge have it chiefly
to themselves, and so “mine host” of the Lafayette House shuts up his
best rooms, brings from one lake his oars, from the other his swivel,
and that other echo-waking instrument—the long tin horn, now “hangs
silent on the wall,” until the hot weather of next summer brings the
crowds of travelers who know not when to travel. This scant attendance
of tourists during the finest season of the year may be attributed to
a false impression that because this Notch is confessedly one of the
coldest spots in America in winter, it must be disagreeably cold during
the early autumn. This is a mistake; the weather there being quite as
mild till the close of October as it is in the open lower country.

EAGLE CLIFF.

Proceeding southwardly through the Notch, we find its precipitous walls
gradually recede and break up into gently-sloping summits, which, at the
distance of five miles, terminate the defile, and debouch into a wide
valley, whose great descent proves the great elevation of the defile we
are now threading. For two miles we keep in view the Profile Mountain,
whose eastern front resembles the Hudson River Palisades on a gigantic
scale. Nothing can be more imposing than the front it presents—half of
it a sheer precipice of bare granite, seamed, ribbed, and riven in every
fantastic shape, resting on a sloping mass of broken rock, amid which
flourish sturdy rows of evergreens, in spite of the showers of granite
from the crumbling crags above—and which foretell the destruction that
will inevitably overtake the lineaments of the “Old Man” long before
“mighty oceans cease to roar.” The annexed sketch will convey some idea
of this stupendous front of the Profile Mountain, and also of the best
general view of the Notch. which last, unfortunately, does not from any
point present its features in sufficient concentration to do justice to
their magnitude in detail.

We are now separated from the Profile Mountain by the Pemigewasset—a
beautiful brook flowing from the lake at the feet of the “Old Man,”
whose tripping Indian name, though of unknown meaning, in sound, well
describes its course of cascades, with which it follows us through the
whole length of the defile—now dancing along our path, and now plunging
again into the[Pg 8] “listening woods,” where it “singeth a quiet tune.” Four
miles from the Notch, it suddenly rushes out to the very edge of our
road, and after foaming over several rocky ledges, collects its torn
waters, and in a solid jet piercing a narrow fissure of granite, flings
itself over into a deep pool, whose extraordinary shape and structure
have constituted it the most charming curiosity of these mountains,
under the name of The Basin. This singular pool is about twenty feet
wide, and is inclosed in a circular basin of granite, one half of which
rising to a height of fifteen feet, projects over the imprisoned waters.
Undoubtedly the way in which the solid jet of the cascade strikes the
side of the basin, giving a strong whirling motion to the pool, has
gradually excavated the rock in its present regular, mason-like shape.
Graceful birches bend over and embower this exquisite pool, that never
fails to elicit bursts of delight from visitors first gazing upon its
transparent water of the most brilliant emerald, shading off into an
intense blue-black, where the cascade strikes its surface. Its greatest
depth is about fifteen feet ordinarily, but nearly all the bed of the
pool is distinctly visible through its indescribable emerald purity,
although its surface is constantly agitated with tiny wavelets. Nature
never fashioned such a darling nook as this exquisite Basin, in which
Diana might have bathed, and issued purer from its transparent tide! The
water escapes from the pool by another narrow fissure in the lower part
of its granite rim, a projecting mass of which is said, by the ingenious
Mr. Oakes, to resemble the half-immersed “leg of some Hydropathic
Titan!” There are not wanting those who carry the fancied resemblance
still further. At present the delicate beauty and graceful contour of
the Basin are impaired and obscured somewhat by a clumsy foot-bridge
flung across its curved margin, which, it is to be hoped, the next
freshet will sweep away; and in anticipation of such wished-for fate to
the unsightly and unnecessary structure, it is omitted in the annexed
sketch.

EASTERN FRONT OF PROFILE MOUNTAIN.

A mile below the Basin, and five miles from the Notch, we come to
the termination of the defile of the Franconia Mountains. At this
point the Flume House, kept by Mr. Taft, offers the most admirable
accommodations to those who wish to linger in this noble region.
From the hotel the tourist can enjoy a magnificent review of the
majestic summits he has just passed—the Profile Mountain filling
the left of the view with one broad rounded mass, while the right is
broken up with a series of pointed peaks, whereof Mount Lafayette and
Eagle Cliff are duly prominent. This view of the Notch often assumes
strange characteristics. Frequently in stormy weather, when the
clouds elsewhere are, flying swiftly, “like cars for gods to travel
by,” the masses of vapor caught in the “Notch” seem too entangled to
escape—nay, seem to lose their very motion between those peaks, while
their brethren overhead are scudding past. And often, when the Notch
is completely enshrouded in motion[Pg 9]less cloudy gloom, we may see the
landscape and the heavens north and south of the Notch, reposing in
cloudless calm—the “bridal of the earth and sky!” By stepping to the
south piazza of Mr. Taft’s hotel, the tourist meets a prospect wholly
unlike the stern grandeur he has left. He looks down upon the valley
into which the defile debouches, and sees its gently sloping hills and
glimmering meadows receding in airy perspective, and melting in a strip
of tenderest azure at a distance of forty miles. The effect of this
beautiful vista upon eyes long fatigued with frowning crags and shadowy
ravines is inexpressibly cheering.

THE BASIN.

Within easy distance of the Flume House we find the three remaining
curiosities of the Franconia Mountains. These are the Pool, the
Cascade, and the Flume. The first of these is formed by another and
heavier cascade on the Pemigewasset, and is but an enlarged idea of the
Basin, with considerable grandeur, but with none of the fantastic
picturesque loveliness of the latter. The Pool is very wonderful,
but it does not win our affection as does the Basin, whose exquisite
beauties sink with peculiar interest into the traveler’s heart that
will, long after his return to the grave duties of town, be haunted
with the music of its cascade, be illumined with the emerald flash
of its crystal waters, and be linked with the memory of the pleasant
chance-acquaintances made within the influence of its bewitching
loveliness. Will those whose eyes have been gladdened by this choice
work of nature, deem our eulogy aught but well-merited enthusiasm?

Crossing the Pemigewasset, and following up one of its little mountain
tributaries, we come to the foot of a steep slope some two hundred feet
in height, the smooth granite face of which has been washed bare to
a width of forty feet by the violent freshets of spring. At ordinary
times, merely a thin rivulet slides noiselessly over the slope, here and
there leaving little pools whirling round in the shallow basins scooped
out of the smooth granite. This is the Cascade—only deserving the
name when a freshet occurs, and then its heavy volume of water is said
to be fearfully sublime, bringing down ice and gigantic trees which,
catching in the margin of the smooth bed, are often flung up on end by
the force of the current, and momentarily standing erect, then plunge
headlong and broken down the terrible declivity. When the stream is low
nothing can be gentler than this singular granite slope, fringed[Pg 10] with
trees. Those ascending to the Flume, will be glad to rest awhile on a
rustic bench near the top of the slope, and refresh themselves with a
draught from the cool stream sliding noiselessly past.

Above the Cascade, the stream is almost hidden among vast rocks and
fallen trees of a ravine, becoming deeper, larger, and damper with every
step. Crossing and recrossing its numerous little waterfalls by means
of rustic bridges, decayed logs, and rocks dripping and hung with the
richest moss, we suddenly emerge from the dense wood, and stand in front
of a stupendous narrow ravine which, from its fancied resemblance to the
flume of a mill, has acquired its well-known name.

The Flume is about two hundred yards in extent, its greatest height
is sixty or seventy feet, and has a general width of about twenty feet.
Its smooth sides have been excavated with the most singular evenness,
and its bed is littered up with rocky rubbish, over which brawls
the mountain brook that leaps into sight at the further end of this
remarkable corridor. At that end we find the most wonderful feature of
the Flume, for there it suddenly contracts to a width of not more
than ten feet, and in its jaws holds suspended over the cascade a huge
rock twelve feet in height, and which, being undoubtedly a boulder,
has rolled from above into the chasm, and there been held by its slight
excess of breadth—not more than two inches at the utmost.

THE FLUME.

There being neither trees, nor shrubs, nor herbage of any sort, save the
luxuriant mosses nourished by the eternal moisture, to break the long
vista of the Flume, it presents a very novel appearance to the visitor
issuing from the dense wood below, and catching a sudden and complete
view of its steep, dripping walls, and rocky bed, terminating with the
suspended boulder and the Cascade flashing underneath; while the tall
hemlocks above the cliffs, shut out all save a small patch of blue sky.
Ordinarily the stream is very low, and visitors can not only pick their
way over rocks and logs to the foot of the Cascade, but can clamber over
the granite ledges and pass under the suspended boulder that looks as
if at any moment it might slip through upon them. This feat of passing
under the rock is always a very damp one, though during the season,
troops of damsels may be seen bravely accomplishing it, scornful of the
rock above and the wet below—and doing it too without the confident
freedom of the Bloomer dress! As the Flume is little penetrated by
the sun’s rays, the eternal moisture of its depths makes it advisable
for those disposed to linger in them, to take abundant extra clothing;
fur during the warmest summer-day, when an artist issues from its damp
walls after a long siege of its curiosities with canvas and colors, he
looks as if he were rehearsing the favorite circus-feat of throwing
off multitudinous jackets and vests! By following up the ravine beyond
the suspended rock, the visitor can ascend the cliffs overhanging the
Flume; and if he or she have nerve enough, a large hemlock fallen across
the chasm affords spacious footing whence a fine bird’s-eye view of
the ravine may be enjoyed. In winter and in spring the Flume is said
to present a scene of fearful interest—now bearded with icicles, and
anon, from melting snows, filled with a torrent of ice and fallen
timber crashing in thunder through its jaws, to be launched more freely
over the broad slope of the Cascade below. Until very recently this
extraordinary ravine was wholly unknown, and it is to be regretted that
we have no authentic chronicle of the gradual cutting of the Flume
by[Pg 11] the action of its stream; and also when and by what changes the
suspended boulder has been caught in its present singular position.

VIEW ON THE PEMIGEWASSET.

We can not recross the Pemigewasset, on our return from the last great
lion of the Franconia Mountains, without another notice of that
exquisite mountain-stream. Though from its being so over-fished,
it now holds out few inducements to enthusiasts in trouting, yet the
prospect of having even “a glorious nibble,” should tempt the angler
to explore its beauties—its picturesque cascades, and deep, slumbrous
pools above and below the bridge leading to the Flume. The accompanying
sketch shows one of these numerous fairy nooks, overlooked by Mount
Liberty—the fine peak directly opposite the Flume House.

This sketch of the attractions of the great Franconia Notch must not be
closed without mention of the view from Mount Lafayette, considered by
many far more interesting than that from Mount Washington; for, though
less extensive than the latter, it embraces a far more picturesque and
beautiful region lying distinctly under the eye. Hitherto this noble
panorama has not been generally enjoyed, owing to the difficulty of its
only mode of ascent—on foot. The coming season, however, will supply
tourists with two bridle-roads, from the Lafayette House and the Flume
House, at both of which well-kept hotels, every convenience in the way
of horses and vehicles can always be had for the purpose of visiting the
various curiosities scattered along this romantic defile. Throughout
the five miles of the Franconia pass, there is not, excepting these two
hotels at either end, a single human dwelling. The growing season is
too short here to allow any thing to be raised on the patches of easy
soil dotting the defile, that would, therefore, present, were it not for
the public houses and the passing stage-coaches loaded with tourists,
a scene of primeval nature and solitude. Would that its stupendous
scenery were linked with mighty incident, and that its rare loveliness
were clothed with the sacred vestment of traditionary lore! But alas!
its magnificent grandeur and picturesque beauty, so fitted to figure
in Indian romance or the settler’s legend is sadly deficient in the
hallowing charm of historic or poetic association!

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.[1]

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.

MARENGO.

Napoleon, finding his proffers of peace rejected by England with
contumely and scorn, and declined by Austria, now prepared, with his
wonted energy, to repel the assaults of the allies. As he sat in his
cabinet at the Tuileries, the thunders of their unrelenting onset
came rolling in upon his ear from all the frontiers of France. The
hostile fleets of England swept the channel, utterly annihilating the
commerce of the Republic, landing regiments of armed emigrants upon her
coasts, furnishing money and munitions of war to rouse the partisans
of the Bourbons to civil conflict, and throwing balls and shells into
every unprotected town. On the northern frontier, Marshal Kray, came
thundering down, through the Black Forest, to the banks of the Rhine,
with a mighty host of 150,000 men, like locust legions, to pour into all
the northern provinces of France. Artillery of the heaviest calibre and
a magnificent array of cavalry accompanied [Pg 12]this apparently invincible
army. In Italy, Melas, another Austrian marshal, with 140,000 men, aided
by the whole force of the British navy, was rushing upon the eastern
and southern borders of the Republic. The French troops, disheartened
by defeat, had fled before their foes over the Alps, or were eating
their horses and their boots in the cities where they were besieged.
From almost every promontory on the coast of the Republic, washed by the
Channel, or the Mediterranean, the eye could discern English frigates,
black and threatening, holding all France in a state of blockade.

One always finds a certain pleasure in doing that which he can do well.
Napoleon was fully conscious of his military genius. He had, in behalf
of bleeding humanity, implored peace in vain. He now, with alacrity and
with joy, roused himself to inflict blows that should be felt upon his
multitudinous enemies. With such tremendous energy did he do this, that
he received from his antagonists the most complimentary sobriquet of the
one hundred thousand men. Wherever Napoleon made his appearance in the
field, his presence alone was considered equivalent to that force.

The following proclamation rang like a trumpet charge over the hills and
valleys of France. “Frenchmen! You have been anxious for peace. Your
government has desired it with still greater ardor. Its first efforts,
its most constant wishes, have been for its attainment. The English
ministry has exposed the secret of its iniquitous policy. It wishes to
dismember France, to destroy its commerce, and either to erase it from
the map of Europe, or to degrade it to a secondary power. England is
willing to embroil all the nations of the Continent in hostility with
each other, that she may enrich herself with their spoils, and gain
possession of the trade of the world. For the attainment of this object
she scatters her gold, becomes prodigal of her promises, and multiplies
her intrigues.”

At this call all the martial spirit of France rushed to arms. Napoleon,
supremely devoted to the welfare of the State, seemed to forget even
his own glory in the intensity of his desire to make France victorious
over her foes. With the most magnanimous superiority to all feelings of
jealousy, he raised an army of 150,000 men, the very élite of the troops
of France, the veterans of a hundred battles, and placed them in the
hands of Moreau, the only man in France who could be called his rival.
Napoleon also presented to Moreau the plan of a campaign, in accordance
with his own energy, boldness, and genius. Its accomplishment would
have added surpassing brilliance to the reputation of Moreau. But the
cautious general was afraid to adopt it, and presented another, perhaps
as safe, but one which would produce no dazzling impression upon the
imaginations of men. “Your plan,” said one, a friend of Moreau, to the
First Consul, “is grander, more decisive, even more sure. But it is not
adapted to the slow and cautious genius of the man who is to execute it.
You have your method of making war, which is superior to all others.
Moreau has his own, inferior certainly, but still excellent. Leave
him to himself. If you impose your ideas upon him, you will wound his
self-love, and disconcert him.”

Napoleon, profoundly versed in the knowledge of the human heart,
promptly replied. “You are right, Moreau is not capable of grasping the
plan which I have conceived. Let him follow his own course. The plan
which he does not understand and dare not execute, I myself will carry
out, on another part of the theatre of war. What he fears to attempt on
the Rhine, I will accomplish on the Alps. The day may come when he will
regret the glory which he yields to me.” These were proud and prophetic
words. Moreau was moderately victorious upon the Rhine, driving back the
invaders. The sun of Napoleon soon rose, over the field of Marengo, in
a blaze of effulgence, which paled Moreau’s twinkling star into utter
obscurity. But we know not where, upon the page of history, to find an
act of more lofty generosity than this surrender of the noblest army
of the Republic to one, who considered himself, and who was deemed by
others, a rival—and thus to throw open to him the theatre of war where
apparently the richest laurels were to be won. And we know not where
to look for a deed more proudly expressive of self-confidence. “I will
give Moreau,” said he by this act, “one hundred and fifty thousand of
the most brave and highly disciplined soldiers of France, the victors of
a hundred battles. I myself will take sixty thousand men, new recruits
and the fragments of regiments which remain, and with them I will march
to encounter an equally powerful enemy on a more difficult field of
warfare.”

Marshal Melas had spread his vast host of one hundred and forty thousand
Austrians through all the strongholds of Italy, and was pressing, with
tremendous energy and self-confidence upon the frontiers of France.
Napoleon, instead of marching with his inexperienced troops, two-thirds
of whom had never seen a shot fired in earnest, to meet the heads of
the triumphant columns of Melas, resolved to climb the rugged and
apparently inaccessible fastnesses of the Alps, and, descending from
the clouds over pathless precipices, to fall with the sweep of the
avalanche, upon their rear. It was necessary to assemble this army at
some favorable point;—to gather in vast magazines its munitions of war.
It was necessary that this should be done in secret, lest the Austrians,
climbing to the summits of the Alps, and defending the gorges through
which the troops of Napoleon would be compelled to wind their difficult
and tortuous way, might render the passage utterly impossible. English
and Austrian spies were prompt to communicate to the hostile powers
every movement of the First Consul. Napoleon fixed upon Dijon and its
vicinity as the rendezvous of his troops. He, however, adroitly and
completely deceived his foes by ostentatiously announcing the very plan
he intended to carry into operation.[Pg 13] Of course, the allies thought
that this was a foolish attempt to draw their attention from the real
point of attack. The more they ridiculed the imaginary army at Dijon,
the more loudly did Napoleon reiterate his commands for battalions and
magazines to be collected there. The spies who visited Dijon, reported
that but a few regiments were assembled in that place, and that the
announcement was clearly a very weak pretense to deceive. The print
shops of London and Vienna were filled with caricatures of the army of
the First Consul of Dijon. The English especially made themselves very
merry with Napoleon’s grand army to scale the Alps. It was believed that
the energies of the Republic were utterly exhausted in raising the force
which was given to Moreau. One of the caricatures represented the army
as consisting of a boy, dressed in his father’s clothes, shouldering
a musket, which he could with difficulty lift, and eating a piece of
gingerbread, and an old man with one arm and a wooden leg. The artillery
consisted of a rusty blunderbuss. This derision was just what Napoleon
desired. Though dwelling in the shadow of that mysterious melancholy,
which ever enveloped his spirit, he must have enjoyed in the deep
recesses of his soul, the majestic movements of his plans.

Campaign of MARENGO

On the eastern frontiers of France there surge up, from luxuriant
meadows and vine-clad fields and hill sides, the majestic ranges of
the Alps, piercing the clouds and soaring with glittering pinnacles,
into the region of perpetual ice and snow. Vast spurs of the mountains
extend on each side, opening gloomy gorges and frightful defiles,
through which foaming torrents rush impetuously, walled in by almost
precipitous cliffs, whose summits, crowned with melancholy firs, are
inaccessible to the foot of man. The principal pass over this enormous
ridge was that of the Great St. Bernard. The traveler, accompanied by a
guide, and mounted on a mule, slowly and painfully ascended a steep and
rugged path, now crossing a narrow bridge, spanning a fathomless abyss,
again creeping along the edge of a precipice, where the eagle soared and
screamed over the fir tops in the abyss below, and where a perpendicular
wall rose to giddy heights in the clouds above. The path at times was so
narrow, that it seemed that the mountain goat could with difficulty find
a foothold for its slender hoof. A false step, or a slip upon the icy
rocks would precipitate the traveler, a mangled corpse, a thousand feet
upon the fragments of granite in the gulf beneath. As higher and higher
he climbed these wild and rugged and cloud-enveloped paths, borne by the
unerring instinct of the faithful mule, his steps were often arrested
by the roar of the avalanche, and he gazed appalled upon its resistless
rush, as rocks, and trees, and earth, and snow, and ice, swept by him
with awful and resistless desolation, far down into the dimly discerned
torrents which rushed beneath his feet. At God’s bidding the avalanche
fell. No precaution could save the traveler who was in its path. He
was instantly borne to destruction, and buried where no voice but the
archangel’s trump could ever reach his ear. Terrific storms of wind and
snow often swept through those bleak altitudes, blinding and smothering
the traveler. Hundreds of bodies, like pillars of ice, embalmed in
snow, are now sepulchred in those drifts, there to sleep till the fires
of the last conflagration shall have consumed their winding sheet.
Having toiled two days through such scenes of desolation and peril, the
adventurous traveler stands upon the summit of the pass, eight thousand
feet above the level of the sea, two thousand feet higher than the crest
of Mount Washington, our own mountain monarch. This summit, over which
the path winds, consists of a small level plain, surrounded by mountains
of snow of still higher elevation.

The scene here presented is inexpressibly[Pg 14] gloomy and appalling. Nature
in these wild regions assumes her most severe and sombre aspect. As one
emerges from the precipitous and craggy ascent, upon this Valley of
Desolation, as it is emphatically called, the Convent of St. Bernard
presents itself to the view. This cheerless abode, the highest spot of
inhabited ground in Europe, has been tenanted, for more than a thousand
years, by a succession of joyless and self-denying monks, who, in that
frigid retreat of granite and ice, endeavor to serve their Maker, by
rescuing bewildered travelers from the destruction with which they are
ever threatened to be overwhelmed by the storms, which battle against
them. In the middle of this ice-bound valley, lies a lake, clear, dark,
and cold, whose depths, even in midsummer, reflect the eternal glaciers
which soar sublimely around. The descent to the plains of Italy is
even more precipitous and dangerous than the ascent from the green
pastures of France. No vegetation adorns these dismal and storm-swept
cliffs of granite and of ice. Even the pinion of the eagle fails in
its rarified air, and the chamois ventures not to climb its steep and
slippery crags. No human beings are ever to be seen on these bleak
summits, except the few shivering travelers, who tarry for an hour to
receive the hospitality of the convent, and the hooded monks, wrapped
in thick and coarse garments, with their staves and their dogs, groping
through the storms of sleet and snow. Even the wood which burns with
frugal faintness on their hearths, is borne, in painful burdens, up the
mountain sides, upon the shoulders of the monks.

Such was the barrier which Napoleon intended to surmount, that he might
fall upon the rear of the Austrians, who were battering down the walls
of Genoa, where Massena was besieged, and who were thundering, flushed
with victory, at the very gates of Nice. Over this wild mountain pass,
where the mule could with difficulty tread, and where no wheel had
ever rolled, or by any possibility could roll, Napoleon contemplated
transporting an army of sixty thousand men, with ponderous artillery
and tons of cannon balls, and baggage, and all the bulky munitions of
war. England and Austria laughed the idea to scorn. The achievement
of such an enterprise was apparently impossible. Napoleon, however,
was as skillful in the arrangement of the minutest details, as in the
conception of the grandest combinations. Though he resolved to take the
mass of his army, forty thousand strong, across the pass of the Great
St. Bernard, yet to distract the attention of the Austrians, he arranged
also to send small divisions across the passes of Saint Gothard, Little
St. Bernard, and Mount Cenis. He would thus accumulate suddenly, and to
the utter amazement of the enemy, a body of sixty-five thousand men upon
the plains of Italy. This force, descending, like an apparition from
the clouds, in the rear of the Austrian army, headed by Napoleon, and
cutting off all communication with Austria, might indeed strike a panic
into the hearts of the assailants of France.

The troops were collected in various places in the vicinity of Dijon,
ready at a moment’s warning to assemble at the point of rendezvous, and
with a rush to enter the defile. Immense magazines of wheat, biscuit,
and oats had been noiselessly collected in different places. Large sums
of specie had been forwarded, to hire the services of every peasant,
with his mule, who inhabited the valleys among the mountains. Mechanic
shops, as by magic, suddenly rose along the path, well supplied with
skillful artisans, to repair all damages, to dismount the artillery, to
divide the gun-carriages and the baggage-wagons into fragments, that
they might be transported, on the backs of men and mules, over the steep
and rugged way. For the ammunition a vast number of small boxes were
prepared, which could easily be packed upon the mules. A second company
of mechanics, with camp forges, had been provided to cross the mountain
with the first division, and rear their shops upon the plain on the
other side, to mend the broken harness, to reconstruct the carriages,
and remount the pieces. On each side of the mountain a hospital was
established and supplied with every comfort for the sick and the
wounded. The foresight of Napoleon extended even to sending, at the
very last moment, to the convent upon the summit, an immense quantity
of bread, cheese, and wine. Each soldier, to his surprise, was to find,
as he arrived at the summit, exhausted with Herculean toil, a generous
slice of bread and cheese with a refreshing cup of wine, presented to
him by the monks. All these minute details Napoleon arranged, while
at the same time he was doing the work of a dozen energetic men, in
re-organizing the whole structure of society in France. If toil pays for
greatness, Napoleon purchased the renown which he attained. And yet his
body and his mind were so constituted that this sleepless activity was
to him a pleasure.

The appointed hour at last arrived. On the 7th of May, 1800, Napoleon
entered his carriage at the Tuileries, saying, “Good-by, my dear
Josephine! I must go to Italy. I shall not forget you, and I will not
be absent long.” At a word, the whole majestic array was in motion.
Like a meteor he swept over France. He arrived at the foot of the
mountains. The troops and all the paraphernalia of war were on the spot
at the designated hour. Napoleon immediately appointed a very careful
inspection. Every foot soldier and every horseman passed before his
scrutinizing eye. If a shoe was ragged, or a jacket torn, or a musket
injured, the defect was immediately repaired. His glowing words inspired
the troops with the ardor which was burning in his own bosom. The
genius of the First Consul was infused into the mighty host. Each man
exerted himself to the utmost. The eye of their chief was every where,
and his cheering voice roused the army to almost superhuman exertions.
Two skillful engineers had been sent to explore the path, and to do
what could be done in the removal of obstructions. They returned with
an appalling recital of the[Pg 15] apparently insurmountable difficulties of
the way. “Is it possible,” inquired Napoleon, “to cross the pass?”
“Perhaps,” was the hesitating reply, “it is within the limits of
possibility.” “Forward, then,” was the energetic response. Each man
was required to carry, besides his arms, food for several days and a
large quantity of cartridges. As the sinuosities of the precipitous path
could only be trod in single file, the heavy wheels were taken from the
carriages, and each, slung upon a pole, was borne by two men. The task
for the foot soldiers was far less than for the horsemen. The latter
clambered up on foot, dragging their horses after them. The descent was
very dangerous. The dragoon, in the steep and narrow path, was compelled
to walk before his horse. At the least stumble he was exposed to being
plunged headlong into the abysses yawning before him. In this way many
horses and several riders perished. To transport the heavy cannon and
howitzers pine logs were split in the centre, the parts hollowed out,
and the guns sunk into the grooves. A long string of mules, in single
file, were attached to the ponderous machines of war, to drag them up
the slippery ascent. The mules soon began to fail, and then the men,
with hearty good-will, brought their own shoulders into the harness—a
hundred men to a single gun. Napoleon offered the peasants two hundred
dollars for the transportation of a twelve-pounder over the pass. The
love of gain was not strong enough to lure them to such tremendous
exertions. But Napoleon’s fascination over the hearts of his soldiers
was a more powerful impulse. With shouts of encouragement they toiled at
the cables, successive bands of a hundred men relieving each other every
half hour. High on those craggy steeps, gleaming through the mist, the
glittering bands of armed men, like phantoms appeared. The eagle wheeled
and screamed beneath their feet. The mountain goat, affrighted by the
unwonted spectacle, bounded away, and paused in bold relief upon the
cliff to gaze upon the martial array which so suddenly had peopled the
solitude.

DRAWING A GUN OVER GREAT ST. BERNARD.

[Pg 16]

When they approached any spot of very especial difficulty the trumpets
sounded the charge, which re-echoed, with sublime reverberations, from
pinnacle to pinnacle of rock and ice. Animated by these bugle notes,
the soldiers strained every nerve as if rushing upon the foe. Napoleon
offered to these bands the same reward which he had promised to the
peasants. But to a man, they refused the gold. They had imbibed the
spirit of their chief, his enthusiasm, and his proud superiority to all
mercenary motives. “We are not toiling for money,” said they, “but for
your approval, and to share your glory.”

Napoleon with his wonderful tact had introduced a slight change into
the artillery service, which was productive of immense moral results.
The gun carriages had heretofore been driven by mere wagoners, who,
being considered not as soldiers, but as servants, and sharing not in
the glory of victory, were uninfluenced by any sentiment of honor. At
the first approach of danger, they were ready to cut their traces and
gallop from the field, leaving their cannon in the hands of the enemy.
Napoleon said, “The cannoneer who brings his piece into action, performs
as valuable a service as the cannoneer who works it. He runs the same
danger, and requires the same moral stimulus, which is the sense of
honor.” He therefore converted the artillery drivers into soldiers,
and clothed them in the uniform of their respective regiments. They
constituted twelve thousand horsemen who were animated with as much
pride in carrying their pieces into action, and in bringing them off
with rapidity and safety, as the gunners felt in loading, directing,
and discharging them. It was now the great glory of these men to take
care of their guns. They loved, tenderly, the merciless monsters. They
lavished caresses and terms of endearment upon the glittering, polished,
death-dealing brass. The heart of man is a strange enigma. Even when
most degraded it needs something to love. These blood-stained soldiers,
brutalized by vice, amidst all the horrors of battle, lovingly fondled
the murderous machines of war, responding to the appeal “call me pet
names, dearest.” The unrelenting gun was the stern cannoneer’s lady
love. He kissed it with unwashed, mustached lip. In rude and rough
devotion he was ready to die rather than abandon the only object of his
idolatrous homage. Consistently he baptized the life-devouring monster
with blood. Affectionately he named it Mary, Emma, Lizzie. In crossing
the Alps, dark night came on as some cannoneers were floundering
through drifts of snow, toiling at their gun. They would not leave
the gun alone in the cold storm to seek for themselves a dry bivouac;
but, like brothers guarding a sister, they threw themselves, for the
night, upon the bleak and frozen snow, by its side. It was the genius
of Napoleon which thus penetrated these mysterious depths of the human
soul, and called to his aid those mighty energies. “It is nothing but
imagination,” said one once to Napoleon. “Nothing but imagination!” he
rejoined. “Imagination rules the world.“

When they arrived at the summit each soldier found, to his surprise and
joy, the abundant comforts which Napoleon’s kind care had provided. One
would have anticipated there a scene of terrible confusion. To feed
an army of forty thousand hungry men is not a light undertaking. Yet
every thing was so carefully arranged, and the influence of Napoleon
so boundless, that not a soldier left the ranks. Each man received his
slice of bread and cheese, and quaffed his cup of wine, and passed on.
It was a point of honor for no one to stop. Whatever obstructions were
in the way were to be at all hazards surmounted, that the long file,
extending nearly twenty miles, might not be thrown into confusion. The
descent was more perilous than the ascent. But fortune seemed to smile.
The sky was clear, the weather delightful, and in four days the whole
army was reassembled on the plains of Italy.

Napoleon had sent Berthier forward to receive the division, and to
superintend all necessary repairs, while he himself remained to press
forward the mighty host. He was the last man to cross the mountains.
Seated upon a mule, with a young peasant for his guide, slowly and
thoughtfully he ascended those silent solitudes. He was dressed in the
gray great coat which he always wore. Art has pictured him as bounding
up the cliff, proudly mounted on a prancing charger. But truth presents
him in an attitude more simple and more sublime. Even the young peasant
who acted as his guide was entirely unconscious of the distinguished
rank of the plain traveler whose steps he was conducting. Much of the
way Napoleon was silent, abstracted in thoughts. And yet he found time
for human sympathy. He drew from his young and artless guide the secrets
of his heart. The young peasant was sincere and virtuous. He loved a
fair maid among the mountains. She loved him. It was his heart’s great
desire to have her for his own. He was poor and had neither house nor
land to support a family. Napoleon struggling with all his energies
against combined England and Austria, and with all the cares of an army,
on the march to meet one hundred and twenty thousand foes, crowding his
mind, with pensive sympathy won the confidence of his companion and
elicited this artless recital of love and desire. As Napoleon dismissed
his guide, with an ample reward, he drew from his pocket a pencil and
upon a loose piece of paper wrote[Pg 17] a few lines, which he requested the
young man to give, on his return, to the Administrator of the Army,
upon the other side. When the guide returned, and presented the note,
he found, to his unbounded surprise and delight, that he had conducted
Napoleon over the mountains; and that Napoleon had given him a field
and a house. He was thus enabled to be married, and to realize all
the dreams of his modest ambition. Generous impulses must have been
instinctive in a heart, which in an hour so fraught with mighty events,
could turn from the toils of empire and of war, to find refreshment in
sympathizing with a peasant’s love. This young man but recently died,
having passed his quiet life in the enjoyment of the field and the
cottage which had been given him by the ruler of the world.

NAPOLEON ASCENDING THE ALPS.

The army now pressed forward, with great alacrity, along the banks of
the Aosta. They were threading a beautiful valley, rich in verdure and
blooming beneath the sun of early spring. Cottages, vineyards, and
orchards, in full bloom, embellished their path, while upon each side of
them rose, in majestic swell, the fir-clad sides of the mountains. The
Austrians pressing against the frontiers of France, had no conception of
the storm which had so suddenly gathered, and which was, with resistless
sweep, approaching their rear. The French soldiers, elated with the
Herculean achievement they had accomplished, and full of confidence in
their leader, pressed gayly on. But the valley before them began to
grow more and more narrow. The mountains, on either side, rose more
precipitous and craggy. The Aosta, crowded into a narrow channel, rushed
foaming over the rocks, leaving barely room for a road along the side
of the mountain. Suddenly the march of the whole army was arrested
by[Pg 18] a fort, built upon an inaccessible rock, which rose pyramidally
from the bed of the stream. Bristling cannon, skillfully arranged
on well-constructed bastions, swept the pass, and rendered further
advance apparently impossible. Rapidly the tidings of this unexpected
obstruction spread from the van to the rear. Napoleon immediately
hastened to the front ranks. Climbing the mountain opposite the fort, by
a goat path, he threw himself down upon the ground, when a few bushes
concealed his person from the shot of the enemy, and with his telescope
long and carefully examined the fort and the surrounding crags. He
perceived one elevated spot, far above the fort, where a cannon might by
possibility be drawn. From that position its shot could be plunged upon
the unprotected bastions below. Upon the face of the opposite cliff, far
beyond the reach of cannon-balls, he discerned a narrow shelf in the
rock by which he thought it possible that a man could pass. The march
was immediately commenced, in single file, along this giddy ridge. And
even the horses, inured to the terrors of the Great St. Bernard, were
led by their riders upon the narrow path, which a horse’s hoof had never
trod before, and probably will never tread again. The Austrians, in the
fort, had the mortification of seeing thirty-five thousand soldiers,
with numerous horses, defile along this airy line, as if adhering to the
side of the rock. But neither bullet nor ball could harm them.

PASSING THE FORT OF BARD.

Napoleon ascended this mountain ridge, and upon its summit, quite
exhausted with days and nights of sleeplessness and toil, laid himself
down, in the shadow of the rock, and fell asleep. The long line filed
carefully and silently by, each soldier hushing his comrade, that the
repose of their beloved chieftain might not be disturbed. It was an
interesting spectacle, to witness the tender affection, beaming from the
countenances of these bronzed and war-worn veterans, as every foot trod
softly, and each eye, in passing, was riveted upon the slender form, and
upon the pale and wasted cheek of the sleeping Napoleon.

The artillery could by no possibility be thus transported; and an army
without artillery is a soldier without weapons. The Austrian commander
wrote to Melas, that he had seen an army of thirty-five thousand men
and four thousand horse creeping by the fort, along the face of Mount
Albaredo. He assured the commander-in-chief, however, that not one
single piece of artillery had passed or could pass beneath the guns of
his fortress. When he was writing this letter, already had one half of
the cannon and ammunition of the army been conveyed by the fort, and
were safely and rapidly proceeding on their way down the valley. In
the darkness of the night trusty men, with great caution and silence,
strewed hay and straw upon the road. The wheels of the lumbering
carriages were carefully bound with cloths and wisps of straw, and, with
axles well oiled, were drawn by the hands of these picked men, beneath
the very walls of the fortress, and within half pistol-shot of its guns.
In two nights the artillery and the baggage-trains were thus passed
along, and in a few days the fort itself was compelled to surrender.

Melas, the Austrian commander, now awoke in consternation to a sense
of his peril. Napoleon—the dreaded Napoleon—had, as by a miracle,
crossed the Alps. He had cut off all his supplies, and was shutting
the Austrians up from any possibility of retreat. Bewildered by the
magnitude of his peril, he no longer thought of forcing his march upon
Paris. The invasion of France was abandoned. His whole energies were
directed to opening for himself a passage back to Austria. The most
cruel perplexities agitated him. From the very pinnacle of victory, he
was in danger of descending to the deepest abyss of defeat. It was also
with Napoleon an hour of intense solicitude. He had but sixty thousand
men, two-thirds of whom were new soldiers, who had never seen a shot
fired in earnest, with whom he was to arrest the march of a desperate
army of one hundred and twenty thousand veterans, abundantly provided
with all the most efficient machinery of war. There were many paths by
which Melas might escape, at leagues’ distance from each other. It was
necessary for Napoleon to divide his little band that he might guard
them all. He was liable at any moment to have a division of his army
attacked by an overwhelming force, and cut to pieces before it could
receive any reinforcements. He ate not, he slept not, he rested not.
Day and night, and night and day, he was on horseback, pale, pensive,
apparently in feeble health, and interesting every beholder with his
grave and melancholy beauty. His scouts were out in every direction.
He studied all the possible movements and combinations of his foes.
Rapidly he overran Lombardy, and entered Milan in triumph. Melas
anxiously concentrated his forces, to break through the net with which
he was entangled. He did every thing in his power to deceive Napoleon,
by various feints, that the point of his contemplated attack might not
be known. Napoleon, in the following clarion tones, appealed to the
enthusiasm of his troops:

“Soldiers! when we began our march, one department of France was in the
hands of the enemy. Consternation pervaded the south of the Republic.
You advanced. Already the French territory is delivered. Joy and hope
in our country have succeeded to consternation and fear. The enemy,
terror-struck, seeks only to regain his frontiers. You have taken his
hospitals, his magazines, his reserve parks. The first act of the
campaign is finished. Millions of men address you in strains of praise.
But shall we allow our audacious enemies to violate with impunity the
territory of the Republic? Will you permit the army to escape which has
carried terror into your families? You will not. March, then, to meet
him. Tear from his brows the laurels he has won. Teach the world that a
malediction attends those who violate the territory of the Great People.
The result of our efforts will be unclouded glory, and a durable peace!”

The very day Napoleon left Paris, Desaix arrived in France from Egypt.
Frank, sincere, upright, and punctiliously honorable, he was one of the
few whom Napoleon truly loved. Desaix regarded Napoleon as infinitely
his superior, and looked up to him with a species of adoration; he
loved him with a fervor of feeling which amounted almost to a passion.
Napoleon, touched, by the affection of a heart so noble, requited it
with the most confiding friendship. Desaix, upon his arrival in Paris,
found letters for him there from[Pg 19] the First Consul. As he read the
confidential lines, he was struck with the melancholy air with which
they were pervaded. “Alas!” said he, “Napoleon has gained every thing,
and yet he is unhappy. I must hasten to meet him.” Without delay he
crossed the Alps, and arrived at the head-quarters of Napoleon but a
few days before the battle of Marengo. They passed the whole night
together, talking over the events of Egypt and the prospects of France.
Napoleon felt greatly strengthened by the arrival of his noble friend,
and immediately assigned to him the command of a division of the army.
“Desaix,” said he, “is my sheet anchor.”

“You have had a long interview with Desaix,” said Bourrienne to Napoleon
the next morning. “Yes!” he replied; “but I had my reasons. As soon as
I return to Paris I shall make him Minister of War. He shall always be
my lieutenant. I would make him a prince if I could. He is of the heroic
mould of antiquity!”

Napoleon was fully aware that a decisive battle would soon take place.
Melas was rapidly, from all points, concentrating his army. The
following laconic and characteristic order was issued by the First
Consul to Lannes and Murat: “Gather your forces at the river Stradella.
On the 8th or 9th at the latest, you will have on your hands fifteen
or eighteen thousand Austrians. Meet them, and cut them to pieces. It
will be so many enemies less upon our hands on the day of the decisive
battle we are to expect with the entire army of Melas.” The prediction
was true. An Austrian force advanced, eighteen thousand strong. Lannes
met them upon the field of Montebello. They were strongly posted, with
batteries ranged upon the hill sides, which swept the whole plain.
It was of the utmost moment that this body should be prevented from
combining with the other vast forces of the Austrians. Lannes had but
eight thousand men. Could he sustain the unequal conflict for a few
hours, Victor, who was some miles in the rear, could come up with a
reserve of four thousand men. The French soldiers, fully conscious of
the odds against which they were to contend, and of the carnage into
the midst of which they were plunging, with shouts of enthusiasm rushed
upon their foes. Instantaneously a storm of grape-shot from all the
batteries swept through his ranks. Said Lannes, “I could hear the
bones crash in my division, like glass in a hail-storm.” For nine
long hours, from eleven in the morning till eight at night, the horrid
carnage continued. Again and again the mangled, bleeding, wasted columns
were rallied to the charge. At last, when three thousand Frenchmen were
strewn dead upon the ground, the Austrians broke and fled, leaving also
three thousand mutilated corpses and six thousand prisoners behind them.
Napoleon, hastening to the aid of his lieutenant, arrived upon the field
just in time to see the battle won. He rode up to Lannes. The intrepid
soldier stood in the midst of mounds of the dead—his sword dripping
with blood in his exhausted hand—his face blackened with powder and
smoke—and his[Pg 20] uniform soiled and tattered by the long and terrific
strife. Napoleon silently, but proudly smiled upon the heroic general,
and forgot not his reward. From this battle Lannes received the title of
Duke of Montebello, a title by which his family is distinguished to the
present day.

This was the opening of the campaign. It inspired the French with
enthusiasm. It nerved the Austrians to despair. Melas now determined
to make a desperate effort to break through the toils. Napoleon, with
intense solicitude, was watching every movement of his foe, knowing not
upon what point the onset would fall. Before daybreak in the morning
of the 14th of June, Melas, having accumulated forty thousand men,
including seven thousand cavalry and two hundred pieces of cannon, made
an impetuous assault upon the French, but twenty thousand in number,
drawn up upon the plain of Marengo. Desaix, with a reserve of six
thousand men, was at such a distance, nearly thirty miles from Marengo,
that he could not possibly be recalled before the close of the day. The
danger was frightful that the French would be entirely cut to pieces,
before any succor could arrive. But the quick ear of Desaix caught the
sound of the heavy cannonade as it came booming over the plain, like
distant thunder. He sprung from his couch and listened. The heavy and
uninterrupted roar, proclaimed a pitched battle, and he was alarmed for
his beloved chief. Immediately he roused his troops, and they started
upon the rush to succor their comrades. Napoleon dispatched courier
after courier to hurry the division along, while his troops stood firm
through terrific hours, as their ranks were plowed by the murderous
discharges of their foes. At last the destruction was too awful for
mortal men to endure. Many divisions of the army broke and fled, crying,
“All is lost—save himself who can.” A scene of frightful disorder
ensued. The whole plain was covered with fugitives, swept like an
inundation before the multitudinous Austrians. Napoleon still held a few
squares together, who slowly and sullenly retreated, while two hundred
pieces of artillery, closely pressing them, poured incessant death into
their ranks. Every foot of ground was left encumbered with the dead. It
was now three o’clock in the afternoon. Melas, exhausted with toil, and
assured that he had gained a complete victory, left Gen. Zach to finish
the work. He retired to his head-quarters, and immediately dispatched
couriers all over Europe to announce the great victory of Marengo. Said
an Austrian veteran, who had before encountered Napoleon at Arcola and
Rivoli, “Melas is too sanguine. Depend upon it, our day’s work is not
yet done. Napoleon will yet be upon us with his reserve.”

Just then the anxious eye of the First Consul espied the solid columns
of Desaix entering the plain. Desaix, plunging his spurs into his horse,
outstripped all the rest, and galloped into the presence of Napoleon. As
he cast a glance over the wild confusion and devastation of the field,
he exclaimed hurriedly, “I see that the battle is lost. I suppose I can
do no more for you than to secure your retreat.” “By no means,” Napoleon
replied, with apparently as much composure as if he had been sitting
by his own fireside, “the battle, I trust, is gained. Charge with your
column. The disordered troops will rally in your rear.” Like a rock,
Desaix, with his solid phalanx of ten thousand men, met the on-rolling
billow of Austrian victory. At the same time Napoleon dispatched an
order to Kellerman, with his cavalry, to charge the triumphant column
of the Austrians in flank. It was the work of a moment, and the whole
aspect of the field was changed. Napoleon rode along the lines of
those on the retreat, exclaiming, “My friends, we have retreated far
enough. It is now our turn to advance. Recollect that I am in the habit
of sleeping on the field of battle.” The fugitives, reanimated by the
arrival of the reserve, immediately rallied in their rear. The double
charge in front and flank was instantly made. The Austrians were checked
and staggered. A perfect tornado of bullets from Desaix’s division swept
their ranks. They poured an answering volley into the bosoms of the
French. A bullet pierced the breast of Desaix, and he fell and almost
immediately expired. His last words were, “Tell the First Consul that
my only regret in dying is, to have perished before having done enough
to live in the recollection of posterity.” The soldiers, who devotedly
loved him, saw his fall, and rushed more madly on to avenge his death.
The swollen tide of uproar, confusion, and dismay now turned, and
rolled in surging billows in the opposite direction. Hardly one moment
elapsed before the Austrians, flushed with victory, found themselves
overwhelmed by defeat. In the midst of this terrific scene, an aid rode
up to Napoleon and said, “Desaix is dead.” But a moment before they were
conversing side by side. Napoleon pressed his forehead convulsively with
his hand, and exclaimed, mournfully, “Why is it not permitted me to
weep! Victory at such a price is dear.”

The French now made the welkin ring with shouts of victory.
Indescribable dismay filled the Austrian ranks as wildly they rushed
before their unrelenting pursuers. Their rout was utter and hopeless.
When the sun went down over this field of blood, after twelve hours
of the most frightful carnage, a scene was presented horrid enough to
appall the heart of a demon. More than twenty thousand human bodies were
strewn upon the ground, the dying and the dead, weltering in gore, and
in every conceivable form of disfiguration. Horses, with limbs torn from
their bodies, were struggling in convulsive agonies. Fragments of guns
and swords, and of military wagons of every kind were strewed around
in wild ruin. Frequent piercing cries, which agony extorted from the
lacerated victims of war, rose above the general moanings of anguish,
which, like wailings of the storm, fell heavily upon the ear. The shades
of night were now descending upon this awful scene of misery. The
multitude of the wounded was so great, that notwithstanding the utmost
exertions of the surgeons, hour after hour of the long night lingered
away, while thousands of the wounded and the dying bit the dust in their
agony.

If war has its chivalry and its pageantry, it has also revolting
hideousness and demoniac woe. The young, the noble, the sanguine were
writhing there in agony. Bullets respect not beauty. They tear out
the eye, and shatter the jaw, and rend the cheek, and transform the
human face divine into an aspect upon which one can not gaze but with
horror. From the field of Marengo many a young man returned to his home
so mutilated as no longer to be recognized by friends, and passed a
weary life in repulsive deformity. Mercy abandons the arena of battle.
The frantic war-horse with iron hoof tramples upon the mangled face,
the throbbing and inflamed wounds, the splintered bones, and heeds not
the shriek of torture. Crushed into the bloody mire by the ponderous
wheels of heavy artillery, the victim of barbaric war thinks of mother,
and father, and sister, and home, and shrieks, and moans, and dies;
his body is stripped by the vagabonds who follow the camp; his naked,
mangled corpse is covered with a few shovels-full of earth, and left as
food for vultures and for dogs, and he is forgotten forever—and it is
called glory. He who loves war, for the sake of its excitements, its
pageantry, and its fancied glory, is the most eminent of all the dupes
of folly and of sin. He who loathes war, with inexpressible loathing,
who will do every thing in his power to avert the dire and horrible
calamity, but who will, nevertheless, in the last extremity, with a
determined spirit, encounter all its perils, from love of country and of
home, who is willing to sacrifice himself and all that is dear to him in
life, to promote the well-being of his fellow-man, will ever receive the
homage of the world, and we also fully believe that he will receive the
approval of God. Washington abhorred war in all its forms, yet he braved
all its perils.

For the carnage of the field of Marengo, Napoleon can not be held
responsible. Upon England and Austria must rest all the guilt of that
awful tragedy. Napoleon had done every thing he could do to stop the
effusion of blood. He had sacrificed the instincts of pride, in pleading
with a haughty foe for peace. His plea was unavailing. Three hundred
thousand men were marching upon France to force upon her a detested
king. It was not the duty of France to submit to such dictation. Drawing
the sword in self-defense, Napoleon fought and conquered. “Te Deum
laudamus.”

It is not possible but that Napoleon must have been elated by so
resplendent a victory. He knew that Marengo would be classed as the most
brilliant of his achievements. The blow had fallen with such terrible
severity that the haughty allies were thoroughly humbled. Melas was now
at his mercy. Napoleon could dictate peace upon his own terms. Yet he
rode over the field of his victory with a saddened spirit, and gazed[Pg 21]
mournfully upon the ruin and the wretchedness around him. As he was
slowly and thoughtfully passing along, through the heaps of the dead
with which the ground was encumbered, he met a number of carts, heavily
laden with the wounded, torn by balls, and bullets, and fragments of
shells, into most hideous spectacles of deformity. As the heavy wheels
lumbered over the rough ground, grating the splintered bones, and
bruising and opening afresh the inflamed wounds, shrieks of torture were
extorted from the victims. Napoleon stopped his horse and uncovered
his head, as the melancholy procession of misfortune and woe passed
along. Turning to a companion, he said, “We can not but regret not being
wounded like these unhappy men, that we might share their sufferings.”
A more touching expression of sympathy never has been recorded. He who
says that this was hypocrisy is a stranger to the generous impulses of a
noble heart. This instinctive outburst of emotion never could have been
instigated by policy.

Napoleon had fearlessly exposed himself to every peril during this
conflict. His clothes were repeatedly pierced by bullets. Balls struck
between the legs of his horse, covering him with earth. A cannon-ball
took away a piece of the boot from his left leg and a portion of the
skin, leaving a scar which was never obliterated.

Before Napoleon marched for Italy, he had made every effort in his power
for the attainment of peace. Now, with magnanimity above all praise,
without waiting for the first advance from his conquered foes, he wrote
again imploring peace. Upon the field of Marengo, having scattered
all his enemies like chaff before him, with the smoke of the conflict
still darkening the air, and the groans of the dying swelling upon his
ear, laying aside all the formalities of state, with heartfelt feeling
and earnestness he wrote to the Emperor of Austria. This extraordinary
epistle was thus commenced:

“Sire! It is on the field of battle, amid the sufferings of a multitude
of wounded, and surrounded by fifteen thousand corpses, that I beseech
your majesty to listen to the voice of humanity, and not to suffer two
brave nations to cut each others’ throats for interests not their own.
It is my part to press this upon your majesty, being upon the very
theatre of war. Your majesty’s heart can not feel it so keenly as does
mine.”

The letter was long and most eloquent. “For what are you fighting?”
said Napoleon. “For religion? Then make war on the Russians and the
English, who are the enemies of your faith. Do you wish to guard against
revolutionary principles? It is this very war which has extended them
over half the Continent, by extending the conquests of France. The
continuance of the war can not fail to diffuse them still further. Is
it for the balance of Europe? The English threaten that balance far
more than does France, for they have become the masters and the tyrants
of commerce, and are beyond the reach of resistance. Is it to secure
the interests of the house[Pg 22] of Austria! Let us then execute the treaty
of Campo Formio, which secures to your majesty large indemnities in
compensation for the provinces lost in the Netherlands, and secures
them to you where you most wish to obtain them, that is, in Italy. Your
majesty may send negotiators whither you will, and we will add to the
treaty of Campo Formio stipulations calculated to assure you of the
continued existence of the secondary states, all of which the French
Republic is accused of having shaken. Upon these conditions peace is
made, if you will. Let us make the armistice general for all the armies,
and enter into negotiations instantly.”

A courier was immediately dispatched to Vienna, to convey this letter
to the Emperor. In the evening, Bourrienne hastened to congratulate
Napoleon upon his extraordinary victory. “What a glorious day!” said
Bourrienne. “Yes!” replied Napoleon, mournfully; “very glorious—could I
this evening but have embraced Desaix upon the field of battle.”

On the same day, and at nearly the same hour in which the fatal bullet
pierced the breast of Desaix, an assassin in Egypt plunged a dagger
into the bosom of Kleber. The spirits of these illustrious men, these
blood-stained warriors, thus unexpectedly met in the spirit-land. There
they wander now. How impenetrable the veil which shuts their destiny
from our view. The soul longs for clearer vision of that far-distant
world, peopled by the innumerable host of the mighty dead. There
Napoleon now dwells. Does he retain his intellectual supremacy? Do
his generals gather around him with love and homage? Has his pensive
spirit sunk down into gloom and despair, or has it soared into cloudless
regions of purity and peace? The mystery of death! Death alone can solve
it. Christianity, with its lofty revealings, sheds but dim twilight upon
the world of departed spirits. At St. Helena Napoleon said, “Of all the
generals I ever had under my command Desaix and Kleber possessed the
greatest talent. In particular Desaix, as Kleber loved glory only as the
means of acquiring wealth and pleasure. Desaix loved glory for itself,
and despised every other consideration. To him riches and pleasure
were of no value, nor did he ever give them a moment’s thought. He was
a little black-looking man, about an inch shorter than myself, always
badly dressed, sometimes even ragged, and despising alike comfort and
convenience. Enveloped in a cloak, Desaix would throw himself under a
gun and sleep as contentedly as if reposing in a palace. Luxury had
for him no charms. Frank and honest in all his proceedings, he was
denominated by the Arabs Sultan the Just. Nature intended him to figure
as a consummate general. Kleber and Desaix were irreparable losses to
France.”

It is impossible to describe the dismay, which pervaded the camp of the
Austrians after this terrible defeat. They were entirely cut off from
all retreat, and were at the mercy of Napoleon. A council of war was
held by the Austrian officers during the night, and it was unanimously
resolved that capitulation was unavoidable. Early the next morning a
flag of truce was sent to the head-quarters of Napoleon. The Austrians
offered to abandon Italy, if the generosity of the victor would grant
them the boon of not being made prisoners of war. Napoleon met the envoy
with great courtesy, and, according to his custom, stated promptly and
irrevocably the conditions upon which he was willing to treat. The terms
were generous. “The Austrian armies,” said he, “may unmolested return to
their homes; but all of Italy must be abandoned.” Melas, who was eighty
years of age, hoped to modify the terms, and again sent the negotiator
to suggest some alterations. “Monsieur!” said Napoleon, “my conditions
are irrevocable. I did not begin to make war yesterday. Your position
is as perfectly comprehended by me as by yourselves. You are encumbered
with dead, sick, and wounded, destitute of provisions, deprived of the
élite of your army, surrounded on every side, I might exact every thing.
But I respect the white hairs of your general, and the valor of your
soldiers. I ask nothing but what is rigorously justified by the present
position of affairs. Take what steps you may, you will have no other
terms.” The conditions were immediately signed, and a suspension of arms
was agreed upon, until an answer could be received from Vienna.

Napoleon left Paris for this campaign on the 7th of May. The battle of
Marengo was fought on the 14th of June. Thus in five weeks Napoleon had
scaled the barrier of the Alps: with sixty thousand soldiers, most of
them undisciplined recruits, he had utterly discomfited an army of one
hundred and twenty thousand men, and regained the whole of Italy. The
achievement amazed the civilized world. The bosom of every Frenchman
throbbed with gratitude and pride. One wild shout of enthusiasm ascended
from united France. Napoleon had laid the foundation of his throne deep
in the heart of the French nation, and there that foundation still
remains unshaken.

Napoleon now entered Milan in triumph. He remained there ten days,
busy apparently every hour, by day and by night, in re-organizing the
political condition of Italy. The serious and religious tendencies of
his mind are developed by the following note, which four days after the
battle of Marengo, he wrote to the Consuls in Paris: “To-day, whatever
our atheists may say to it, I go in great state to the Te Deum, which
is to be chanted in the Cathedral of Milan.”[2]

An unworthy spirit of detraction has vainly sought to wrest from
Napoleon the honor of this victory, and to attribute it all to the flank
charge made by Kellerman. Such attempts deserve no detailed reply.
Napoleon had secretly and suddenly called into being an army, and by its
apparently miraculous creation had astounded Europe. He had effectually
deceived the vigilance of his enemies, so as to leave them entirely
in the dark respecting his point of attack. He had conveyed that army,
with all its stores, over the pathless crags of the Great St. Bernard.
Like an avalanche he had descended from the mountains upon the plains of
startled Italy. He had surrounded the Austrian hosts, though they were
double his numbers, with a net through which they could not break. In a
decisive battle he had scattered their ranks before him, like chaff by
the whirlwind. He was nobly seconded by those generals whom his genius
had chosen and created. It is indeed true, that without his generals and
his soldiers he could not have gained the victory. Massena contributed
to the result by his matchless defense of Genoa; Moreau, by holding in
abeyance the army of the Rhine; Lannes, by his iron firmness on the
plain of Montebello; Desaix, by the promptness with which he rushed to
the rescue, as soon as his ear caught the far-off thunders of the cannon
of Marengo; and Kellerman, by his admirable flank charge of cavalry.
But it was the genius of Napoleon which planned the mighty combination,
which roused and directed the enthusiasm of the generals, which inspired
the soldiers with fearlessness and nerved them for the strife, and
which, through these efficient agencies, secured the astounding results.

Napoleon established his triumphant army, now increased to eighty
thousand men, in the rich valley of the Po. He assigned to the heroic
Massena the command of this triumphant host, and ordering all the forts
and citadels which blocked the approaches from France to be blown up,
set out, on the 24th of June, for his return to Paris. In recrossing
the Alps, by the pass of Mt. Cenis, he met the carriage of Madame
Kellerman, who was going to Italy to join her husband. Napoleon ordered
his carriage to be stopped, and alighting, greeted the lady with great
courtesy, and congratulated her upon the gallant conduct of her husband
at Marengo. As he was riding along one day, Bourrienne spoke of the
world-wide renown which the First Consul had attained.

“Yes,” Napoleon thoughtfully replied. “A few more events like this
campaign, and my name may perhaps go down to posterity.”

“I think,” Bourrienne rejoined, “that you have already done enough to
secure a long and lasting fame.”

“Done enough!” Napoleon replied. “You are very good! It is true that in
less than two years I have conquered Cairo, Paris, Milan. But were I to
die to-morrow, half a page of general history would be all that would be
devoted to my exploits.”

Napoleon’s return to Paris, through the provinces of France, was a
scene of constant triumph. The joy of the people amounted almost to
frenzy. Bonfires, illuminations, the pealing of bells, and the thunders
of artillery accompanied him all the way. Long lines of young maidens,
selected for their grace and beauty, formed avenues of loveliness and
smiles through which he was to pass, and carpeted his path with flowers.
He arrived[Pg 23] in Paris at midnight the 2d of July, having been absent but
eight weeks.

The enthusiasm of the Parisians was unbounded and inexhaustible. Day
after day, and night after night, the festivities continued. The Palace
of the Tuileries was ever thronged with a crowd, eager to catch a
glimpse of the preserver of France. All the public bodies waited upon
him with congratulations. Bells rung, cannon thundered, bonfires and
illuminations blazed, rockets and fire-works, in meteoric splendor
filled the air, bands of music poured forth their exuberant strains,
and united Paris, thronging the garden of the Tuileries and flooding
back into the Elysian Fields, rent the heavens with deafening shouts of
exultation. As Napoleon stood at the window of his palace, witnessing
this spectacle of a nation’s gratitude, he said, “The sound of these
acclamations is as sweet to me, as the voice of Josephine. How happy I
am to be beloved by such a people.” Preparations were immediately made
for a brilliant and imposing solemnity in commemoration of the victory.
“Let no triumphal arch be raised to me,” said Napoleon. “I wish for no
triumphal arch but the public satisfaction.”

It is not strange that enthusiasm and gratitude should have glowed in
the ardent bosoms of the French. In four months Napoleon had raised
France from an abyss of ruin to the highest pinnacle of prosperity
and renown. For anarchy he had substituted law, for bankruptcy a
well-replenished treasury, for ignominious defeat resplendent victory,
for universal discontent as universal satisfaction. The invaders were
driven from France, the hostile alliance broken, and the blessings of
peace were now promised to the war-harassed nation.

During this campaign there was presented a very interesting illustration
of Napoleon’s wonderful power of anticipating the progress of coming
events. Bourrienne, one day, just before the commencement of the
campaign, entered the cabinet at the Tuileries, and found an immense
map of Italy, unrolled upon the carpet, and Napoleon stretched upon
it. With pins, whose heads were tipped with rod and black sealing-wax,
to represent the French and Austrian forces. Napoleon was studying all
the possible combinations and evolutions of the two hostile armies.
Bourrienne, in silence, but with deep interest, watched the progress of
this pin campaign. Napoleon, having arranged the pins with red heads,
where he intended to conduct the French troops, and with the black pins
designating the point which he supposed the Austrians would occupy,
looked up to his secretary, and said:

“Do you think that I shall beat Melas?”

“Why, how can I tell? Bourrienne answered.

“Why, you simpleton,” said Napoleon, playfully; “just look here. Melas
is at Alexandria, where he has his head-quarters. He will remain
there until Genoa surrenders. He has in Alexandria his magazines, his
hospitals, his artillery, his reserves. Passing the Alps here,” sticking
a pin into the Great St. Bernard, “I fall upon[Pg 24] Melas in his rear; I cut
off his communications with Austria. I meet him here in the valley of
the Bormida.” So saying, he stuck a red pin into the plain of Marengo.

Bourrienne regarded this manœuvring of pins as mere pastime. His
countenance expressed his perfect incredulity. Napoleon, perceiving
this, addressed to him some of his usual apostrophes, in which he was
accustomed playfully to indulge in moments of relaxation, such as, You
ninny, You goose; and rolled up the map. Ten weeks passed away, and
Bourrienne found himself upon the banks of the Bormida, writing, at
Napoleon’s dictation, an account of the battle of Marengo. Astonished to
find Napoleon’s anticipations thus minutely fulfilled, he frankly avowed
his admiration of the military sagacity thus displayed. Napoleon himself
smiled at the justice of his foresight.

NAPOLEON PLANNING A CAMPAIGN.

Two days before the news of the battle of Marengo arrived in Vienna,
England effected a new treaty with Austria, for the more vigorous
prosecution of the war. By this convention it was provided that England
should loan Austria ten millions of dollars, to bear no interest during
the continuance of the conflict. And the Austrian cabinet bound itself
not to make peace with France, without the consent of the Court of St.
James. The Emperor of Austria was now sadly embarrassed. His sense of
honor would not allow him to violate his pledge to the King of England,
and to make peace. On the other hand, he trembled at the thought of
seeing the armies of the invincible Napoleon again marching upon his
capital. He, therefore, resolved to temporize, and, in order to gain
time, sent an embassador to Paris. The plenipotentiary presented to
Napoleon a letter, in which the Emperor stated, “You will give credit
to every thing which Count Julien shall say on my part. I will ratify
whatever he shall do.” Napoleon, prompt in action, and uninformed of
the new treaty between Ferdinand and George III., immediately caused
the preliminaries of peace to be drawn up, which were signed by the
French and Austrian ministers. The cabinet in Vienna, angry with their
embassador for not protracting the discussion, refused to ratify the
treaty, recalled Count Julien, sent him into exile, informed the First
Consul of the treaty which bound Austria not to make peace without the
concurrence of Great Britain, assured France of the readiness of the
English Cabinet to enter into negotiations, and urged the immediate
opening of a Congress at Luneville to which plenipotentiaries should be
sent from each of the three great contending powers. Napoleon was highly
indignant in view of this duplicity and perfidy. Yet, controlling his
anger, he consented to treat with England, and with that view proposed
a naval armistice, with the mistress of the seas. To this proposition
England peremptorily refused to accede, as it would enable France to
throw supplies into Egypt and Malta, which island England was besieging.
The naval armistice would have been undeniably for the interests of
France. But the continental armistice was as undeniably adverse to
her interests, enabling Austria to recover from her defeats, and to
strengthen her armies. Napoleon, fully convinced that England, in her
inaccessible position, did not wish for peace, and that her only object,
in endeavoring to obtain admittance to the Congress, was that she might
throw obstacles in the way of reconciliation with Austria, offered to
renounce all armistice with England, and to treat with her separately.
This England also refused. It was now September. Two months had passed
in these vexatious and sterile negotiations. Napoleon had taken every
step in his power to secure peace. He sincerely desired it. He had
already won all the laurels he could wish to win on the field of battle.
The reconstruction of society in France, and the consolidation of his
power, demanded all his energies. The consolidation of his power! That
was just what the government of England dreaded. The consolidation of
democratic power in France was dangerous to king and to noble. William
Pitt, the soul of the aristocratic government of England, determined
still to prosecute the war. France could not harm England. But England,
with her invincible fleet, could sweep the commerce of France from the
seas. Fox and his coadjutors with great eloquence and energy opposed
the war. Their efforts were, however, unavailing. The people of
England, notwithstanding all the efforts of the government to defame
the character of the First Consul, still cherished the conviction that,
after all, Napoleon was their friend. Napoleon, in subsequent years,
while reviewing these scenes of his early conflicts, with characteristic
eloquence and magnanimity, gave utterance to the following sentiments
which, it is as certain as destiny, that the verdict of the world will
yet confirm.

“Pitt was the master of European policy. He held in his hands the moral
fate of nations. But he made an ill use of his power. He kindled the
fire of discord throughout the universe; and his name, like that of
Erostratus, will be inscribed in history, amidst flames, lamentations,
and tears. Twenty-five years of universal conflagration; the numerous
coalitions that added fuel to the flame; the revolution and devastation
of Europe; the bloodshed of nations; the frightful debt of England,
by which all these horrors were maintained; the pestilential system
of loans, by which the people of Europe are oppressed; the general
discontent that now prevails—all must be attributed to Pitt. Posterity
will brand him as a scourge. The man so lauded in his own time, will
hereafter be regarded as the genius of evil. Not that I consider him
to have been willfully atrocious, or doubt his having entertained the
conviction that he was acting right. But St. Bartholomew had also
its conscientious advocates. The Pope and cardinals celebrated it by
a Te Deum; and we have no reason to doubt their having done so in
perfect sincerity. Such is the weakness of human reason and judgment!
But that for which posterity will, above all, execrate the memory of
Pitt, is the hateful school, which he has left behind him; its insolent
Machiavellianism, its profound immorality, its cold egotism, and its
utter disregard of justice and human happiness. Whether it be the
effect of admiration and gratitude, or the result of mere instinct and
sympathy, Pitt is, and will continue to be, the idol of the European
aristocracy. There was, indeed, a touch of the Sylla in his character.
His system has kept the popular cause in check, and brought about
the triumph of the patricians. As for Fox, one must not look for his
model among the ancients. He is himself a model, and his principles
will sooner or later rule the world. The death of Fox was one of the
fatalities of my career. Had his life been prolonged, affairs would
have taken a totally different turn. The cause of the people would have
triumphed, and we should have established a new order of things in
Europe.”

Austria really desired peace. The march of Napoleon’s armies upon
Vienna was an evil[Pg 25] more to be dreaded than even the consolidation of
Napoleon’s power in France. But Austria was, by loans and treaties, so
entangled with England, that she could make no peace without the consent
of the Court of St. James. Napoleon found that he was but trifled
with. Interminable difficulties were thrown in the way of negotiation.
Austria was taking advantage of the cessation of hostilities, merely to
recruit her defeated armies, that, as soon as the approaching winter
had passed away, she might fall, with renovated energies, upon France.
The month of November had now arrived, and the mountains, whitened
with snow, were swept by the bleak winds of winter. The period of the
armistice had expired. Austria applied for its prolongation. Napoleon
was no longer thus to be duped. He consented, however, to a continued
suspension of hostilities, on condition that the treaty of peace were
signed within forty-eight hours. Austria, believing that no sane man
would march an army into Germany in the dead of winter, and that she
should have abundant time to prepare for a spring campaign, refused.
The armies of France were immediately on the move. The Emperor of
Austria had improved every moment of this transient interval of peace,
in recruiting his forces. In person he had visited the army to inspire
his troops with enthusiasm. The command of the imperial forces was
intrusted to his second brother, the Archduke John. Napoleon moved with
his accustomed vigor. The political necessities of Paris and of France
rendered it impossible for him to leave the metropolis. He ordered one
powerful army, under General Brune, to attack the Austrians in Italy,
on the banks of the Mincio, and to press firmly toward Vienna. In the
performance of this operation, General Macdonald, in the dead of winter,
effected his heroic passage over the Alps, by the pass of the Splugen.
Victory followed their standards.

Moreau, with his magnificent army, commenced a winter campaign on the
Rhine. Between the rivers Iser and Inn there is an enormous forest,
many leagues in extent, of sombre firs and pines. It is a dreary and
almost uninhabited wilderness, of wild ravines, and tangled under-brush.
Two great roads have been cut through the forest, and sundry woodmen’s
paths penetrate it at different points. In the centre there is a little
hamlet, of a few miserable huts, called Hohenlinden. In this forest, on
the night of the 3d of December, 1800, Moreau, with sixty thousand men,
encountered the Archduke John with seventy thousand Austrian troops.
The clocks upon the towers of Munich had but just tolled the hour of
midnight when both armies were in motion, each hoping to surprise the
other. A dismal wintry storm was howling over the tree tops, and the
smothering snow, falling rapidly, obliterated all traces of a path, and
rendered it almost impossible to drag through the drifts the ponderous
artillery. Both parties, in the dark and tempestuous night, became
entangled in the forest, and the heads of their columns in various
places met. An awful[Pg 26] scene of confusion, conflict, and carnage then
ensued. Imagination can not compass the terrible sublimity of that
spectacle. The dark midnight, the howlings of the wintry storm, the
driving sheets of snow, the incessant roar of artillery and of musketry
from one hundred and thirty thousand combatants, the lightning flashes
of the guns, the crash of the falling trees as the heavy cannon-balls
swept through the forest, the floundering of innumerable horsemen
bewildered in the pathless snow, the shout of onset, the shriek of
death, and the burst of martial music from a thousand bands—all
combined to present a scene of horror and of demoniac energy, which
probably even this lost world never presented before. The darkness of
the black forest was so intense, and the snow fell in flakes so thick
and fast and blinding, that the combatants could with difficulty see
each other. They often judged of the foe only by his position, and fired
at the flashes gleaming through the gloom. At times, hostile divisions
became intermingled in inextricable confusion, and hand to hand, bayonet
crossing bayonet, and sword clashing against sword, they fought with the
ferocity of demons; for though the officers of an army may be influenced
by the most elevated sentiments of dignity and of honor, the mass of
the common soldiers have ever been the most miserable, worthless, and
degraded of mankind. As the advancing and retreating hosts wavered to
and fro, the wounded, by thousands, were left on hill-sides and in
dark ravines, with the drifting snow, crimsoned with blood, their only
blanket; there in solitude and agony to moan and freeze and die. What
death-scenes the eye of God must have witnessed that night, in the
solitudes of that dark, tempest-tossed, and blood-stained forest! At
last the morning dawned through the unbroken clouds, and the battle
raged with renovated fury. Nearly twenty thousand mutilated bodies of
the dead and wounded were left upon the field, with gory locks frozen to
their icy pillows, and covered with mounds of snow. At last the French
were victorious at every point. The Austrians, having lost twenty-five
thousand men in killed, wounded, and prisoners, one hundred pieces
of artillery, and an immense number of wagons, fled in dismay. This
terrific conflict has been immortalized by the noble epic of Campbell,
which is now familiar wherever the English language is known.

CAMPAIGN of HOHENLINDEN

[Pg 27]

DEATH AT HOHENLINDEN

The retreating Austrians rushed down the valley of the Danube. Moreau
followed thundering at their heels, plunging balls and shells into
their retreating ranks. The victorious French were within thirty miles
of Vienna, and the capital was in a state of indescribable dismay. The
Emperor again sent imploring an armistice. The application was promptly
acceded to, for Napoleon was contending only for peace. Yet with
unexampled magnanimity, notwithstanding these astonishing victories,
Napoleon made no essential alterations in his terms. Austria was at his
feet. His conquering armies were almost in sight of the steeples of
Vienna. There was no power which the Emperor could present to obstruct
their resistless march. He might have exacted any terms of humiliation.
But still he adhered to the first terms which he had proposed. Moreau
was urged by some of his officers to press on to Vienna. “We had better
halt,” he replied, “and be content with peace. It is for that alone that
we are fighting.” The Emperor of Austria was thus compelled to treat
without the concurrence of England. The insurmountable obstacle in the
way of peace was thus removed. At Luneville, Joseph Bonaparte appeared
as the embassador of Napoleon, and Count Cobenzl as the plenipotentiary
of Austria. The terms of the treaty were soon settled, and France
was again at peace with all the world, England alone excepted. By
this treaty the Rhine was acknowledged as the boundary of France. The
Adige limited the possessions of Austria in Italy; and Napoleon made
it an essential article that every Italian imprisoned in the dungeons
of Austria for political offenses, should immediately be liberated.
There was to be no interference by either with the new republics which
had sprung up in Italy. They were to be permitted to choose whatever
form of government they preferred. In reference to this treaty, Sir
Walter Scott makes the candid admission that “the treaty of Luneville
was not much more advantageous to France than that of Campo Formio.
The moderation of the First Consul indicated at once his desire for
peace upon the Continent, and considerable respect for the bravery and
strength of Austria.” And Alison, in cautious but significant phrase,
remarks, “These conditions did not differ materially from those offered
by Napoleon before the renewal of the war; a remarkable circumstance,
when it is remembered how vast an addition the victories of[Pg 28] Marengo,
Hohenlinden, and the Mincio, had since made to the preponderance of the
French armies.”

It was, indeed, “a remarkable circumstance,” that Napoleon should have
manifested such unparalleled moderation, under circumstances of such
aggravated indignity. In Napoleon’s first Italian campaign he was
contending solely for peace. At last he attained it, in the treaty of
Campo Formio, on terms equally honorable to Austria and to France. On
his return from Egypt, he found the armies of Austria, three hundred
thousand strong, in alliance with England, invading the territories
of the Republic. He implored peace, in the name of bleeding humanity,
upon the fair basis of the treaty of Campo Formio. His foes regarded
his supplication as the imploring cry of weakness, and treated it
with scorn. With new vigor they poured their tempests of balls and
shells upon France. Napoleon scaled the Alps, and dispersed his foes
at Marengo, like autumn leaves before the gale. Amid the smoke and
the blood and the groans of the field of his victory, he again wrote
imploring peace; and he wrote in terms dictated by the honest and
gushing sympathies of a humane man, and not in the cold and stately
forms of the diplomatist. Crushed as his foes were, he rose not in his
demands, but nobly said, “I am still willing to make peace upon the
fair basis of the treaty of Campo Formio.” His treacherous foes, to
gain time to recruit their armies, that they might fall upon him with
renovated vigor, agreed to an armistice. They then threw all possible
embarrassments in the way of negotiation, and prolonged the armistice
till the winds of winter were sweeping fiercely over the snow-covered
hills of Austria. They thought that it was then too late for Napoleon
to make any movements until spring, and that they had a long winter
before them, in which to prepare for another campaign. They refused
peace. Through storms and freezing gales and drifting snows the armies
of Napoleon marched painfully to Hohenlinden. The hosts of Austria were
again routed, and were swept away, as the drifted snow flies before
the gale. Ten thousand Frenchmen lie cold in death, the terrible price
of the victory. The Emperor of Austria, in his palaces, heard the
thunderings of Napoleon’s approaching artillery. He implored peace. “It
is all that I desire,” said Napoleon; “I am not fighting for ambition or
for conquest. I am still ready to make peace upon the fair basis of the
treaty of Campo Formio.”

While all the Continent was now at peace with France, England alone,
with indomitable resolution, continued the war, without allies, and
without any apparent or avowed object. France, comparatively powerless
upon the seas, could strike no blows which would be felt by the distant
islanders. “On every point,” says Sir Walter Scott, “the English
squadrons annihilated the commerce of France, crippled her revenues,
and blockaded her forts.” The treaty of Luneville was signed the 9th of
February, 1801. Napoleon, lamenting the continued hostility of England,
in announcing this peace to the people of France, remarked, “Why is not
this treaty the treaty of a general peace? This was the wish of France.
This has been the constant object of the efforts of her government. But
its desires are fruitless. All Europe knows that the British minister
has endeavored to frustrate the negotiations at Luneville. In vain
was it declared to him that France was ready to enter into a separate
negotiation. This declaration only produced a refusal under the pretext
that England could not abandon her ally. Since then, when that ally
consented to treat without England, that government sought other means
to delay a peace so necessary to the world. It raises pretensions
contrary to the dignity and rights of all nations. The whole commerce
of Asia, and of immense colonies, does not satisfy its ambition. All
the seas must submit to the exclusive sovereignty of England.” As
William Pitt received the tidings of this discomfiture of his allies,
in despairing despondency, he exclaimed, “Fold up the map of Europe. It
need not again be opened for twenty years.”

While these great affairs were in progress, Napoleon, in Paris, was
consecrating his energies with almost miraculous power, in developing
all the resources of the majestic empire under his control. He possessed
the power of abstraction to a degree which has probably never been
equaled. He could concentrate all his attention for any length of
time upon one subject, and then, laying that aside entirely, without
expending any energies in unavailing anxiety, could turn to another,
with all the freshness and the vigor of an unpreoccupied mind. Incessant
mental labor was the luxury of his life. “Occupation,” said he, “is my
element. I am born and made for it. I have found the limits beyond which
I could not use my legs. I have seen the extent to which I could use my
eyes. But I have never known any bounds to my capacity for application.”

The universality of Napoleon’s genius was now most conspicuous. The
revenues of the nation were replenished, and all the taxes arranged to
the satisfaction of the people. The Bank of France was reorganized, and
new energy infused into its operations. Several millions of dollars were
expended in constructing and perfecting five magnificent roads radiating
from Paris to the frontiers of the empire. Robbers, the vagabonds of
disbanded armies, infested the roads, rendering traveling dangerous
in the extreme. “Be patient,” said Napoleon. “Give me a month or two.
I must first conquer peace abroad. I will then do speedy and complete
justice upon these highwaymen.” A very important canal, connecting
Belgium with France, had been commenced some years before. The engineers
could not agree respecting the best direction of the cutting through
the highlands which separated the valley of the Oise from that of the
Somme. He visited the spot in person: decided the question promptly,
and decided it wisely, and the canal was pressed to its completion. He
immediately caused three new[Pg 29] bridges to be thrown across the Seine at
Paris. He commenced the magnificent road of the Simplon, crossing the
rugged Alps with a broad and smooth highway, which for ages will remain
a durable monument of the genius and energy of Napoleon. In gratitude
for the favors he had received from the monks of the Great St. Bernard,
he founded two similar establishments for the aid of travelers, one on
Mount Cenis, the other on the Simplon, and both auxiliary to the convent
on the Great St. Bernard. Concurrently with these majestic undertakings,
he commenced the compilation of the civil code of France. The ablest
lawyers of Europe were summoned to this enterprise, and the whole work
was discussed section by section in the Council of State, over which
Napoleon presided. The lawyers were amazed to find that the First Consul
was as perfectly familiar with all the details of legal and political
science, as he was with military strategy.

Bourrienne mentions, that one day, a letter was received from an
emigrant, General Durosel, who had taken refuge in the island of Jersey.
The following is an extract from the letter:

“You can not have forgotten, general, that when your late father
was obliged to take your brothers from the college of Autun, he was
unprovided with money, and asked of me one hundred and twenty-five
dollars, which I lent him with pleasure. After his return, he had not
an opportunity of paying me, and when I left Ajaccio, your mother
offered to dispose of some plate, in order to pay the debt. To this I
objected, and told her that I would wait until she could pay me at her
convenience. Previous to the Revolution, I believe that it was not in
her power to fulfill her wish of discharging the debt. I am sorry to be
obliged to trouble you about such a trifle. But such is my unfortunate
situation, that even this trifle is of some importance to me. At the
age of eighty-six, general, after having served my country for sixty
years, I am compelled to take refuge here, and to subsist on a scanty
allowance, granted by the English government to French emigrants. I say
emigrants, for I am obliged to be one against my will.”

Upon hearing this letter read, Napoleon immediately and warmly said,
“Bourrienne, this is sacred. Do not lose a moment. Send the old man ten
times the sum. Write to General Durosel, that he shall immediately be
erased from the list of emigrants. What mischief those brigands of the
Convention have done. I can never repair it all.” Napoleon uttered these
words with a degree of emotion which he had rarely before evinced. In
the evening he inquired, with much interest of Bourrienne, if he had
executed his orders.

Many attempts were made at this time to assassinate the First Consul.
Though France, with the most unparalleled unanimity surrounded him with
admiration, gratitude, and homage, there were violent men in the two
extremes of society, among the Jacobins and the inexorable Royalists,
who regarded him as in their way. Napoleon’s escape from the explosion
of the infernal machine, got up by the Royalists, was almost miraculous.

THE INFERNAL MACHINE.

On the evening of the 24th of December, Napoleon was going to the Opera,
to hear Haydn’s Oratorio of the Creation, which was to be performed
for the first time. Intensely occupied by business, he was reluctant
to go; but to gratify Josephine, yielded to her urgent request. It
was necessary for his carriage to pass through a narrow street. A
cart, apparently by accident overturned, obstructed the passage. A
barrel suspended beneath the cart, contained as deadly a machine as
could be constructed with gunpowder and all the missiles of death.
The[Pg 30] coachman succeeded in forcing his way by the cart. He had barely
passed when an explosion took place, which was heard all over Paris,
and which seemed to shake the city to its foundations. Eight persons
were instantly killed, and more than sixty were wounded, of whom about
twenty subsequently died. The houses for a long distance, on each side
of the street, were fearfully shattered, and many of them were nearly
blown to pieces. The carriage rocked as upon the billows of the sea,
and the windows were shattered to fragments. Napoleon had been in too
many scenes of terror to be alarmed by any noise or destruction which
gunpowder could produce. “Ha!” said he, with perfect composure; “we are
blown up.” One of his companions in the carriage, greatly terrified,
thrust his head through the demolished window, and called loudly to
the driver to stop. “No, no!” said Napoleon; “drive on.” When the
First Consul entered the Opera House, he appeared perfectly calm and
unmoved. The greatest consternation, however, prevailed in all parts
of the house, for the explosion had been heard, and the most fearful
apprehensions were felt for the safety of the idolized Napoleon. As
soon as he appeared, thunders of applause, which shook the very walls
of the theatre, gave affecting testimony of the attachment of the
people to his person. In a few moments, Josephine, who had come in her
private carriage, entered the box. Napoleon turned to her with perfect
tranquillity, and said, “The rascals tried to blow me up. Where is the
book of the Oratorio?”

Napoleon soon left the Opera, and returned to the Tuileries. He found a
vast crowd assembled there, attracted by affection for his person, and
anxiety for his safety. The atrocity of this attempt excited universal
horror, and only increased the already almost boundless popularity
of the First Consul. Deputations and addresses were immediately
poured in upon him from Paris and from all the departments of France,
congratulating him upon his escape. It was at first thought that this
conspiracy was the work of the Jacobins. There were in Paris more than
a hundred of the leaders of this execrable party, who had obtained
a sanguinary notoriety during the reign of terror. They were active
members of a Jacobin Club, a violent and vulgar gathering continually
plotting the overthrow of the government, and the assassination of
the First Consul. They were thoroughly detested by the people, and
the community was glad to avail itself of any plausible pretext for
banishing them from France. Without sufficient evidence that they were
actually guilty of this particular outrage, in the strong excitement and
indignation of the moment a decree was passed by the legislative bodies,
sending one hundred and sixty of these blood-stained culprits into
exile. The wish was earnestly expressed that Napoleon would promptly
punish them by his own dictatorial power. Napoleon had, in fact,
acquired such unbounded popularity, and the nation was so thoroughly
impressed with a sense of his justice, and his wisdom, that whatever
he said was done. He, however, insisted that the business should be
conducted by the constituted tribunals and under the regular forms of
law. “The responsibility of this measure,” said Napoleon, “must rest
with the legislative body. The consuls are irresponsible. But the
ministers are not. Any one of them who should sign an arbitrary decree,
might hereafter be called to account. Not a single individual must be
compromised. The consuls themselves know not what may happen. As for
me, while I live, I am not afraid that any one will dare to call me
to account for my actions. But I may be killed, and then I can not
answer for the safety of my two colleagues. It would be your turn to
govern,” said he, smiling, and turning to Cambaceres; “and you are
not as yet very firm in the stirrups. It will be better to have a law
for the present, as well as for the future.” It was finally, after
much deliberation, decided that the Council of State should draw up a
declaration of the reasons for the act. The First Consul was to sign
the decree, and the Senate was to declare whether it was or was not
constitutional. Thus cautiously did Napoleon proceed under circumstances
so exciting. The law, however, was unjust and tyrannical. Guilty
as these men were of other crimes, by which they had forfeited all
sympathy, it subsequently appeared that they were not guilty of this
crime. Napoleon was evidently embarrassed by this uncertainty of their
guilt, and was not willing that they should be denounced as contrivers
of the infernal machine. “We believe,” said he, “that they are guilty.
But we do not know it. They must be transported for the crimes
which they have committed, the massacres and the conspiracies already
proved against them.” The decree was passed. But Napoleon, strong in
popularity, became so convinced of the powerlessness and insignificance
of these Jacobins, that the decree was never enforced against them. They
remained in France. But they were conscious that the eye of the police
was upon them. “It is not my own person,” said Napoleon, “that I seek
to avenge. My fortune which has preserved me so often on the field of
battle, will continue to preserve me. I think not of myself. I think
of social order which it is my mission to re-establish, and of the
national honor, which it is my duty to purge from an abominable stain.”
To the innumerable addresses of congratulation and attachment which this
occurrence elicited Napoleon replied, “I have been touched by the proofs
of affection which the people of Paris have shown me on this occasion.
I deserve them. For the only aim of my thoughts, and of my actions,
is to augment the prosperity and the glory of France. While those
banditti confined themselves to direct attacks upon me, I could leave
to the laws the task of punishing them. But since they have endangered
the population of the capital by a crime, unexampled in history, the
punishment must be equally speedy and terrible.”

It was soon proved, much to the surprise of Napoleon, that the
atrocious act was perpetrated by the partisans of the Bourbons. Many of
the most prominent of the Loyalists were implicated in this horrible
conspiracy. Napoleon felt that he deserved their gratitude. He had
interposed to save them from the fury of the Jacobins. Against the
remonstrances of his friends, he had passed a decree which restored
one hundred and fifty thousand of these wandering emigrants to France.
He had done every thing in his power to enable them to regain their
confiscated estates. He had been in all respects their friend and
benefactor, and he would not believe, until the proof was indisputable,
that they could thus requite him. The wily Fouché, however, dragged the
whole matter into light. The prominent conspirators were arrested and
shot. The following letter, written on this occasion by Josephine, to
the Minister of Police, strikingly illustrates the benevolence of her
heart, and exhibits in a very honorable light the character of Napoleon.

“While I yet tremble at the frightful event which has just occurred,
I am distressed through fear of the punishment to be inflicted on the
guilty, who belong, it is said, to families with whom I once lived in
habits of intercourse. I shall be solicited by mothers, sisters, and
disconsolate wives, and my heart will be broken through my inability to
obtain all the mercy for which I would plead. I know that the clemency
of the First Consul is great—his attachment to me extreme. The chief
of the government has not been alone exposed; and it is that which will
render him severe, inflexible. I conjure you, therefore, to do all in
your power to prevent inquiries being pushed too far. Do not detect all
those persons who have been accomplices in this odious transaction. Let
not France, so long overwhelmed in consternation, by public executions,
groan anew, beneath such inflictions. When the ringleaders of this
nefarious attempt shall have been secured, let severity give place to
pity for inferior agents, seduced, as they may have been, by dangerous
falsehoods or exaggerated opinions. As a woman, a wife, and a mother, I
must feel the heartrendings of those who will apply to me. Act, citizen
minister, in such a way that the number of these may be lessened.”

It seems almost miraculous that Napoleon should have escaped the
innumerable conspiracies which at this time were formed against him. The
partisans of the Bourbons thought that if Napoleon could be removed, the
Bourbons might regain their throne. It was his resistless genius alone,
which enabled France to triumph over combined Europe. His death would
leave France without a leader. The armies of the allies could then, with
bloody strides, march to Paris, and place the hated Bourbons on the
throne. France knew this, and adored its preserver. Monarchical Europe
knew this, and hence all the energies of its combined kings were centred
upon Napoleon. More than thirty of these conspiracies were detected
by the police. London was the hot-house where they were engendered.[Pg 31]
Air-guns were aimed at Napoleon. Assassins dogged him with their
poniards. A bomb-shell was invented, weighing about fifteen pounds,
which was to be thrown in at his carriage-window, and which exploding
by its own concussion, would hurl death on every side. The conspirators
were perfectly reckless of the lives of others, if they could only
destroy the life of Napoleon. The agents of the infernal-machine had the
barbarity to get a young girl fifteen years of age to hold the horse who
drew the machine. This was to disarm suspicion. The poor child was blown
into such fragments, that no part of her body, excepting her feet, could
afterward be found. At last Napoleon became aroused, and declared that
he would “teach those Bourbons that he was not a man to be shot at like
a dog.”

One day at St. Helena, as he was putting on his flannel waistcoat, he
observed Las Casas looking at him very steadfastly.

“Well! what is your Excellency thinking of?” said Napoleon, with a
smile.

“Sire,” Las Casas replied, “in a pamphlet which I lately read, I found
it stated that your majesty was shielded by a coat-of-mail, for the
security of your person. I was thinking that I could bear positive
evidence that at St. Helena at least, all precautions for personal
safety have been laid aside.”

“This,” said Napoleon, “is one of the thousand absurdities which have
been published respecting me. But the story you have just mentioned is
the more ridiculous, since every individual about me well knows how
careless I am with regard to self-preservation. Accustomed from the age
of eighteen to be exposed to the cannon-ball, and knowing the inutility
of precautions, I abandoned myself to my fate. When I came to the head
of affairs, I might still have fancied myself surrounded by the dangers
of the field of battle; and I might have regarded the conspiracies
which were formed against me as so many bomb-shells. But I followed my
old course. I trusted to my lucky star, and left all precautions to
the police. I was perhaps the only sovereign in Europe who dispensed
with a body-guard. Every one could freely approach me, without having,
as it were, to pass through military barracks. Maria Louisa was much
astonished to see me so poorly guarded, and she often remarked that her
father was surrounded by bayonets. For my part, I had no better defense
at the Tuileries than I have here. I do not even know where to find my
sword,” said he, looking around the room; “do you see it? I have, to be
sure, incurred great dangers. Upward of thirty plots were formed against
me. These have been proved by authentic testimony, without mentioning
many which never came to light. Some sovereigns invent conspiracies
against themselves; for my part, I made it a rule carefully to conceal
them whenever I could. The crisis most serious to me was during the
interval from the battle of Marengo, to the attempt of George Cadoudal
and the affair of the Duke D’Enghien.”

[Pg 32]

Napoleon now, with his accustomed vigor, took hold of the robbers and
made short work with them. The insurgent armies of La Vendee, numbering
more than one hundred thousand men, and filled with adventurers and
desperadoes of every kind, were disbanded when their chiefs yielded
homage to Napoleon. Many of these men, accustomed to banditti warfare,
took to the highways. The roads were so infested by them, that traveling
became exceedingly perilous, and it was necessary that every stage-coach
which left Paris should be accompanied by a guard of armed soldiers. To
remedy a state of society thus convulsed to its very centre, special
tribunals were organized, consisting of eight judges. They were to take
cognizance of all such crimes as conspiracies, robberies, and acts of
violence of any kind. The armed bands of Napoleon swept over France like
a whirlwind. The robbers were seized, tried, and shot without delay.
Order was at once restored. The people thought not of the dangerous
power they were placing in the hands of the First Consul. They asked
only for a commander, who was able and willing to quell the tumult of
the times. Such a commander they found in Napoleon. They were more than
willing to confer upon him all the power he could desire. “You know what
is best for us;” said the people to Napoleon. “Direct us what to do,
and we will do it.” It was thus that absolute power came voluntarily
into his hands. Under the circumstances it was so natural that it can
excite no suspicion. He was called First Consul. But he already swayed a
sceptre more mighty than that of the Cæsars. But sixteen months had now
elapsed since Napoleon landed at Frejus. In that time he had attained
the throne of France. He had caused order and prosperity to emerge from
the chaos of revolution. By his magnanimity he had disarmed Russia, by
his armies had humbled Austria, and had compelled continental Europe to
accept an honorable peace. He merited the gratitude of his countrymen,
and he received it in overflowing measure. Through all these incidents,
so eventful and so full of difficulty, it is not easy to point to a
single act of Napoleon, which indicates a malicious or an ungenerous
spirit.

“I fear nothing,” said Napoleon at St. Helena, “for my renown. Posterity
will do me justice. It will compare the good which I have done with
the faults which I have committed. If I had succeeded I should have
died with the reputation of being the greatest man who ever existed.
From being nothing I became, by my own exertions, the most powerful
monarch of the universe, without committing any crime. My ambition was
great, but it rested on the opinion of the masses. I have always
thought that sovereignty resides in the people. The empire, as I had
organized it, was but a great republic. Called to the throne by the
voice of the people, my maxim has always been, a career open to talent
without distinction of birth. It is for this system of equality that
the European oligarchy detests me. And yet in England talent and
great services raise a man to the highest rank. England should have
understood me.”

“The French Revolution,” said Napoleon, “was a general movement of the
mass of the nation against the privileged classes. The nobles were
exempt from the burdens of the state, and yet exclusively occupied
all the posts of honor and emolument. The revolution destroyed these
exclusive privileges, and established equality of rights. All the
avenues to wealth and greatness were equally open to every citizen,
according to his talents. The French nation established the imperial
throne, and placed me upon it. The throne of France was granted before
to Hugh Capet, by a few bishops and nobles. The imperial throne was
given to me, by the desire of the people.”

Joseph Bonaparte was of very essential service to Napoleon in the
diplomatic intercourse of the times. Lucien also was employed in
various ways, and the whole family were taken under the protection of
the First Consul. At St. Helena Napoleon uttered the following graphic
and truthful eulogium upon his brothers and sisters: “What family,
in similar circumstances, would have acted better? Every one is not
qualified to be a statesman. That requires a combination of powers
which does not often fall to the lot of any one. In this respect all my
brothers were singularly situated; they possessed at once too much and
too little talent. They felt themselves too strong to resign themselves
blindly to a guiding counselor, and yet too weak to be left entirely to
themselves. But take them all in all I have certainly good reason to be
proud of my family. Joseph would have been an honor to society in any
country, and Lucien would have been an honor to any assembly. Jerome, as
he advanced in life, would have developed every qualification requisite
in a sovereign. Louis would have been distinguished in any rank or
condition of life. My sister Eliza was endowed with masculine powers of
mind; she must have proved herself a philosopher in her adverse fortune.
Caroline possessed great talents and capacity. Pauline, perhaps the most
beautiful woman of her age, has been, and will continue to the end of
her life, the most amiable creature in the world. As to my mother, she
deserves all kinds of veneration. How seldom is so numerous a family
entitled to so much praise. Add to this, that, setting aside the jarring
of political opinions, we sincerely loved each other. For my part, I
never ceased to cherish fraternal affection for them all. And I am
convinced that in their hearts they felt the same sentiments toward me,
and that, in case of need, they would have given me every proof of it.”

The proud old nobility, whom Napoleon had restored to France, and upon
many of whom he had conferred their confiscated estates, manifested
no gratitude toward their benefactor. They were sighing for the
re-enthronement of the Bourbons, and for the return of the good old
times, when all the offices of emolument and honor were reserved for
them and for their children, and the people were but their hewers of
wood and drawers of water. In the morning, as beggars, they would crowd
the audience-chamber of the First Consul with their petitions. In the
evening they disdained to honor his levees with their presence. They
spoke contemptuously of Josephine, of her kindness and her desire to
conciliate all parties. They condemned every thing that Napoleon did.
He, however, paid no heed to their murmurings. He would not condescend
even to punish them by neglect. In that most lofty pride which induced
him to say that, in his administration he wished to imitate the
clemency of God, he endeavored to consult for the interests of all,
both the evil and the unthankful. His fame was to consist, not in
revenging himself upon his enemies, but in aggrandizing France.

At this time Napoleon’s establishment at the Tuileries rather resembled
that of a very rich gentleman, than the court of a monarch. Junot,
one of his aids, was married to Mademoiselle Permon, the young lady
whose name will be remembered in connection with the anecdote of “Puss
in Boots.” Her mother was one of the most haughty of the ancient
nobility, who affected to look upon Napoleon with contempt as not of
royal blood. The evening after her marriage Madame Junot was to be
presented to Josephine. After the Opera she drove to the Tuileries. It
was near eleven o’clock. As Josephine had appointed the hour, she was
expected. Eugene, hearing the wheels of the carriage, descended to the
court-yard, presented his arm to Madame Junot, and they entered the
large saloon together. It was a magnificent apartment, magnificently
furnished. Two chandeliers, surrounded with gauze to soften the glare,
shed a subdued and grateful light over the room. Josephine was seated
before a tapestry-frame working upon embroidery. Near her sat Hortense,
sylph-like in figure, and surpassingly gentle and graceful in her
manners. Napoleon was standing near Josephine, with his hands clasped
behind him, engaged in conversation with his wife and her lovely
daughter. Upon the entrance of Madame Junot Josephine immediately arose,
took her two hands, and, affectionately kissing her, said,

“I have too long been Junot’s friend, not to entertain the same
sentiments for his wife; particularly for the one he has chosen.”

“Oh, Josephine!” said Napoleon, “that is running on very fast. How do
you know that this little pickle is worth loving. Well, Mademoiselle
Loulou (you see that I do not forget the names of my old friends), have
you not a word for me?” Saying this, he gently took her hand and drew
her toward him.

The young bride was much embarrassed, and yet she struggled to retain
her pride of birth. “General!” she replied, smiling, “it is not for me
to speak first.”

“Very well parried,” said Napoleon, playfully, “the mother’s spirit! And
how is Madame Permon?”

“Very ill, general! For two years her health has caused us great
uneasiness.”

[Pg 33]

“Indeed,” said Napoleon, “so bad as that? I am sorry to hear it; very
sorry. Make my regards to her. It is a wrong head, a proud spirit, but
she has a generous heart and a noble soul. I hope that we shall often
see you, Madame Junot. My intention is to draw around me a numerous
family, consisting of my generals and their young wives. They will be
friends of my wife and of Hortense, as their husbands are my friends.
But you must not expect to meet here your acquaintances of the ancient
nobility. I do not like them. They are my enemies, and prove it by
defaming me.”

This was but the morning twilight of that imperial splendor which
afterward dazzled the most powerful potentates of Europe. Hortense, who
subsequently became the wife of Louis Bonaparte, and the mother of Louis
Napoleon, who, at the moment of this present writing, is at the head of
the government of France, was then seventeen years of age. “She was,”
says Madame Junot, “fresh as a rose. Though her fair complexion was not
relieved by much color, she had enough to produce that freshness and
bloom which was her chief beauty. A profusion of light hair played in
silken locks around her soft and penetrating blue eyes. The delicate
roundness of her figure, slender as a palm-tree, was set off by the
elegant carriage of her head. But that which formed the chief attraction
of Hortense was the grace and suavity of her manners, which united the
creole nonchalance with the vivacity of France. She was gay, gentle, and
amiable. She had wit, which, without the smallest ill-temper, had just
malice enough to be amusing. A polished and well-conducted education had
improved her natural talents. She drew excellently, sang harmoniously,
and performed admirably in comedy. In 1800, she was a charming young
girl. She afterward became one of the most amiable princesses in
Europe. I have seen many, both in their own courts and in Paris, but I
have never known one who had any pretensions to equal talents. She was
beloved by every one. Her brother loved her tenderly. The First Consul
looked upon her as his child.”

Napoleon has been accused of an improper affection for Hortense. The
world has been filled with the slander. Says Bourrienne, “Napoleon never
cherished for her any feeling but a real paternal tenderness. He loved
her after his marriage with her mother, as he would have loved his
own child. At least for three years I was a witness to all their most
private actions, and I declare I never saw any thing that could furnish
the least ground for suspicion, nor the slightest trace of a culpable
intimacy. This calumny must be classed among those which malice delights
to take in the character of men who become celebrated, calumnies which
are adopted lightly and without reflection. Napoleon is no more. Let
his memory be accompanied only by that, be it good or bad, which really
took place. Let not this reproach be made a charge against him by
the impartial historian. I must say, in conclusion, on this delicate
subject, that[Pg 34] his principles were rigid in an extreme degree, and that
any fault of the nature charged, neither entered his mind, nor was in
accordance with his morals or his taste.”

At St. Helena Napoleon was one day looking over a book containing an
account of his amours. He smiled as he glanced his eye over the pages,
saying, “I do not even know the names of most of the females who are
mentioned here. This is all very foolish. Every body knows that I had no
time for such dissipation.”

THE CHURCH OF THE CUP OF COLD WATER.

One beautiful evening, in the year 1815, the parish priest of San
Pietro, a village a few miles distant from Sevilla, returned much
fatigued to his little cottage, where he found his aged housekeeper, the
Señora Margarita, watching for him. Notwithstanding that one is well
accustomed to the sight of poverty in Spain, it was impossible to help
being struck by the utter destitution which appeared in the house of
the good priest; the more so, as every imaginable contrivance had been
resorted to, to hide the nakedness of the walls, and the shabbiness of
the furniture. Margarita had prepared for her master’s supper a rather
small dish of olla-podriga, which consisted, to say the truth, of the
remains of the dinner, seasoned and disguised with great skill, and
with the addition of some sauce, and a name. As she placed the savory
dish upon the table, the priest said: “We should thank God for this
good supper, Margarita; this olla-podriga makes one’s mouth water. My
friend, you ought to be grateful for finding so good a supper at the
house of your host!” At the word host, Margarita raised her eyes, and
saw a stranger, who had followed her master. Her countenance changed,
and she looked annoyed. She glanced indignantly first at the unknown,
and then at the priest, who, looking down, said in a low voice, and with
the timidity of a child: “What is enough for two, is always enough for
three; and surely you would not wish that I should allow a Christian to
die of hunger? He has not tasted food for two days.”

“A Christian! He is more like a brigand!” and Margarita left the room,
murmuring loudly enough to be heard.

Meanwhile, the unwelcome guest had remained standing at the door. He
was a man of great height, half-dressed in rags, and covered with mud;
while his black hair, piercing eyes, and carbine, gave him an appearance
which, though hardly prepossessing, was certainly interesting. “Must I
go?” said he.

The priest replied with an emphatic gesture: “Those whom I bring under
my roof are never driven forth, and are never unwelcome. Put down your
carbine. Let us say grace, and go to table.”

“I never leave my carbine, for, as the Castilian proverb says, ‘Two
friends are one.’ My carbine is my best friend; and I always keep it
beside me. Although you allow me to come into your house, and do not
oblige me to leave it until I wish to do so, there are others who would
think nothing of hauling me out, and, perhaps, with my feet foremost.
Come—to your good health, mine host, and let us to supper.”

The priest possessed an extremely good appetite, but the voracity of the
stranger soon obliged him to give up, for, not contented with eating,
or rather devouring, nearly the whole of the olla-podriga, the guest
finished a large loaf of bread, without leaving a crumb. While he ate,
he kept continually looking round with an expression of inquietude: he
started at the slightest sound; and once, when a violent gust of wind
made the door bang, he sprang to his feet, and seized his carbine, with
an air which showed that, if necessary, he would sell his life dearly.
Discovering the cause of the alarm, he reseated himself at table, and
finished his repast.

“Now,” said he, “I have one thing more to ask. I have been wounded, and
for eight days my wound has not been dressed. Give me a few old rags,
and you shall be no longer burdened with my presence.”

“I am in no haste for you to go,” replied the priest, whose guest,
notwithstanding his constant watchfulness, had conversed very
entertainingly. “I know something of surgery, and will dress your wound.”

So saying, he took from a cupboard a case containing every thing
necessary, and proceeded to do as he had said. The stranger had bled
profusely, a ball having passed through his thigh; and to have traveled
in this condition, and while suffering, too, from want of food, showed a
strength which seemed hardly human.

“You can not possibly continue your journey to-day,” said the host.
“You must pass the night here. A little rest will get up your strength,
diminish the inflammation of your wound, and—”

“I must go to-day, and immediately,” interrupted the stranger. “There
are some who wait for me,” he added with a sigh—”and there are some,
too, who follow me.” And the momentary look of softness passed from
his features between the clauses of the sentence, and gave place to an
expression almost of ferocity. “Now, is it finished? That is well. See,
I can walk as firmly as though I had never been wounded. Give me some
bread; pay yourself for your hospitality with this piece of gold, and
adieu.”

The priest put back the gold with displeasure. “I am not an innkeeper,”
said he; “and I do not sell my hospitality.”

“As you will, but pardon me; and now, farewell, my kind host.”

So saying, he took the bread, which Margarita, at her master’s command,
very unwillingly gave him, and soon his tall figure disappeared among
the thick foliage of a wood which surrounded the house, or rather the
cabin. An hour had scarcely passed, when musket-shots were heard close
by, and the unknown reappeared, deadly pale, and bleeding from a deep
wound near the heart.

“Take these,” said he, giving some pieces of gold to his late host;
“they are for my children—near the stream—in the valley.”

He fell, and the next moment several police-officers rushed into the
house. They hastily secured the unfortunate man, who attempted no
resistance. The priest entreated to be allowed to dress his wound, which
they permitted; but when this was done, they insisted on carrying him
away immediately. They would not even procure a carriage; and when they
were told of the danger of removing a man so severely wounded, they
merely said: “What does it matter? If he recovers, it will only be to
receive sentence of death. He is the famous brigand, José!”

José thanked the intercessor with a look. He then asked for a little
water, and when the priest brought it to him, he said, in a faint voice:
“Remember!” The reply was merely a sign of intelligence. When they
were gone, notwithstanding all Margarita could say as to the danger of
going out at night, the priest crossed the wood, descended into the
valley, and soon found, beside the body of a woman, who had doubtless
been killed by a stray ball of the police, an infant, and a little boy
of about four years old, who was trying in vain to awaken his mother.
Imagine Margarita’s amazement when the priest returned with two children
in his arms.

“May all good saints defend us! What have you done, señor? We have
barely enough to live upon, and you bring two children! I suppose I must
beg from door to door, for you and for them. And, for mercy’s sake, who
are these children? The sons of that brigand, gipsy, thief, murderer,
perhaps! I am sure they have never been baptized!” At this moment the
infant began to cry. “And pray, Señor Clérigo, how do you mean to feed
that child? You know very well that we have no means of paying a nurse.
We must spoon-feed it, and nice nights that will give me! It can not
be more than six months old, poor little creature,” she added, as her
master placed it in her arms. “Fortunately, I have a little milk here;”
and forgetting her anger, she busied herself in putting some milk on
the fire, and then sat down beside it to warm the infant, who seemed
half-frozen. Her master watched her in silence, and when at last he saw
her kiss its little cheek, he turned away with a quiet smile.

When at length the little one had been hushed into a gentle slumber, and
when Margarita, with the assistance of her master’s cloak, and some of
her own clothes, had made a bed for the elder boy, and placed him in it,
the good man told her how the children had been committed to his care,
and the promise he had made, though not in words, to protect them.

“That is very right and good, no doubt,” said Margarita; “I only want to
know how we are all to live? The priest opened his Bible, and read aloud:

“Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of
cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he
shall in no wise lose his reward.”

“Amen!” said Margarita.

Twelve years passed by. The parish priest[Pg 35] of San Pietro, who was now
more than seventy years old, was sitting in the sunshine at his door.
Near him, a boy of about twelve years old was reading aloud from the
Bible, looking occasionally toward a tall, fine-looking young man, who
was hard at work in a garden close by. Margarita, who was now become
blind, sat and listened. Suddenly, the sound of wheels was heard, and
the boy exclaimed: “Oh! the beautiful carriage!” A splendid carriage
approached rapidly, and stopped before the door. A richly-dressed
servant approached, and asked for a cup of water for his master.

“Carlos,” said the priest to the younger boy, “go, bring water to the
gentleman; and add some wine, if he will accept it. Go quickly!” At this
moment the carriage-door opened, and a gentleman, apparently about fifty
years old, alighted.

“Are these your nephews?” said he to the priest.

“They are more than that, señor; they are my children—the children of
my adoption.”

“How is that?”

“I will tell you, señor; for I am old and poor, and know but little of
the world, and am in much need of advice; for I know not what to do with
these two children.” He related the story we have just told. “And now,
señor, what do you advise me to do?”

“Apply to one of the nobles of the court, who must assign you a pension
of four thousand ducats.”

“I asked you for advice, señor, and not for jest.”

“And then, your church must be rebuilt. We will call it the Church
of the Cup of Cold Water. Here is the plan. See, this is to be the
vicarage; and here, divided by this paling—”

“What does this mean? What would you say? And, surely, I remember that
voice, that face—”

“I am Don José della Ribeira; and twelve years ago, I was the brigand
José. I escaped from prison; and—for the revolution made great
changes—am now powerful. My children—”

He clasped them in his arms. And when at length he had embraced them a
hundred times, with tears, and smiles, and broken sentences; and when
all had in some degree recovered their composure, he took the hand of
the priest and said: “Well, father, will you not accept the Church
of the Cup of Cold Water?” The old man, deeply affected, turned to
Margarita, and repeated:

“Whosoever shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of
cold water only in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, he
shall in no wise lose his reward.”

“Amen!” replied the aged woman, her voice tremulous from emotion.

A short time afterward, Don José della Ribeira and his two
sons were present at the consecration of the church of
San-Pietro-del-Vaso-di-Aqua-Fria, one of the prettiest churches in the
neighborhood of Sevilla.

[Pg 36]

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[3]

CHAPTER XIX.—Continued.

“Bother,” said Dick! “What do women know about politics. I wish you’d
mind the child—it is crumpling up and playing almighty smash with that
flim-flam book, which cost me a one pound one.”

Mrs. Avenel submissively bowed her head, and removed the Annual from
the hands of the young destructive; the destructive set up a squall,
as destructives generally do when they don’t have their own way. Dick
clapped his hands to his ears. “Whe-e-ew, I can’t stand this; come and
take a walk, Leslie; I want stretching!” He stretched himself as he
spoke, first half way up to the ceiling, and then fairly out of the room.

Randal with his May Fair manner, turned toward Mrs. Avenel as if to
apologize for her husband and himself.

“Poor Richard?” said she, “he is in one of his humors—all men have
them. Come and see me again soon. When does Almack’s open!”

“Nay, I ought to ask you that question, you who know every thing that
goes on in our set,” said the young serpent. Any tree planted in “our
set,” if it had been but a crab-tree, would have tempted Mr. Avenel’s
Eve to a jump at its boughs.

“Are you coming, there?” cried Dick from the foot of the stairs.

CHAPTER XX.

“I have just been at our friend Levy’s,” said Randal when he and
Dick were outside the street door. “He, like you, is full of
politics—pleasant man—for the business he is said to do.”

“Well,” said Dick slowly, “I suppose he is pleasant, but make the best
of it—and still—”

“Still what, my dear Avenel?” (Randal here for the first time discarded
the formal Mister.)

Mr. Avenel.—”Still the thing itself is not pleasant.”

Randal (with his soft hollow laugh).—”You mean borrowing money
upon more than five per cent?”

“Oh, curse the per centage. I agree with Bentham on the Usury Laws—no
shackles in trade for me, whether in money or any thing else. That’s not
it. But when one owes a fellow money even at two per cent, and ’tis not
convenient to pay him, why, somehow or other, it makes one feel small;
it takes the British Liberty out of a man!”

“I should have thought you more likely to lend money than to borrow it.”

“Well, I guess you are right there, as a general rule. But I tell you
what it is, sir; there is too great a mania for competition getting up
in this rotten old country of ours. I am as liberal as most men. I like
competition to a certain extent, but there is too much of it, sir—too
much of it!”

Randal looked sad and convinced. But if Leonard had heard Dick Avenel,
what would have been his amaze! Dick Avenel rail against competition!
Think there could be too much of it? Of course, “heaven and earth are
coming together,” said the spider when the housemaid’s broom invaded its
cobweb. Dick was all for sweeping away other cobwebs; but he certainly
thought heaven and earth coming together when he saw a great Turk’s-head
besom poked up at his own.

Mr. Avenel in his genius for speculation and improvement, had
established a factory at Screwstown, the first which had ever eclipsed
the church spire with its Titanic chimney. It succeeded well at first.
Mr. Avenel transferred to this speculation nearly all his capital.
“Nothing,” quoth he, “paid such an interest. Manchester was getting worn
out—time to show what Screwstown could do. Nothing like competition.”
But by-and-by a still greater capitalist than Dick Avenel, finding out
that Screwstown was at the mouth of a coal mine, and that Dick’s profits
were great, erected a still uglier edifice, with a still taller chimney.
And having been brought up to the business, and making his residence
in the town, while Dick employed a foreman and flourished in London,
this infamous competitor so managed, first to share, and then gradually
to sequester, the profits which Dick had hitherto monopolized, that
no wonder Mr. Avenel thought competition should have its limits. “The
tongue touches where the tooth aches,” as Dr. Riccabocca would tell us.
By little and little our juvenile Talleyrand (I beg the elder great
man’s pardon) wormed out from Dick this grievance, and in the grievance
discovered the origin of Dick’s connection with the money-lender.

“But Levy,” said Avenel, candidly, “is a decentish chap in his
way—friendly too. Mrs. A. finds him useful; brings some of your young
highflyers to her soirées. To be sure, they don’t dance—stand all in
a row at the door, like mutes at a funeral. Not but what they have been
uncommon civil to me lately—Spendquick particularly. By-the-by, I dine
with him to-morrow. The aristocracy are behindhand—not smart, sir—not
up to the march; but when a man knows how to take ’em, they beat the New
Yorkers in good manners. I’ll say that for them. I have no prejudice.”

“I never saw a man with less; no prejudice even against Levy.”

“No, not a bit of it! Every one says he’s a Jew; he says he’s not. I
don’t care a button what he is. His money is English—that’s enough
for any man of a liberal turn of mind. His charges, too, are moderate.
To be sure, he knows I shall pay them; only what I don’t like in him
is a sort of way he has of mon-chering and my-good-fellowing one,
to do things quite out of the natural way of that sort of business.
He knows I have got parliament influence. I could return a couple of
members for Screwstown, and one, or perhaps two, for Lansmere, where
I have of late been cooking up an interest; and he dictates to—no,
not dictates—but tries to humbug me into putting in his own men.
However, in one respect we are likely to agree. He says you want to come
into Parliament. You seem a smart young fellow; but you must throw over
that stiff red tapist of yours, and go with Public Opinion, and—Myself.”

“You are very kind, Avenel; perhaps when we come to compare opinions we
may find that we agree entirely. Still, in Egerton’s present position,
delicacy to him—however, we’ll not discuss that now. But you really
think I might come in for Lansmere—against the L’Estrange interest,
too, which must be strong there?”

“It was very strong, but I’ve smashed it, I calculate.”

“Would a contest there cost very much?”

“Well, I guess you must come down with the ready. But, as you say,
time enough to discuss that when you have squared your account with
‘delicacy;’ come to me then, and we’ll go into it.”

Randal, having now squeezed his orange dry, had no desire to waste his
time in brushing up the rind with his coat-sleeve, so he unhooked his
arm from Avenel, and looking at his watch, discovered he should be just
in time for an appointment of the most urgent business—hailed a cab,
and drove off.

Dick looked hipped and disconsolate at being left alone; he yawned very
loud, to the astonishment of three prim old maiden Belgravians who were
passing that way; and then his mind began to turn toward his factory
at Screwstown, which had led to his connection with the Baron; and he
thought over a letter he had received from his foreman that morning,
informing him that it was rumored at Screwstown that Mr. Dyce, his
rival, was about to have new machinery, on an improved principle; and
that Mr. Dyce had already gone up to town, it was supposed with the
intention of concluding a purchase for a patent discovery to be applied
to the new machinery, and which that gentleman had publicly declared in
the corn-market, “would shut up Mr. Avenel’s factory before the year was
out.” As this menacing epistle recurred to him, Dick felt his desire to
yawn incontinently checked. His brow grew very dark; and he walked with
restless strides, on and on, till he found himself in the Strand. He
then got into an omnibus, and proceeded to the city, wherein he spent
the rest of the day, looking over machines and foundries, and trying in
vain to find out what diabolical invention the over-competition of Mr.
Dyce had got hold of. “If,” said Dick Avenel to himself, as he returned
fretfully homeward—”if a man like me, who has done so much for British
industry and go-ahead principles, is to be catawampously champed up by
a mercenary selfish cormorant of a capitalist like that interloping
blockhead in drab breeches, Tom Dyce, all I can say is, that the sooner
this cursed old country goes to the dogs the better pleased I shall be.
I wash my hands of it.”

[Pg 37]

CHAPTER XXI.

Randal’s mind was made up. All he had learned in regard to Levy had
confirmed his resolves or dissipated his scruples. He had started from
the improbability that Peschiera would offer, and the still greater
improbability that Peschiera would pay him ten thousand pounds for
such information or aid as he could bestow in furthering the Count’s
object. But when Levy took such proposals entirely on himself, the main
question to Randal became this—could it be Levy’s interest to make so
considerable a sacrifice? Had the Baron implied only friendly sentiments
as his motives, Randal would have felt sure he was to be taken in; but
the usurer’s frank assurance that it would answer to him in the long
run to concede to Randal terms so advantageous, altered the case, and
led our young philosopher to look at the affair with calm contemplative
eyes. Was it sufficiently obvious that Levy counted on an adequate
return? Might he calculate on reaping help by the bushel if he sowed it
by the handful? The result of Randal’s cogitations was, that the Baron
might fairly deem himself no wasteful sower. In the first place, it was
clear that Levy, not without reasonable ground, believed that he could
soon replace, with exceeding good interest, any sum he might advance to
Randal, out of the wealth which Randal’s prompt information might bestow
on Levy’s client, the Count; and, secondly, Randal’s self-esteem was
immense, and could he but succeed in securing a pecuniary independence
on the instant, to free him from the slow drudgery of the bar, or from a
precarious reliance on Audley Egerton, as a politician out of power—his
convictions of rapid triumphs in public life were as strong as if
whispered by an angel, or promised by a fiend. On such triumphs, with
all the social position they would secure, Levy might well calculate
for repayment, through a thousand indirect channels. Randal’s sagacity
detected that, through all the good-natured or liberal actions ascribed
to the usurer, Levy had steadily pursued his own interests—he saw
that Levy meant to get him into his power, and use his abilities as
instruments for digging new mines, in which Baron Levy would claim the
right of large royalties. But at that thought Randal’s pale lip curled
disdainfully; he confided too much in his own powers not to think that
he could elude the grasp of the usurer, whenever it suited him to do
so. Thus, on a survey, all conscience hushed itself—his mind rushed
buoyantly on to anticipations of the future. He saw the hereditary
estates regained—no matter how mortgaged—for the moment still his
own—legally his own—yielding for the present what would suffice for
competence to one of a few wants, and freeing his name from that title
of Adventurer, which is so prodigally given in rich old countries to
those who have no estates but their brains. He thought of Violante but
as the civilized trader thinks of a trifling coin, of a glass bead,
which he exchanges with some barbarian for gold dust; he thought of
Frank Hazeldean,[Pg 38] married to the foreign woman of beggared means, and
repute that had known the breath of scandal—married, and living on
post-obit installments of the Casino property; he thought of the poor
Squire’s resentment; his avarice swept from the lands annexed to Rood
on to the broad fields of Hazeldean; he thought of Avenel, of Lansmere,
of Parliament; with one hand he grasped fortune, with the next power.
“And yet I entered on life with no patrimony—(save a ruined hall and a
barren waste)—no patrimony but knowledge. I have but turned knowledge
from books to men; for books may give fame after death, but men give
us power in life.” And all the while he thus ruminated, his act was
speeding his purpose. Though it was but in a miserable hack-cab that
he erected airy scaffoldings round airy castles, still the miserable
hack-cab was flying fast, to secure the first foot of solid ground
whereon to transfer the mental plan of the architect to foundations of
positive slime and clay. The cab stopped at the door of Lord Lansmere’s
house. Randal had suspected Violante to be there; he resolved to
ascertain. Randal descended from his vehicle and rang the bell. The
lodge-keeper opened the great wooden gates.

“I have called to see the young lady staying here—the foreign young
lady.”

Lady Lansmere had been too confident as to the security of her roof to
condescend to give any orders to her servants with regard to her guest,
and the lodge-keeper answered directly—

“At home, I believe, sir. I rather think she is in the garden with my
lady.”

“I see,” said Randal. And he did see the form of Violante at a distance.
“But since she is walking, I will not disturb her at present. I will
call another day.”

The lodge-keeper bowed respectfully, Randal jumped into his cab—”To
Curzon-street—quick!”

CHAPTER XXII.

Harley had made one notable oversight in that appeal to Beatrice’s
better and gentler nature, which he intrusted to the advocacy of
Leonard—a scheme in itself very characteristic of Harley’s romantic
temper, and either wise or foolish, according as his indulgent theory
of human idiosyncracies in general, and of those peculiar to Beatrice
di Negra in especial, was the dream of an enthusiast, or the inductive
conclusion of a sound philosopher.

Harley had warned Leonard not to fall in love with the Italian—he had
forgotten to warn the Italian not to fall in love with Leonard; nor
had he ever anticipated the probability of that event. This is not
to be very much wondered at; for if there be any thing on which the
most sensible men are dull-eyed, where those eyes are not lightened by
jealousy, it is as to the probabilities of another male creature being
beloved. All, the least vain of the whiskered gender, think it prudent
to guard themselves against being too irresistible to the fair sex; and
each says of his friend, “Good fellow enough, but the last man for
that woman to fall in love with!”

But certainly there appeared on the surface more than ordinary cause for
Harley’s blindness in the special instance of Leonard.

Whatever Beatrice’s better qualities, she was generally esteemed
worldly and ambitious. She was pinched in circumstances—she was
luxurious and extravagant; how was it likely that she could distinguish
any aspirant, of the humble birth and fortunes of the young peasant
author? As a coquette she might try to win his admiration and attract
his fancy; but her own heart would surely be guarded in the triple
mail of pride, poverty, and the conventional opinions of the world in
which she lived. Had Harley thought it possible that Madame di Negra
could stoop below her station, and love, not wisely, but too well,
he would rather have thought that the object would be some brilliant
adventurer of fashion—some one who could turn against herself all
the arts of deliberate fascination, and all the experience bestowed
by frequent conquest. One so simple as Leonard—so young and so new!
Harley L’Estrange would have smiled at himself if the idea of that image
subjugating the ambitious woman to the disinterested love of a village
maid, had once crossed his mind. Nevertheless, so it was, and precisely
from those causes which would have seemed to Harley to forbid the
weakness.

It was that fresh, pure heart—it was that simple, earnest
sweetness—it was that contrast in look, in tone, in sentiment, and in
reasonings, to all that had jaded and disgusted her in the circle of
her admirers—it was all this that captivated Beatrice at the first
interview with Leonard. Here was what she had confessed to the skeptical
Randal she had dreamed and sighed for. Her earliest youth had passed
into abhorrent marriage, without the soft, innocent crisis of human
life—virgin love. Many a wooer might have touched her vanity, pleased
her fancy, excited her ambition—her heart had never been awakened: it
woke now. The world, and the years that the world had wasted, seemed to
fleet away as a cloud. She was as if restored to the blush and the sigh
of youth—the youth of the Italian maid. As in the restoration of our
golden age is the spell of poetry with us all, so, such was the spell of
the poet himself on her.

Oh, how exquisite was that brief episode in the life of the woman palled
with the “hack sights and sounds” of worldly life! How strangely happy
were those hours, when, lured on by her silent sympathy, the young
scholar spoke of his early struggles between circumstance and impulse,
musing amidst the flowers, and hearkening to the fountain: or of his
wanderings in the desolate, lamp-lit streets, while the vision of
Chatterton’s glittering eyes shone dread through the friendless shadows.
And as he spoke, whether of his hopes or his fears, her looks dwelt
fondly on the young face, that varied between pride and sadness—pride
ever so gentle, and sadness ever so nobly touching. She was never weary
of gazing on that brow, with its quiet power: but her lids dropped
before those eyes, with their serene, unfathomable passion. She felt,
as they haunted her, what a deep and holy thing love in such souls must
be. Leonard never spoke to her of Helen—that reserve every reader can
comprehend. To natures like his, first love is a mystery; to confide it
is to profane. But he fulfilled his commission of interesting her in
the exile and his daughter. And his description of them brought tears
to her eyes. She inly resolved not to aid Peschiera in his designs on
Violante. She forgot for the moment that her own fortune was to depend
on the success of those designs. Levy had arranged so that she was not
reminded of her poverty by creditors—she knew not how. She knew nothing
of business. She gave herself up to the delight of the present hour, and
to vague prospects of a future, associated with that young image—with
that face of a guardian angel that she saw before her, fairest in
the moments of absence: for in those moments came the life of fairy
land, when we shut our eyes on the world, and see through the haze of
golden reverie. Dangerous, indeed, to Leonard would have been the soft
society of Beatrice di Negra, had his heart not been wholly devoted to
one object, and had not his ideal of woman been from that object one
sole and indivisible reflection. But Beatrice guessed not this barrier
between herself and him. Amidst the shadows that he conjured up from his
past life, she beheld no rival form. She saw him lonely in the world as
she was herself. And in his lowly birth, his youth, in the freedom from
presumption which characterized him in all things (save that confidence
in his intellectual destinies which is the essential attribute of
genius), she but grew the bolder by the belief that, even if he loved
her, he would not dare to hazard the avowal.

And thus, one day, yielding as she had been ever wont to yield, to
the impulse of her quick Italian heart—how she never remembered—in
what words she could never recall—she spoke—she owned her love—she
pleaded, with tears and blushes, for love in return. All that passed
was to her as a dream—a dream from which she woke with a fierce sense
of agony, of humiliation—woke as the “woman scorned.” No matter how
gratefully, how tenderly, Leonard had replied—the reply was refusal.
For the first time she learned she had a rival; that all he could give
of love was long since, from his boyhood, given to another. For the
first time in her life that ardent nature knew jealousy, its torturing
stings, its thirst for vengeance, its tempest of loving hate. But, to
outward appearance, silent and cold she stood as marble. Words that
sought to soothe fell on her ear unheeded: they were drowned by the
storm within. Pride was the first feeling that dominated the warring
elements that raged in her soul. She tore her hand from that which
clasped hers with so loyal a respect. She could have spurned the form
that knelt, not[Pg 39] for love, but for pardon, at her feet. She pointed to
the door with the gesture of an insulted queen. She knew no more till
she was alone. Then came that rapid flash of conjecture peculiar to
the storms of jealousy; that which seems to single from all nature the
one object to dread and to destroy; the conjecture so often false, yet
received at once by our convictions as the revelation of instinctive
truth. He to whom she had humbled herself loved another; whom but
Violante?—whom else, young and beautiful, had he named in the record of
his life? None! And he had sought to interest her, Beatrice di Negra,
in the object of his love—hinted at dangers, which Beatrice knew too
well—implied trust in Beatrice’s will to protect. Blind fool that she
had been! This, then, was the reason why he had come, day after day,
to Beatrice’s house; this was the charm that had drawn him thither;
this—she pressed her hands to her burning temples, as if to stop the
torture of thought. Suddenly a voice was heard below, the door opened,
and Randal Leslie entered.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Punctually at eight o’clock that evening, Baron Levy welcomed the
new ally he had secured. The pair dined en tête-à-tête, discussing
general matters till the servants left them to their wine. Then said the
Baron, rising and stirring the fire—then said the Baron, briefly and
significantly—

“Well!”

“As regards the property you spoke of,” answered Randal, “I am willing
to purchase it on the terms you name. The only point that perplexes me
is how to account to Audley Egerton, to my parents, to the world, for
the power of purchasing it.”

“True,” said the Baron, without even a smile at the ingenious and truly
Greek manner in which Randal had contrived to denote his meaning, and
conceal the ugliness of it—”true, we must think of that. If we could
manage to conceal the real name of the purchaser for a year or so—it
might be easy—you may be supposed to have speculated in the Funds;
or Egerton may die, and people may believe that he had secured to you
something handsome from the ruins of his fortune.”

“Little chance of Egerton’s dying.”

“Humph!” said the Baron. “However, this is a mere detail, reserved for
consideration. You can now tell us where the young lady is?”

“Certainly. I could not this morning—I can now. I will go with you to
the Count. Meanwhile, I have seen Madame di Negra: she will accept Frank
Hazeldean if he will but offer himself at once.”

“Will he not?”

“No! I have been to him. He is overjoyed at my representations, but
considers it his duty to ask the consent of his parents. Of course
they will not give it; and if there be delay, she will retract. She is
under the influence of passions, on the duration of which there is no
reliance.”

[Pg 40]

“What passions? Love?”

“Love; but not for Hazeldean. The passions that bring her to accept his
hand are pique and jealousy. She believes, in a word, that one, who
seems to have gained the mastery over her affections with a strange
suddenness, is but blind to her charms, because dazzled by Violante’s.
She is prepared to aid in all that can give her rival to Peschiera; and
yet, such is the inconsistency of woman” (added the young philosopher,
with a shrug of the shoulders), “that she is also prepared to lose all
chance of securing him she loves, by bestowing herself on another!”

“Woman, indeed, all over!” said the Baron, tapping the snuff-box (Louis
Quinze), and regaling his nostrils with a scornful pinch. “But who is
the man whom the fair Beatrice has thus honored? Superb creature! I had
some idea of her myself when I bought up her debts; but it might have
embarrassed me, on more general plans, as regards the Count. All for the
best. Who’s the man? Not Lord L’Estrange?”

“I do not think it is he; but I have not yet ascertained. I have told
you all I know. I found her in a state so excited, so unlike herself,
that I had no little difficulty in soothing her into confidence so far.
I could not venture more.”

“And she will accept Frank?”

“Had he offered to-day she would have accepted him!”

“It may be a great help to your fortunes, mon cher, if Frank Hazeldean
marry this lady without his father’s consent. Perhaps he may be
disinherited. You are next of kin.”

“How do you know that?” asked Randal, sullenly.

“It is my business to know all about the chances and connections of any
one with whom I do money matters. I do money matters with young Mr.
Hazeldean; so I know that the Hazeldean property is not entailed; and,
as the Squire’s half-brother has no Hazeldean blood in him, you have
excellent expectations.”

“Did Frank tell you I was next of kin?”

“I rather think so; but I am sure you did.”

“I—when?”

“When you told me how important it was to you that Frank should marry
Madame di Negra. Peste! mon cher, do you think I am a blockhead?”

“Well, Baron, Frank is of age, and can marry to please himself. You
implied to me that you could help him in this.”

“I will try. See that he call at Madame di Negra’s to-morrow, at two
precisely.”

“I would rather keep clear of all apparent interference in this matter.
Will you not arrange that he call on her?”

“I will. Any more wine? No;—then let us go to the Count’s.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

The next morning Frank Hazeldean was sitting over his solitary
breakfast-table. It was long past noon. The young man had risen early,
it is true, to attend his military duties, but he had contracted the
habit of breakfasting late. One’s appetite does not come early when one
lives in London, and never goes to bed before daybreak.

There was nothing very luxurious or effeminate about Frank’s rooms,
though they were in a very dear street, and he paid a monstrous high
price for them. Still, to a practiced eye, they betrayed an inmate
who can get through his money and make very little show for it. The
walls were covered with colored prints of racers and steeplechases,
interspersed with the portraits of opera-dancers—all smirk and caper.
Then there was a semicircular recess, covered with red cloth, and fitted
up for smoking, as you might perceive by sundry stands full of Turkish
pipes in cherry-stick and jessamine, with amber mouth-pieces; while a
great serpent hookah, from which Frank could no more have smoked than he
could have smoked out of the head of a boa constrictor, coiled itself
up on the floor; over the chimney-piece was a collection of Moorish
arms. What use on earth, ataghan and scimitar, and damasquined pistols,
that would not carry straight three yards, could be to an officer in
his Majesty’s Guards, is more than I can conjecture, or even Frank
satisfactorily explain. I have strong suspicions that this valuable
arsenal passed to Frank in part-payment of a bill to be discounted. At
all events, if so, it was an improvement on the bear that he had sold
to the hairdresser. No books were to be seen any where, except a Court
Guide, a Racing Calendar, an Army List, the Sporting Magazine complete
(whole bound in scarlet morocco, at about a guinea per volume), and a
small book, as small as an Elzevir, on the chimney-piece, by the side of
a cigar-case. That small book had cost Frank more than all the rest put
together; it was his Own Book, his book par excellence; book made up
by himself—his Betting-Book!

On a centre-table were deposited Frank’s well-brushed hat—a satin-wood
box, containing kid-gloves of various delicate tints, from primrose to
lilac—a tray full of cards and three-cornered notes—an opera-glass,
and an ivory subscription ticket to his opera stall.

In one corner was an ingenious receptacle for canes, sticks, and
whips—I should not like, in these bad times, to have paid the bill
for them,—and, mounting guard by that receptacle, stood a pair of
boots as bright as Baron Levy’s—”the force of brightness could no
further go.” Frank was in his dressing-gown—very good taste—quite
Oriental—guaranteed to be true India cashmere, and charged as
such. Nothing could be more neat, though perfectly simple, than the
appurtenances of his breakfast-table;—silver tea-pot, ewer and
basin—all fitting into his dressing-box—(for the which may Storr
and Mortimer be now praised, and some day paid!) Frank looked very
handsome—rather tired, and exceedingly bored. He had been trying to
read the Morning Post, but the effort had proved too much for him.

Poor dear Frank Hazeldean! true type of many a poor dear fellow who
has long since gone to the dogs. And if, in this road to ruin, there
had been the least thing to do the traveler any credit by the way!
One feels a respect for the ruin of a man like Audley Egerton. He is
ruined en roi! From the wrecks of his fortune he can look down and
see stately monuments built from the stones of that dismantled edifice.
In every institution which attests the humanity of England, was a
record of the princely bounty of the public man. In those objects of
party for which the proverbial sinews of war are necessary—in those
rewards for service, which private liberality can confer—the hand of
Egerton had been opened as with the heart of a king. Many a rising
member of Parliament, in those days when talent was brought forward
through the aid of wealth and rank, owed his career to the seat which
Audley Egerton’s large subscription had secured to him; many an obscure
supporter in letters and the press looked back to the day when he had
been freed from the jail by the gratitude of the patron. The city he
represented was embellished at his cost; through the shire that held his
mortgaged lands, which he had rarely ever visited, his gold had flowed
as a Pactolus; all that could animate its public spirit, or increase
its civilization claimed kindred with his munificence, and never had
a claim disallowed. Even in his grand careless household, with its
large retinue and superb hospitality, there was something worthy of a
representative of that time-honored portion of our true nobility—the
untitled gentlemen of the land. The great commoner had, indeed,
“something to show” for the money he had disdained and squandered. But
for Frank Hazeldean’s mode of getting rid of the dross, when gone, what
would be left to tell the tale? Paltry prints in a bachelor’s lodging; a
collection of canes and cherry sticks; half-a-dozen letters in ill-spelt
French from a figurante; some long-legged horses, fit for nothing
but to lose a race; that damnable Betting-Book; and—sic transit
gloria—down sweeps some hawk of a Levy, on the wings of an I O U, and
not a feather is left of the pigeon!

Yet Frank Hazeldean has stuff in him—a good heart, and strict honor.
Fool though he seem, there is sound sterling sense in some odd corner of
his brains, if one could but get at it. All he wants to save him from
perdition is, to do what he has never yet done—viz., pause and think.
But, to be sure that same operation of thinking is not so easy for folks
unaccustomed to it, as people who think—think!

“I can’t bear this,” said Frank, suddenly, and springing to his feet.
“This woman, I can not get her out of my head. I ought to go down to the
governor’s; but then if he gets into a passion and refuses his consent,
where am I? And he will too, I fear. I wish I could make out what Randal
advises. He seems to recommend that I should marry Beatrice at once, and
trust to my mother’s influence to make all right afterward. But when I
ask, ‘Is that your advice?’[Pg 41] he backs out of it. Well I suppose he
is right there. I can understand that he is unwilling, good fellow, to
recommend any thing that my father would disapprove. But still—”

Here Frank stopped in his soliloquy, and did make his first desperate
effort to—think!

Now, O dear reader, I assume, of course, that thou art one of the class
to which thought is familiar; and, perhaps, thou hast smiled in disdain
or incredulity at that remark on the difficulty of thinking which
preceded Frank Hazeldean’s discourse to himself. But art thou quite sure
that when thou hast tried to think thou hast always succeeded! Hast
thou not often been duped by that pale visionary simulacrum of thought
which goes by the name of reverie? Honest old Montaigne confessed
that he did not understand that process of sitting down to think, on
which some folks express themselves so glibly. He could not think unless
he had a pen in his hand, and a sheet of paper before him; and so, by
a manual operation, seized and connected the links of ratiocination.
Very often has it happened to myself, when I have said to Thought,
peremptorily, “Bestir thyself—a serious matter is before thee—ponder
it well—think of it,” that that same Thought has behaved in the most
refractory, rebellious manner conceivable—and instead of concentrating
its rays into a single stream of light, has broken into all the
desultory tints of the rainbow, coloring senseless clouds, and running
off into the seventh heaven—so that after sitting a good hour by the
clock, with brows as knit as if I was intent on squaring the circle, I
have suddenly discovered that I might as well have gone comfortably to
sleep—I have been doing nothing but dream—and the most nonsensical
dreams! So when Frank Hazeldean, as he stopped at that meditative “But
still”—and leaning his arm on the chimney-piece and resting his face
on his hand, felt himself at the grave crisis of life, and fancied he
was going “to think on it,” there only rose before him a succession of
shadowy pictures. Randal Leslie, with an unsatisfactory countenance,
from which he could extract nothing:—the Squire, looking as black as
thunder in his study at Hazeldean:—his mother trying to plead for
him, and getting herself properly scolded for her pains;—and then off
went that Will-o’-the-wisp which pretended to call itself Thought, and
began playing round the pale charming face of Beatrice di Negra in the
drawing-room at Curzon-street, and repeating, with small elfin voice,
Randal Leslie’s assurance of the preceding day, “as to her affection
for you, Frank, there is no doubt of that; she only begins to think
you are trifling with her.” And then there was a rapturous vision of a
young gentleman on his knee, and the fair pale face bathed in blushes,
and a clergyman standing by the altar, and a carriage and four with
white favors at the church-door; and of a honeymoon which would have
astonished as to honey all the bees of Hymettus. And in the midst of
these phantasmagoria, which composed what Frank fondly[Pg 42] styled “making
up his mind,” there came a single man’s elegant rat-tat-tat at the
street-door.

“One never has a moment for thinking,” cried Frank, as he called out
to his valet, “Not at home.”

But it was too late. Lord Spendquick was in the hall, and presently
within the room. How d’ye do’s were exchanged and hands shaken.

Lord Spendquick.—”I have a note for you, Hazeldean.”

Frank (lazily).—”From whom?”

Lord Spendquick.—”Levy. Just come from him—never saw him in
such a fidget. He was going into the city—I suppose to see X. Y. Dashed
off this note for you—and would have sent it by a servant, but I said I
would bring it.”

Frank (looking fearfully at the note).—”I hope he does not
want his money yet. Private and confidential—that looks bad.”

Spendquick.—”Devilish bad indeed.”

Frank opens the note and reads half aloud, “Dear Hazeldean.”

Spendquick (interrupting.)—”Good sign! He always ‘Spendquicks’
me when he lends me money; and ’tis ‘My dear Lord’ when he wants it
back. Capital sign!”

Frank reads on, but to himself, and with a changing countenance:

“Dear Hazeldean—I am very sorry to tell you that, in
consequence of the sudden failure of a house at Paris, with which I had
large dealings, I am pressed, on a sudden, for all the ready money I can
get. I don’t want to inconvenience you; but do try and see if you can
take up those bills of yours which I hold, and which, as you know, have
been due some little time. I had hit on a way of arranging your affairs;
but when I hinted at it, you seemed to dislike the idea; and Leslie has
since told me that you have strong objections to giving any security
on your prospective property. So no more of that, my dear fellow. I am
called out in haste to try what I can do for a very charming client of
mine, who is in great pecuniary distress, though she has for her brother
a foreign Count, as rich as Crœsus. There is an execution in her
house. I am going down to the tradesman who put it in, but have no hope
of softening him; and I fear there will be others before the day is out.
Another reason for wanting money, if you can help me, mon cher! An
execution in the house of one of the most brilliant women in London—an
execution in Curzon-street, May Fair! It will be all over the town, if I
can’t stop it.—Yours in haste. Levy.

“P.S.—Don’t let what I have said vex you too much. I should not trouble
you if Spendquick and Borrowell would pay me something. Perhaps you can
get them to do so.”

Struck by Frank’s silence and paleness, Lord Spendquick here, in
the kindest way possible, laid his hand on the young Guardsman’s
shoulder, and looked over the note with that freedom which gentlemen
in difficulties take with each other’s private and confidential
correspondence. His eye fell on the postscript. “Oh, damn it,” cried
Spendquick, “but that’s too bad—employing you to get me to pay him!
Such horrid treachery. Make yourself easy, my dear Frank; I could never
suspect you of any thing so unhandsome. I could as soon suspect myself
of—paying him—”

“Curzon-street! Count!” muttered Frank, as if waking from a dream.
“It must be so.” To thrust on his boots—change his dressing-robe
for a frock-coat—catch at his hat, gloves, and cane—break from
Spendquick—descend the stairs—a flight at a leap—gain the
street—throw himself into a cabriolet; all this was done before his
astounded visitor could even recover breath enough to ask, “What’s the
matter?”

Left thus alone, Lord Spendquick shook his head—shook it twice, as
if fully to convince himself that there was nothing in it; and then
re-arranging his hat before the looking-glass, and drawing on his gloves
deliberately, he walked down stairs, and strolled into White’s, but with
a bewildered and absent air. Standing at the celebrated bow-window for
some moments in musing silence, Lord Spendquick at last thus addressed
an exceedingly cynical, skeptical old roué:

“Pray, do you think there is any truth in the stories about people in
former times selling themselves to the devil?”

“Ugh,” answered the roué, much too wise ever to be surprised. “Have
you any personal interest in the question?”

“I—no; but a friend of mine has just received a letter from Levy, and
he flew out of the room in the most extra-or-di-na-ry manner—just as
people did in those days when their time was up! And Levy, you know,
is—”

“Not quite so great a fool as the other dark gentleman to whom you would
compare him; for Levy never made such bad bargains for himself. Time up!
No doubt it is. I should not like to be in your friend’s shoes.”

“Shoes!” said Spendquick, with a sort of shudder: “you never saw a
neater fellow, nor one, to do him justice, who takes more time in
dressing than he does in general. And, talking of shoes—he rushed out
with the right boot on the left foot, and the left boot on the right.
Very mysterious.” And a third time Lord Spendquick shook his head—and a
third time that head seemed to him wondrous empty.

CHAPTER XXV.

But Frank had arrived in Curzon-street—leapt from the
cabriolet—knocked at the door, which was opened by a strange-looking
man in a buff waistcoat and corduroy smalls. Frank gave a glance at
this personage—pushed him aside—and rushed up-stairs. He burst into
the drawing-room—no Beatrice was there. A thin elderly man, with
a manuscript book in his hands, appeared engaged in examining the
furniture and making an inventory, with the aid of Madame di Negra’s
upper servant. The thin man stared at Frank, and touched the hat which
was on his head. The servant, who was a foreigner, approached Frank, and
said, in broken English, that his lady did not receive—that she was
unwell, and kept her room. Frank thrust a sovereign into the servant’s
hand, and begged him to tell Madame di Negra that Mr. Hazeldean
entreated the honor of an interview. As soon as the servant vanished on
this errand, Frank seized the thin man by the arm: “What is this? an
execution?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For what sum?”

“Fifteen hundred and forty-seven pounds. We are the first in possession.”

“There are others, then?”

“Or else, sir, we should never have taken this step. Most painful to our
feelings, sir; but these foreigners are here to-day, and gone to-morrow.
And—”

The servant re-entered. Madame di Negra would see Mr. Hazeldean. Would
he walk up-stairs? Frank hastened to obey this summons.

Madame di Negra was in a small room which was fitted up as a boudoir.
Her eyes showed the traces of recent tears, but her face was composed,
and even rigid, in its haughty though mournful expression. Frank,
however, did not pause to notice her countenance—to hear her dignified
salutation. All his timidity was gone. He saw but the woman whom he
loved, in distress and humiliation. As the door closed on him, he flung
himself at her feet. He caught at her hand—the skirt of her robe.

“Oh! Madame di Negra!—Beatrice!” he exclaimed, tears in his eyes, and
his voice half-broken by generous emotion; “forgive me—forgive me;
don’t see in me a mere acquaintance. By accident I learned, or, rather,
guessed—this—this strange insult to which you are so unworthily
exposed. I am here. Think of me—but as a friend—the truest friend. O!
Beatrice”—and he bent his head over the hand he held—”I never dared
say so before—it seems presuming to say it now—but I can not help it.
I love you—I love you with my whole heart and soul—to serve you—if
only but to serve you!—I ask nothing else.” And a sob went from his
warm, young, foolish heart.

The Italian was deeply moved. Nor was her nature that of the mere sordid
adventuress. So much love, and so much confidence! She was not prepared
to betray the one, and entrap the other.

“Rise—rise,” she said, softly; “I thank you gratefully. But do not
suppose that I—”

“Hush—hush!—you must not refuse me. Hush!—don’t let your pride speak.”

“No—it is not my pride. You exaggerate what is occurring here. You
forget that I have a brother. I have sent for him. He is the only one
I can apply to. Ah! that is his knock! But I shall never, never forget
that I have found one generous, noble heart in this hollow world.”

[Pg 43]

Frank would have replied, but he heard the Count’s voice on the stairs,
and had only time to rise and withdraw to the window, trying hard to
repress his agitation and compose his countenance. Count di Peschiera
entered—entered as a very personation of the beauty and magnificence
of careless, luxurious, pampered, egotistical wealth. His surtout,
trimmed with the costliest sables, flung back from his splendid chest.
Amidst the folds of the glossy satin that enveloped his throat gleamed
a turquoise, of such value as a jeweler might have kept for fifty years
before he could find a customer rich and frivolous enough to buy it. The
very head of his cane was a masterpiece of art, and the man himself,
so elegant despite his strength, and so fresh despite his years! It is
astonishing how well men wear when they think of no one but themselves!

“Pr-rr!” said the Count, not observing Frank behind the draperies of
the window; “P-rr—. It seems to me that you must have passed a very
unpleasant quarter of an hour. And now—Dieu me damne—quoi faire!”

Beatrice pointed to the window, and felt as if she could have sunk into
the earth for shame. But as the Count spoke in French, and Frank did not
very readily comprehend that language, the words escaped him, though his
ear was shocked by a certain satirical levity of tone.

Frank came forward. The Count held out his hand, and, with a rapid
change of voice and manner, said, “One whom my sister admits at such a
moment must be a friend to me.”

“Mr. Hazeldean,” said Beatrice, with meaning, “would indeed have nobly
pressed on me the offer of an aid which I need no more, since you, my
brother, are here.”

“Certainly,” said the Count, with his superb air of grand seigneur; “I
will go down and clear your house of this impertinent canaille. But I
thought your affairs were with Baron Levy. He should be here.”

“I expect him every moment. Adieu! Mr. Hazeldean.” Beatrice extended
her hand to her young lover with a frankness which was not without a
certain pathetic and cordial dignity. Restrained from farther words by
the Count’s presence, Frank bowed over the fair hand in silence, and
retired. He was on the stairs, when he was joined by Peschiera.

“Mr. Hazeldean,” said the latter, in a low tone, “will you come into the
drawing-room?”

Frank obeyed. The man employed in his examination of the furniture was
still at his task; but at a short whisper from the Count he withdrew.

“My dear sir,” said Peschiera, “I am so unacquainted with your English
laws, and your mode of settling embarrassments of this degrading
nature, and you have evidently showed so kind a sympathy in my sister’s
distress, that I venture to ask you to stay here, and aid me in
consulting with Baron Levy.”

Frank was just expressing his unfeigned pleasure to be of the slightest
use, when Levy’s knock[Pg 44] resounded at the street-door, and in another
moment the Baron entered.

“Ouf!” said Levy, wiping his brows, and sinking into a chair, as if he
had been engaged in toils the most exhausting—”Ouf! this is a very sad
business—very; and nothing, my dear Count, nothing but ready money can
save us here.”

“You know my affairs, Levy,” replied Peschiera, mournfully shaking his
head, “and that though in a few months, or it may be weeks, I could
discharge with ease my sister’s debts, whatever their amount, yet at
this moment, and in a strange land, I have not the power to do so. The
money I brought with me is nearly exhausted. Can you not advance the
requisite sum?”

“Impossible!—Mr. Hazeldean is aware of the distress under which I labor
myself.”

“In that case,” said the Count, “all we can do to-day is to remove my
sister, and let the execution proceed. Meanwhile, I will go among my
friends, and see what I can borrow from them.”

“Alas!” said Levy, rising and looking out of the window—”alas! we can
not remove the Marchesa—the worst is to come. Look!—you see those
three men; they have a writ against her person; the moment she sets her
foot out of these doors she will be arrested.”[4]

“Arrested!” exclaimed Peschiera and Frank in a breath.

“I have done my best to prevent this disgrace, but in vain,” said the
Baron, looking very wretched. “You see, these English tradespeople fancy
they have no hold upon foreigners. But we can get bail; she must not go
to prison—”

“Prison!” echoed Frank. He hastened to Levy and drew him aside. The
Count seemed paralyzed by shame and grief. Throwing himself back on the
sofa, he covered his face with his hands.

“My sister!” groaned the Count—”daughter to a Peschiera, widow to di
Negra!” There was something affecting in the proud woe of this grand
patrician.

“What is the sum?” whispered Frank, anxious that the poor Count
should not overhear him: and indeed the Count seemed too stunned and
overwhelmed to hear any thing less loud than a clap of thunder.

“We may settle all liabilities for £500. Nothing to Peschiera, who is
enormously rich. Entre nous, I doubt his assurance that he is without
ready money. It may be so, but—”

“£500! How can I raise such a sum!”

“You, my dear Hazeldean? What are you talking about? To be sure, you
could raise twice as much with a stroke of your pen, and throw your own
debts into the bargain. But—to be so generous to an acquaintance!”

“Acquaintance—Madame di Negra!—the height of my ambition is to claim
her as my wife!”

“And these debts don’t startle you?”

“If a man loves,” answered Frank, simply, “he feels it most when the
woman he loves is in affliction. And,” he added, after a pause,
“though these debts are faults, kindness at this moment may give me the
power to cure forever both her faults and my own. I can raise this money
by a stroke of the pen! How?”

“On the Casino property.”

Frank drew back.

“No other way?”

“Of course not. But I know your scruples; let us see if they can be
conciliated. You would marry Madame di Negra; she will have £20,000
on her wedding-day. Why not arrange that, out of this sum, your
anticipative charge on the Casino property be paid at once? Thus, in
truth, it will be but for a few weeks that the charge will exist. The
bond will remain locked in my desk—it can never come to your father’s
knowledge, nor wound his feelings. And when, you marry (if you will but
be prudent in the meanwhile), you will not owe a debt in the world.”

Here the Count suddenly started up.

“Mr. Hazeldean, I asked you to stay and aid us by your counsel; I see
now that counsel is unavailing. This blow on our house must fall! I
thank you, Sir—I thank you. Farewell. Levy, come with me to my poor
sister, and prepare her for the worst.”

“Count,” said Frank, “hear me. My acquaintance with you is but slight,
but I have long known and—and esteemed your sister. Baron Levy has
suggested a mode in which I can have the honor and the happiness of
removing this temporary but painful embarrassment. I can advance the
money.”

“No—no!” exclaimed Peschiera. “How can you suppose that I will hear of
such a proposition? Your youth and benevolence mislead and blind you.
Impossible, sir—impossible! Why, even if I had no pride, no delicacy of
my own, my sister’s fair fame—”

“Would suffer indeed,” interrupted Levy, “if she were under such
obligation to any one but her affianced husband. Nor, whatever my regard
for you, Count, could I suffer my client, Mr. Hazeldean, to make this
advance upon any less valid security than that of the fortune to which
Madame di Negra is entitled.”

“Ha!—is this indeed so? You are a suitor for my sister’s hand, Mr.
Hazeldean?”

“But not at this moment—not to owe her hand to the compulsion of
gratitude,” answered gentleman Frank.

“Gratitude! And you do not know her heart, then? Do not know—” the
Count interrupted himself, and went on after a pause. “Mr. Hazeldean, I
need not say, that we rank among the first houses in Europe. My pride
led me formerly into the error, of disposing of my sister’s hand to one
whom she did not love—merely because in rank he was her equal. I will
not again commit such an error, nor would Beatrice again obey me if I
sought to constrain her. Where she marries, there she will love. If,
indeed, she accept you, as I believe she will, it will be from affection
solely. If she does, I can not scruple to accept this loan—a loan
from a brother-in-law—loan to me, and not charged against her fortune!
That, sir (turning to Levy, with his grand air), you will take care
to arrange. If she do not accept you, Mr. Hazeldean, the loan, I repeat
it, is not to be thought of. Pardon me, if I leave you. This, one way or
other, must be decided at once.” The Count inclined his head with much
stateliness, and then quitted the room. His step was heard ascending the
stairs.

“If,” said Levy, in the tone of a mere man of business—”if the Count
pay the debts, and the lady’s fortune be only charged with your
own—after all it will not be a bad marriage in the world’s eye, nor
ought it to be in a father’s. Trust me, we shall get Mr. Hazeldean’s
consent, and cheerfully too.”

Frank did not listen; he could only listen to his love, to his heart
beating loud with hope and with fear.

Levy sate down before the table, and drew up a long list of figures
in a very neat hand—a list of figures on two accounts, which the
post-obit on the Casino was destined to efface.

After a lapse of time, which to Frank seemed interminable, the Count
reappeared. He took Frank aside, with a gesture to Levy, who rose, and
retired into the drawing-room.

“My dear young friend,” said Peschiera, “as I suspected, my sister’s
heart is wholly yours. Stop; hear me out. But unluckily, I informed her
of your generous proposal. It was most unguarded, most ill-judged in me,
and that has well-nigh spoiled all; she has so much pride and spirit;
so great a fear that you may think yourself betrayed into an imprudence
you may hereafter regret, that I am sure she will tell you she does not
love you, she can not accept you, and so forth. Lovers like you are not
easily deceived. Don’t go by her words; but you shall see her yourself
and judge. Come.”

Followed mechanically by Frank, the Count ascended the stairs and threw
open the door of Beatrice’s room. The Marchesa’s back was turned; but
Frank could see that she was weeping.

“I have brought my friend to plead for himself,” said the Count in
French; “and take my advice, sister, and do not throw away all prospect
of real and solid happiness for a vain scruple. Heed me!” He retired
and left Frank alone with Beatrice.

Then the Marchesa, as if by a violent effort, so sudden was her
movement, and so wild her look, turned her face to her wooer, and came
up to him, where he stood.

“Oh!” she said, clasping her hands, “is this true? You would save
me from disgrace, from a prison—and what can I give you in return?
My love! No, no. I will not deceive you. Young, fair, noble, as you
are, I do not love you as you should be loved. Go; leave this house;
you do not know my brother. Go, go—while I have still strength,
still virtue enough to reject whatever may protect me from him!
whatever—may—Oh—go, go.”

[Pg 45]

“You do not love me,” said Frank. “Well, I don’t wonder at it; you are
so brilliant, so superior to me. I will abandon hope—I will leave you
as you command me. But at least I will not part with my privilege to
serve you. As for the rest—shame on me if I could be mean enough to
boast of love, and enforce a suit, at such a moment.”

Frank turned his face and stole away softly. He did not arrest his steps
at the drawing-room, he went into the parlor, wrote a brief line to Levy
charging him quietly to dismiss the execution, and to come to Frank’s
rooms with the necessary deeds; and, above all, to say nothing to the
Count. Then he went out of the house and walked back to his lodgings.

That evening Levy came to him, and accounts were gone into, and papers
signed; and the next morning Madame di Negra was free from debt; and
there was a great claim on the reversion of the Casino estates; and
at the noon of that next day Randal was closeted with Beatrice; and
before the night, came a note from Madame di Negra, hurried, blurred
with tears, summoning Frank to Curzon-street. And when he entered the
Marchesa’s drawing-room, Peschiera was seated beside his sister; and
rising at Frank’s entrance, said, “My dear brother-in-law!” and placed
Frank’s hand in Beatrice’s.

“You accept me—you accept me—and of your own free will and choice?”

And Beatrice answered, “Bear with me a little, and I will try to repay
you with all my—all my—” She stopped short, and sobbed aloud.

“I never thought her capable of such acute feeling, such strong
attachment,” whispered the Count.

Frank heard, and his face was radiant. By degrees Madame di Negra
recovered composure, and she listened with what her young lover
deemed a tender interest, but what, in fact, was mournful and humbled
resignation, to his joyous talk of the future. To him the hours passed
by, brief and bright, like a flash of sunlight. And his dreams, when he
retired to rest, were so golden! But when he awoke the next morning, he
said to himself, “What—what will they say at the Hall?”

At that same hour, Beatrice, burying her face on her pillow, turned
from the loathsome day, and could have prayed for death. At that same
hour, Giulio Franzini Count di Peschiera, dismissing some gaunt,
haggard Italians, with whom he had been in close conference, sallied
forth to reconnoitre the house that contained Violante. At that same
hour, Baron Levy was seated before his desk, casting up a deadly array
of figures, headed “Account with the Right Hon. Audley Egerton, M.P.,
Dr. and Cr.“—title-deeds strewed around him, and Frank Hazeldean’s
post-obit peeping out fresh from the elder parchments. At that same
hour, Audley Egerton had just concluded a letter from the chairman of
his committee in the city he represented, which letter informed him he
had not a chance of being re[Pg 46]-elected. And the lines of his face were
as composed as usual, and his foot rested as firm on the grim iron box;
but his hand was pressed to his heart, and his eye was on the clock;
and his voice muttered—”Dr. F—— should be here!” And at that hour
Harley L’Estrange, who the previous night had charmed courtly crowds
with his gay humor, was pacing to and fro the room in his hotel with
restless strides and many a heavy sigh;—and Leonard was standing by
the fountain in his garden, and watching the wintry sunbeams that
sparkled athwart the spray;—and Violante was leaning on Helen’s
shoulder, and trying archly, yet innocently, to lead Helen to talk of
Leonard;—and Helen was gazing steadfastly on the floor and answering
but by monosyllables;—and Randal Leslie was walking down to his office
for the last time, and reading, as he passed across the Green Park, a
letter from home, from his sister; and then, suddenly crumpling the
letter in his thin, pale hand, he looked up, beheld in the distance the
spires of the great national Abbey; and recalling the words of our hero
Nelson, he muttered—”Victory and Westminster, but not the Abbey!”
And Randal Leslie felt that, within the last few days, he had made a
vast stride in his ambition;—his grasp on the old Leslie lands—Frank
Hazeldean betrothed, and possibly disinherited—and Dick Avenel, in the
back-ground, opening, against the hated Lansmere interest, that same
seat in Parliament which had first welcomed into public life Randal’s
rained patron.

BOOK XI.—Initial Chapter.

It is not an uncommon crotchet among benevolent men to maintain that
wickedness is necessarily a sort of insanity, and that nobody would make
a violent start out of the straight path unless stung to such disorder
by a bee in his bonnet. Certainly, when some very clever, well-educated
person, like our friend, Randal Leslie, acts upon the fallacious
principle that “roguery is the best policy,” it is curious to see how
many points he has in common with the insane: what over-cunning—what
irritable restlessness—what suspicious belief that the rest of the
world are in a conspiracy against him, which it requires all his wit to
baffle and turn to his own proper aggrandizement and profit. Perhaps
some of my readers may have thought that I have represented Randal as
unnaturally far-fetched in his schemes, too wire-drawn and subtle in
his speculations; yet that is commonly the case with very refining
intellects, when they choose to play the knave; it helps to disguise
from themselves the ugliness of their ambition, just as the philosopher
delights in the ingenuity of some metaphysical process, which ends in
what plain men call “atheism,” who would be infinitely shocked and
offended if he were entitled an atheist. As I have somewhere said or
implied before, it is difficult for us dull folks to conceive the glee
which a wily brain takes in the exercise of its own ingenuity.

Having premised thus much on behalf of the “Natural” in Randal Leslie’s
character, I must here fly off to say a word or two on the agency in
human life exercised by a passion rarely seen without a mask in our
debonair and civilized age—I mean Hate.

In the good old days of our forefathers, when plain speaking and hard
blows were in fashion—when a man had his heart at the tip of his
tongue, and four feet of sharp iron dangling at his side, Hate played
an honest, open part in the theatre of the world. In fact, when we read
history, it seems to have “starred it” on the stage. But now, where
is Hate?—who ever sees its face? Is it that smiling, good-tempered
creature, that presses you by the hand so cordially? or that dignified
figure of state that calls you its “right honorable friend?” Is it
that bowing, grateful dependent?—is it that soft-eyed Amaryllis? Ask
not, guess not; you will only know it to be Hate when the poison is in
your cup, or the poniard in your breast. In the Gothic age, grim Humor
painted “the Dance of Death;” in our polished century, some sardonic wit
should give us “the Masquerade of Hate.”

Certainly, the counter-passion betrays itself with ease to our gaze.
Love is rarely a hypocrite. But Hate—how detect, how guard against
it? It lurks where you least suspect it; it is created by causes that
you can the least foresee; and Civilization multiplies its varieties,
while it favors its disguise: for Civilization increases the number
of contending interests, and Refinement renders more susceptible to
the least irritation the cuticle of Self-Love. But Hate comes covertly
forth from some self-interest we have crossed, or some self-love we
have wounded; and, dullards that we are, how seldom we are aware of our
offense! You may be hated by a man you have never seen in your life; you
may be hated as often by one you have loaded with benefits; you may so
walk as not to tread on a worm; but you must sit fast on your easy-chair
till you are carried out to your bier, if you would be sure not to tread
on some snake of a foe. But, then, what harm does the Hate do us? Very
often the harm is as unseen by the world as the hate is unrecognized by
us. It may come on us, unawares, in some solitary by-way of our life;
strike us in our unsuspecting privacy; thwart us in some blessed hope
we have never told to another: for the moment the world sees that it is
Hate that strikes us, its worst power of mischief is gone.

We have a great many names for the same passion—Envy, Jealousy, Spite,
Prejudice, Rivalry; but they are so many synonyms for the one old
heathen demon. When the death-giving shaft of Apollo sent the plague to
some unhappy Achæan, it did not much matter to the victim whether the
god were called Helios or Smintheus.

No man you ever met in the world seemed more raised above the malice
of Hate than Audley Egerton: even in the hot war of politics he had
scarcely a personal foe; and in private life he kept himself so aloof
and apart from others that he was little known, save by the benefits
the waste of his wealth conferred. That the hate of any one could reach
the austere statesman on his high pinnacle of esteem,—you would dare
smiled at the idea! But Hate is now, as it ever has been, an actual
Power amidst “the Varieties of Life;” and, in spite of bars to the door,
and policemen in the street, no one can be said to sleep in safety while
there wakes the eye of a single foe.

CHAPTER II.

The glory of Bond-street is no more. The title of Bond-street lounger
has faded from our lips. In vain the crowd of equipages and the blaze of
shops: the renown of Bond-street was in its pavement—its pedestrians.
Art thou old enough, O reader! to remember the Bond-street Lounger and
his incomparable generation? For my part, I can just recall the decline
of the grand era. It was on its wane when, in the ambition of boyhood,
I first began to muse upon high neck-cloths and Wellington boots. But
the ancient habitués—the magni nominis umbræ—contemporaries
of Brummell in his zenith—boon companions of George IV. in his
regency—still haunted the spot. From four to six in the hot month of
June, they sauntered stately to and fro, looking somewhat mournful
even then—foreboding the extinction of their race. The Bond-street
Lounger was rarely seen alone: he was a social animal, and walked
arm-in-arm with his fellow-man. He did not seem born for the cares of
these ruder times; not made was he for an age in which Finsbury returns
members to Parliament. He loved his small talk; and never since then
has talk been so pleasingly small. Your true Bond-street Lounger had a
very dissipated look. His youth had been spent with heroes who loved
their bottle. He himself had perhaps supped with Sheridan. He was by
nature a spendthrift: you saw it in the roll of his walk. Men who make
money rarely saunter; men who save money rarely swagger. But saunter
and swagger both united to stamp PRODIGAL on the Bond-street
Lounger. And so familiar as he was with his own set, and so amusingly
supercilious with the vulgar residue of mortals whose faces were strange
to Bond-street. But He is gone. The world, though sadder for his loss,
still strives to do its best without him; and our young men, nowadays,
attend to model cottages, and incline to Tractarianism—I mean those
young men who are quiet and harmless, as a Bond-street Lounger was of
old—redeunt Saturnia regna. Still the place, to an unreflecting
eye, has its brilliancy and bustle. But it is a thoroughfare, not a
lounge. And adown the thoroughfare, somewhat before the hour when the
throng is thickest, passed two gentlemen of an appearance exceedingly
out of keeping with the place. Yet both had the air of men pretending
to aristocracy—an old-world air of respectability and stake in the
country, and Church-and-Stateism. The burlier of the two was even
rather a beau in his[Pg 47] way. He had first learned to dress, indeed,
when Bond-street was at its acmé, and Brummell in his pride. He still
retained in his garb the fashion of his youth; only what then had spoken
of the town, now betrayed the life of the country. His neckcloth ample
and high, and of snowy whiteness, set off to comely advantage a face
smooth-shaven, and of clear, florid hues; his coat of royal blue, with
buttons in which you might have seen yourself veluti in speculum,
was, rather jauntily, buttoned across a waist that spoke of lusty
middle age, free from the ambition, the avarice, and the anxieties that
fret Londoners into thread-papers; his small-clothes of grayish drab,
loose at the thigh and tight at the knee, were made by Brummell’s own
breeches-maker, and the gaiters to match (thrust half-way down the
calf) had a manly dandyism that would have done honor to the beau-ideal
of a county member. The profession of this gentleman’s companion
was unmistakable—the shovel-hat, the clerical cut of the coat, the
neckcloth without collar, that seemed made for its accessory—the band,
and something very decorous, yet very mild, in the whole mien of this
personage, all spoke of one who was every inch the gentleman and the
parson.

“No,” said the portlier of these two persons—”no, I can’t say I like
Frank’s looks at all. There’s certainly something on his mind. However,
I suppose it will be all out this evening.”

“He dines with you at your hotel, Squire? Well, you must be kind to him.
We can’t put old heads upon young shoulders.”

“I don’t object to his head being young,” returned the Squire; “but I
wish he had a little of Randal Leslie’s good sense in it. I see how
it will end: I must take him back into the country; and if he wants
occupation, why, he shall keep the hounds, and I’ll put him into
Brooksby farm.”

“As for the hounds,” replied the Parson, “hounds necessitate horses; and
I think more mischief comes to a young man of spirit, from the stables,
than from any other place in the world. They ought to be exposed from
the pulpit, those stables!” added Mr. Dale, thoughtfully; “see what
they entailed upon Nimrod! But agriculture is a healthful and noble
pursuit, honored by sacred nations, and cherished by the greatest men in
classical times. For instance, the Athenians were—”

“Bother the Athenians!” cried the Squire, irreverently; “you need not
go so far back for an example. It is enough for a Hazeldean that his
father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather all farmed before
him; and a devilish deal better, I take it, than any of those musty old
Athenians—no offense to them. But I’ll tell you one thing, Parson—a
man, to farm well, and live in the country, should have a wife; it is
half the battle.”

“As to a battle, a man who is married is pretty sure of half, though
not always the better half, of it,” answered the Parson, who seemed
peculiarly facetious that day. “Ah, Squire, I[Pg 48] wish I could think
Mrs. Hazeldean right in her conjecture!—you would have the prettiest
daughter-in-law in the three kingdoms. And I think, if I could have a
good talk with the young lady apart from her father, we could remove the
only objection I know to the marriage. Those Popish errors—”

“Ah, very true!” cried the Squire; “that Pope sticks hard in my gizzard.
I could excuse her being a foreigner, and not having, I suppose, a
shilling in her pocket—bless her handsome face!—but to be worshiping
images in her room instead of going to the parish church, that will
never do. But you think you could talk her out of the Pope, and into the
family pew?”

“Why, I could have talked her father out of the Pope, only, when he had
not a word to say for himself, he bolted out of the window. Youth is
more ingenuous in confessing its errors.”

“I own,” said the Squire, “that both Harry and I had a favorite notion
of ours, till this Italian girl got into our heads. Do you know we
both took a great fancy to Randal’s little sister—pretty, blushing,
English-faced girl as ever you saw. And it went to Harry’s good heart
to see her so neglected by that silly, fidgety mother of hers, her hair
hanging about her ears; and I thought it would be a fine way to bring
Randal and Frank more together, and enable me to do something for Randal
himself—a good boy, with Hazeldean blood in his veins. But Violante is
so handsome, that I don’t wonder at the boy’s choice; and then it is our
fault—we let them see so much of each other, as children. However, I
should be very angry if Rickeybockey had been playing sly, and running
away from the Casino in order to give Frank an opportunity to carry on a
clandestine intercourse with his daughter.”

“I don’t think that would be like Riccabocca; more like him to run
away in order to deprive Frank of the best of all occasions to court
Violante, if he so desired; for where could he see more of her than at
the Casino?”

Squire.—”That’s well put. Considering he was only a foreign
doctor, and, for aught we know, went about in a caravan, he is a
gentlemanlike fellow, that Rickeybockey. I speak of people as I find
them. But what is your notion about Frank? I see you don’t think he is
in love with Violante, after all. Out with it, man; speak plain.”

Parson.—”Since you so urge me, I own I do not think him in
love with her; neither does my Carry, who is uncommonly shrewd in such
matters.”

Squire.—”Your Carry, indeed!—as if she were half as shrewd as
my Harry. Carry—nonsense!”

Parson (reddening).—”I don’t want to make invidious remarks;
but, Mr. Hazeldean, when you sneer at my Carry, I should not be a man if
I did not say that—”

Squire (interrupting).—”She was a good little woman enough;
but to compare her to my Harry!”

Parson.—”I don’t compare her to your Harry; I don’t compare
her to any woman in England, sir. But you are losing your temper, Mr.
Hazeldean!”

Squire.—”I!”

Parson.—”And people are staring at you, Mr. Hazeldean. For
decency’s sake, compose yourself, and change the subject. We are just at
the Albany. I hope that we shall not find poor Captain Higginbotham as
ill as he represents himself in his letter. Ah! is it possible? No, it
can not be. Look—look!”

Squire.—”Where—what—where? Don’t pinch so hard. Bless me, do
you see a ghost?”

Parson.—”There—the gentleman in black!”

Squire.—”Gentleman in black! What!—in broad daylight!
Nonsense!”

Here the Parson made a spring forward, and, catching the arm of the
person in question, who himself had stopped, and was gazing intently on
the pair, exclaimed—

“Sir, pardon me; but is not your name Fairfield? Ah, it is Leonard—it
is—my dear, dear boy! What joy! So altered, so improved, but still the
same honest face. Squire, come here—your old friend, Leonard Fairfield.”

“And he wanted to persuade me,” said the Squire, shaking Leonard
heartily by the hand, “that you were the gentleman in black; but,
indeed, he has been in strange humors and tantrums all the morning.
Well, Master Lenny; why, you are grown quite a gentleman! The world
thrives with you—eh! I suppose you are head-gardener to some grandee.”

“Not that, sir,” said Leonard, smiling. “But the world has thriven with
me at last, though not without some rough usage at starting. Ah, Mr.
Dale, you can little guess how often I have thought of you and your
discourse on Knowledge; and, what is more, how I have lived to feel the
truth of your words, and to bless the lesson.”

Parson (much touched and flattered).—”I expected nothing
less of you, Leonard; you were always a lad of great sense, and sound
judgment. So you have thought of my little discourse on Knowledge, have
you?”

Squire.—”Hang knowledge! I have reason to hate the word. It
burned down three ricks of mine; the finest ricks you ever set eyes on,
Mr. Fairfield.”

Parson.—”That was not knowledge, Squire, that was ignorance.”

Squire.—”Ignorance! The deuce it was. I’ll just appeal to
you, Mr. Fairfield. We have been having sad riots in the shire, and the
ring-leader was just such another lad as you were!”

Leonard.—”I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Hazeldean. In
what respect?”

Squire.—”Why, he was a village genius, and always reading some
cursed little tract or other; and got mighty discontented with King,
Lords, and Commons, I suppose, and went about talking of the wrongs of
the poor, and the crimes of the rich, till, by Jove, sir, the whole
mob rose one day with pitchforks and sickles, and smash went Farmer
Smart’s thrashing-machines; and on the same night my ricks were on fire.
We caught the rogues, and they were all tried; but the poor deluded
laborers were let off with a short imprisonment. The village genius,
thank heaven, is sent packing to Botany Bay.”

Leonard.—”But did his books teach him to burn ricks, and smash
machines?”

Parson.—”No; he said quite the contrary, and declared that he
had no hand in those misdoings.”

Squire.—”But he was proved to have excited, with his wild
talk, the boobies who had! ‘Gad, sir, there was a hypocritical Quaker
once, who said to his enemy, ‘I can’t shed thy blood, friend, but I
will hold thy head under water till thou art drowned.’ And so there is
a set of demagogical fellows, who keep calling out, ‘Farmer This is an
oppressor, and Squire That is a vampire! But no violence! Don’t smash
their machines, don’t burn their ricks! Moral force, and a curse on all
tyrants!’ Well, and if poor Hodge thinks moral force is all my eye, and
that the recommendation is to be read backward, in the devil’s way of
reading the Lord’s Prayer, I should like to know which of the two ought
to go to Botany Bay—Hodge who comes out like a man, if he thinks he is
wronged, or t’other sneaking chap, who makes use of his knowledge to
keep himself out of the scrape?”

Parson.—”It may be very true; but when I saw that poor fellow
at the bar, with his intelligent face, and heard his bold, clear
defense, and thought of all his hard struggles for knowledge, and how
they had ended, because he forgot that knowledge is like fire, and must
not be thrown among flax—why, I could have given my right hand to
save him. And, oh, Squire, do you remember his poor mother’s shriek of
despair when he was sentenced to transportation for life—I hear it now!
And what, Leonard—what do you think had mislead him? At the bottom of
all the mischief was a Tinker’s bag. You can not forget Sprott?”

Leonard.—”Tinker’s bag!—Sprott!”

Squire.—”That rascal, sir, was the hardest fellow to nab
you could possibly conceive; as full of quips and quirks as an Old
Bailey lawyer. But we managed to bring it home to him. Lord! his bag
was choke-full of tracts against every man who had a good coat on his
back; and as if that was not enough, cheek by jowl with the tracts were
lucifers, contrived on a new principle, for teaching my ricks the theory
of spontaneous combustion. The laborers bought the lucifers—”

Parson.—”And the poor village genius bought the tracts.”

Squire.—”All headed with a motto—’To teach the
working-classes that knowledge is power.’ So that I was right in saying
that knowledge had burnt my ricks; knowledge inflamed the village
genius, the village genius inflamed fellows more ignorant than himself,
and they inflamed my stack-yard. However, lucifers, tracts, village
genius, and Sprott, are all off to[Pg 49] Botany Bay; and the shire has gone
on much the better for it. So no more of your knowledge for me, begging
your pardon, Mr. Fairfield. Such uncommonly fine ricks as mine were,
too! I declare, Parson, you are looking as if you felt pity for Sprott;
and I saw you, indeed, whispering to him as he was taken out of court.”

Parson (looking sheepish).—”Indeed, Squire, I was only asking
him what had become of his donkey—an unoffending creature.”

Squire.—”Unoffending! Upset me amidst a thistle-bed in my own
village green. I remember it. Well, what did he say had become of the
donkey?”

Parson.—”He said but one word; but that showed all the
vindictiveness of his disposition. He said it with a horrid wink, that
made my blood run cold. ‘What’s become of your poor donkey?’ said I, and
he answered—”

Squire.—”Go on. He answered—”

Parson.—”‘Sausages.'”

Squire.—”Sausages! Like enough; and sold to the poor; and
that’s what the poor will come to if they listen to such revolutionizing
villains. Sausages! Donkey sausages!—(spitting)—’Tis as bad as eating
one another; perfect cannibalism.”

Leonard, who had been thrown into grave thought by the history of
Sprott and the village genius, now pressing the Parson’s hand, asked
permission to wait on him before Mr. Dale quitted London; and was about
to withdraw, when the Parson, gently detaining him, said, “No; don’t
leave me yet, Leonard—I have so much to ask you, and to talk about.
I shall be at leisure shortly. We are just now going to call on a
relation of the Squire’s, whom you must recollect, I am sure—Captain
Higginbotham—Barnabas Higginbotham. He is very poorly.”

“And I am sure he would take it kind in you to call, too,” said the
Squire, with great good-nature.

Leonard.—”Nay, sir, would not that be a great liberty?”

Squire.—”Liberty! To ask a poor sick gentleman how he is?
Nonsense. And I say, sir, perhaps, as no doubt you have been living
in town, and know more of new-fangled notions than I do—perhaps you
can tell us whether or not it is all humbug, that new way of doctoring
people?”

“What new way, sir? There are so many.”

“Are there? Folks in London do look uncommonly sickly. But my
poor cousin (he was never a Solomon) has got hold, he says, of a
homely—homely—what’s the word, Parson?”

Parson.—”Homœopathist.”

Squire.—”That’s it. You see the Captain went to live with
one Sharpe Currie, a relation who had a great deal of money, and very
little liver;—made the one, and left much of the other in Ingee, you
understand. The Captain had expectations of the money. Very natural,
I dare say; but, Lord, sir! what do you think has happened? Sharpe
Currie has done him! Would not die, sir; got back his liver, and the
Captain[Pg 50] has lost his own. Strangest thing you ever heard. And then the
ungrateful old Nabob has dismissed the Captain, saying, ‘He can’t bear
to have invalids about him;’ and is going to marry, and I have no doubt
will have children by the dozen!”

Parson.—”It was in Germany, at one of the Spas, that Mr.
Currie recovered; and as he had the selfish inhumanity to make the
Captain go through a course of waters simultaneously with himself, it
has so chanced that the same waters that cured Mr. Currie’s liver have
destroyed Captain Higginbotham’s. An English homœopathic physician,
then staying at the Spa, has attended the Captain hither, and declares
that he will restore him by infinitesimal doses of the same chemical
properties that were found in the waters which diseased him. Can there
be any thing in such a theory?”

Leonard.—”I once knew a very able, though eccentric
homœopathist, and I am inclined to believe there may be something
in the system. My friend went to Germany: it may possibly be the same
person who attends the Captain. May I ask his name?”

Squire.—”Cousin Barnabas does not mention it. You may ask it
of himself, for here we are at his chambers. I say, Parson (whispering
slily), if a small dose of what hurt the Captain is to cure him, don’t
you think the proper thing would be a—legacy? Ha! ha!”

Parson (trying to laugh).—”Hush, Squire. Poor human nature! We
must be merciful to its infirmities. Come in, Leonard.”

Leonard, interested in his doubt whether he might thus chance again upon
Dr. Morgan, obeyed the invitation, and with his two companions followed
the woman—who “did for the Captain and his rooms”—across the small
lobby, into the presence of the sufferer.

CHAPTER III.

Whatever the disposition toward merriment at his cousin’s expense
entertained by the Squire, it vanished instantly at the sight of the
Captain’s doleful visage and emaciated figure.

“Very good in you to come to town to see me—very good in you, cousin;
and in you too, Mr. Dale. How very well you are both looking. I’m a sad
wreck. You might count every bone in my body.”

“Hazeldean air and roast beef will soon set you up, my boy,” said
the Squire kindly. “You were a great goose to leave them, and these
comfortable rooms of yours in the Albany.”

“They are comfortable, though not showy,” said the Captain,
with tears in his eyes. “I had done my best to make them so. New
carpets—this very chair—(morocco!)—that Japan cat (holds toast and
muffins)—just when—(the tears here broke forth, and the Captain fairly
whimpered)—just when that ungrateful, bad-hearted man wrote me word ‘he
was—was dying and lone in the world;’ and—and—to think what I’ve gone
through for him!—and to treat me so. Cousin William, he has grown as
hale as yourself, and—and—”

“Cheer up, cheer up!” cried the compassionate Squire. “It is a very hard
case, I allow. But you see, as the old proverb says, ”tis ill waiting
for a dead man’s shoes;’ and in future—I don’t mean offense—but I
think if you would calculate less on the livers of your relations, it
would be all the better for your own. Excuse me.”

“Cousin William,” replied the poor Captain, “I am sure I never
calculated; but still, if you had seen that deceitful man’s
good-for-nothing face—as yellow as a guinea—and have gone through all
I’ve gone through, you would have felt cut to the heart as I do. I can’t
bear ingratitude. I never could. But let it pass. Will that gentleman
take a chair?”

Parson.—”Mr. Fairfield has kindly called with us, because he
knows something of this system of homœopathy which you have adopted,
and may, perhaps, know the practitioner. What is the name of your
doctor?”

Captain (looking at his watch).—”That reminds me, (swallowing
a globule.) A great relief these little pills—after the physic I’ve
taken to please that malignant man. He always tried his doctor’s stuff
upon me. But there’s another world, and a juster!”

With that pious conclusion, the Captain again began to weep.

“Touched,” muttered the Squire, with his forefinger on his forehead.
“You seem to have a good tidy sort of nurse here, Cousin Barnabas. I
hope she’s pleasant, and lively, and don’t let you take on so.”

“Hist! don’t talk of her. All mercenary; every bit of her fawning.
Would you believe it? I give her ten shillings a week, besides all
that goes down of my pats of butter and rolls, and I overheard
the jade saying to the laundress that ‘I could not last long; and
she’d—EXPECTATIONS!’ Ah, Mr. Dale, when one thinks of the
sinfulness there is in this life! But I’ll not think of it. No—I’ll
not. Let us change the subject You were asking my doctor’s name? It is—”

Here the woman ‘with expectations’ threw open the door, and suddenly
announced—”Dr. Morgan.”

CHAPTER IV.

The Parson started, and so did Leonard.

The Homœopathist did not at first notice either. With an unobservant
bow to the visitors, he went straight to the patient, and asked, “How go
the symptoms?”

Therewith the Captain commenced, in a tone of voice like a schoolboy
reciting the catalogue of the ships in Homer. He had been evidently
conning the symptoms, and learning them by heart. Nor was there a single
nook or corner in his anatomical organization, so far as the Captain
was acquainted with that structure, but what some symptom or other was
dragged therefrom, and exposed to day. The Squire listened with horror
to the morbific inventory—muttering at each dread interval, “Bless me!
Lord bless me! What, more still! Death would be a very happy release!”
Meanwhile the Doctor endured the recital with exemplary patience, noting
down in the leaves of his pocket-book what appeared to him the salient
points in this fortress of disease to which he had laid siege, and then,
drawing forth a minute paper, said—

“Capital—nothing can be better. This must be dissolved in eight
table-spoonfuls of water; one spoonful every two hours.”

“Table-spoonful?”

“Table-spoonful.”

‘Nothing can be better,’ did you say, sir?” repeated the Squire, who, in
his astonishment at that assertion applied to the Captain’s description
of his sufferings, had hitherto hung fire—”‘nothing can be better?'”

“For the diagnosis, sir!” replied Dr. Morgan.

“For the dogs’ noses, very possibly,” quoth the Squire; “but for the
inside of Cousin Higginbotham, I should think nothing could be worse.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Dr. Morgan. “It is not the Captain
who speaks here—it is his liver. Liver, sir, though a noble, is an
imaginative organ, and indulges in the most extraordinary fictions. Seat
of poetry, and love and jealousy—the liver. Never believe what it says.
You have no idea what a liar it is! But—ahem—ahem. Cott—I think I’ve
seen you before, sir. Surely your name’s Hazeldean?”

“William Hazeldean, at your service, Doctor. But where have you seen me?”

“On the hustings at Lansmere. You were speaking on behalf of your
distinguished brother, Mr. Egerton.”

“Hang it!” cried the Squire: “I think it must have been my liver that
spoke there! for I promised the electors that that half-brother of mine
would stick by the land; and I never told a bigger lie in my life!”

Here the patient, reminded of his other visitors, and afraid he was
going to be bored with the enumeration of the Squire’s wrongs, and
probably the whole history of his duel with Captain Dashmore, turned,
with a languid wave of his hand, and said, “Doctor, another friend
of mine, the Rev. Mr. Dale—and a gentleman who is acquainted with
homœopathy.”

“Dale? What, more old friends!” cried the Doctor, rising; and the Parson
came somewhat reluctantly from the window nook, to which he had retired.
The Parson and the Homœopathist shook hands.

“We have met before on a very mournful occasion,” said the Doctor, with
feeling.

“The Parson held his finger to his lips, and glanced toward Leonard. The
Doctor stared at the lad, but he did not recognize in the person before
him the gaunt, care-worn boy whom he had placed with Mr. Prickett, until
Leonard smiled and spoke. And the smile and the voice sufficed.

“Cott—and it is the poy! cried Dr. Morgan; and he actually caught
hold of Leonard, and gave him an affectionate Welsh hug. Indeed,
his agitation at these several surprises, became so[Pg 51] great that he
stopped short, drew forth a globule—”Aconite—good against nervous
shocks!”—and swallowed it incontinently.

“Gad,” said the Squire, rather astonished, “’tis the first doctor I ever
saw swallow his own medicine! There must be something in it.”

The Captain now, highly disgusted that so much attention was withdrawn
from his own case, asked in a querulous voice, “And as to diet? What
shall I have for dinner?”

“A friend!” said the Doctor, wiping his eyes.

“Zounds!” cried the Squire, retreating, “do you mean to say, sir, that
the British laws (to be sure, they are very much changed of late) allow
you to diet your patients upon their fellow-men? Why, Parson, this is
worse than the donkey sausages.”

“Sir,” said Dr. Morgan, gravely, “I mean to say, that it matters little
what we eat, in comparison with care as to whom we eat with. It is
better to exceed a little with a friend, than to observe the strictest
regimen, and eat alone. Talk and laughter help the digestion, and are
indispensable in affections of the liver. I have no doubt, sir, that it
was my patient’s agreeable society that tended to restore to health his
dyspeptic relative, Mr. Sharpe Currie.”

The Captain groaned aloud.

“And, therefore, if one of you gentlemen will stay and dine with Mr.
Higginbotham, it will greatly assist the effects of his medicine.”

The Captain turned an imploring eye, first toward his cousin, then
toward the Parson.

“I’m engaged to dine with my son—very sorry,” said the Squire. “But
Dale, here—”

“If he will be so kind,” put in the Captain, “we might cheer the evening
with a game at whist—double dummy.”

Now, poor Mr. Dale had set his heart on dining with an old college
friend, and having, no stupid, prosy double dummy, in which one can not
have the pleasure of scolding one’s partner, but a regular orthodox
rubber, with the pleasing prospect of scolding all the three other
performer’s. But as his quiet life forbade him to be a hero in great
things, the Parson had made up his mind to be a hero in small ones.
Therefore, though with rather a rueful face, he accepted the Captain’s
invitation, and promised to return at six o’clock to dine. Meanwhile,
he must hurry off to the other end of the town, and excuse himself
from the pre-engagement he had already formed. He now gave his card,
with the address of a quiet family hotel thereon, to Leonard, and not
looking quite so charmed with Dr. Morgan as he was before that unwelcome
prescription, he took his leave. The Squire, too, having to see a new
churn, and execute various commissions for his Harry, went his way
(not, however, till Dr. Morgan had assured him that, in a few weeks,
the Captain might safely remove to Hazeldean); and Leonard was about to
follow, when Morgan hooked his arm in his old protégé’s, and said,
“But I must have some talk with you; and you have to tell me all about
the little orphan girl.”

[Pg 52]

Leonard could not resist the pleasure of talking about Helen; and he got
into the carriage, which was waiting at the door for the homœopathist.

“I am going into the country a few miles to see a patient,” said the
Doctor; “so we shall have time for undisturbed consultation. I have so
often wondered what had become of you. Not hearing from Prickett, I
wrote to him, and received an answer, as dry as a bone, from his heir.
Poor fellow! I found that he had neglected his globules, and quitted
the globe. Alas, pulvis et umbra sumus! I could learn no tidings of
you. Prickett’s successor declared he knew nothing about you. I hoped
the best; for I always fancied you were one who would fall on your
legs—bilious-nervous temperament; such are the men who succeed in
their undertakings, especially if they take a spoonful of chamomilla
whenever they are over-excited. So now for your history and the little
girl’s—pretty little thing—never saw a more susceptible constitution,
nor one more suited—to pulsatilla.”

Leonard briefly related his own struggles and success, and informed the
good Doctor how they had at last discovered the nobleman in whom poor
Captain Digby had confided, and whose care of the orphan had justified
the confidence.

Dr. Morgan opened his eyes at hearing the name of Lord L’Estrange.
“I remember him very well,” said he, “when I practiced murder as an
allopathist at Lansmere. But to think that wild boy, so full of whim,
and life, and spirit, should become staid enough for a guardian to that
dear little child, with her timid eyes and pulsatilla sensibilities.
Well, wonders never cease. And he has befriended you, too, you say. Ah,
he knew your family.”

“So he says. Do you think, sir, that he ever knew—ever saw—my mother?”

“Eh! your mother?—Nora?” exclaimed the Doctor quickly; and, as if
struck by some sudden thought, his brows met, and he remained silent
and musing a few moments; then, observing Leonard’s eyes fixed on him
earnestly, he replied to the question:

“No doubt he saw her; she was brought up at Lady Lansmere’s. Did he not
tell you so?”

“No.” A vague suspicion here darted through Leonard’s mind, but as
suddenly vanished. His father! Impossible. His father must have
deliberately wronged the dead mother. And was Harley L’Estrange a man
capable of such wrong? And had he been Harley’s son, would not Harley
have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him?
Besides, Lord L’Estrange looked so young;—old enough to be Leonard’s
father!—he could not entertain the idea. He roused himself, and said
falteringly—

“You told me you did not know by what name I should call my father.”

“And I told you the truth, to the best of my belief.”

“By your honor, sir?”

“By my honor, I do not know it.”

There was now a long silence. The carriage had long left London, and was
on a high-road somewhat lonelier and more free from houses than most of
those which form the entrances to the huge city. Leonard gazed wistfully
from the window, and the objects that met his eyes gradually seemed
to appeal to his memory. Yes! it was the road by which he had first
approached the metropolis, hand-in-hand with Helen—and hope so busy at
his poet’s heart. He sighed deeply. He thought he would willingly have
resigned all he had won—independence, fame, all—to feel again the
clasp of that tender hand—again to be the sole protector of that gentle
life.

The Doctor’s voice broke on his reverie. “I am going to see a very
interesting patient—coats to his stomach quite worn out, sir—man of
great learning, with a very inflamed cerebellum. I can’t do him much
good, and he does me a great deal of harm.”

“How harm?” asked Leonard, with an effort at some rejoinder.

“Hits me on the heart, and makes my eyes water—very pathetic
case—grand creature, who has thrown himself away. Found him given over
by the allopathists, and in a high state of delirium tremens—restored
him for a time—took a great liking to him—could not help it—swallowed
a great many globules to harden myself against him—would not
do—brought him over to England with the other patients, who all pay
me well (except Captain Higginbotham). But this poor fellow pays me
nothing—costs me a great deal in time and turnpikes, and board and
lodging. Thank Heaven I’m a single man, and can afford it! My poy, I
would let all the other patients go to the allopathists if I could but
save this poor, big, penniless, princely fellow. But what can one do
with a stomach that has not a rag of its coat left? Stop—(the Doctor
pulled the check-string). This is the stile. I get out here and go
across the fields.”

That stile—those fields—with what distinctness Leonard remembered
them. Ah, where was Helen? Could she ever, ever again be his
child-angel?”

“I will go with you, if you permit,” said he to the good Doctor. “And
while you pay your visit, I will saunter by a little brook that I think
must run by your way.”

“The Brent—you know that brook? Ah, you should hear my poor patient
talk of it, and of the hours he has spent angling in it—you would not
know whether to laugh or cry. The first day he was brought down to the
place, he wanted to go out and try once more, he said, for his old
deluding demon—a one-eyed perch.”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Leonard, “are you speaking of John Burley?”

“To be sure, that is his name—John Burley.”

“Oh, has it come to this? Cure him, save him, if it be in human power.
For the last two years I have sought his trace every where, and in
vain, the moment I had money of my own—a home of my own. Poor, erring,
glorious Burley. Take me to him. Did you say there was no hope?”

“I did not say that,” replied the Doctor. “But art can only assist
nature; and, though nature is ever at work to repair the injuries we do
to her, yet, when the coats of a stomach are all gone, she gets puzzled,
and so do I. You must tell me another time how you came to know Burley,
for here we are at the house, and I see him at the window looking out
for me.”

The Doctor opened the garden-gate to the quiet cottage to which poor
Burley had fled from the pure presence of Leonard’s child-angel. And
with heavy step, and heavy heart, Leonard mournfully followed, to behold
the wrecks of him whose wit had glorified orgy, and “set the table in a
roar.”—Alas, poor Yorick!

CHAPTER V.

Audley Egerton stands on his hearth alone. During the short interval
that has elapsed since we last saw him, events had occurred memorable
in English history, wherewith we have naught to do in a narrative
studiously avoiding all party politics even when treating of
politicians. The new Ministers had stated the general programme of their
policy, and introduced one measure in especial that had lifted them at
once to the dizzy height of popular power. But it became clear that
this measure could not be carried without a fresh appeal to the people.
A dissolution of Parliament, as Audley’s sagacious experience had
foreseen, was inevitable. And Audley Egerton had no chance of return for
his own seat—for the great commercial city identified with his name.
Oh sad, but not rare instance of the mutabilities of that same popular
favor now enjoyed by his successors! The great commoner, the weighty
speaker, the expert man of business, the statesman who had seemed a type
of the practical steady sense for which our middle class is renowned—he
who, not three years since, might have had his honored choice of the
largest popular constituencies in the kingdom—he, Audley Egerton, knew
not one single town (free from the influences of private property or
interest) in which the obscurest candidate, who bawled out for the new
popular measure, would not have beaten him hollow. Where one popular
hustings, on which that great sonorous voice that had stilled so often
the roar of faction, would not be drowned amid the hoots of the scornful
mob?

True, what were called the close boroughs still existed—true, many a
chief of his party would have been too proud of the honor of claiming
Audley Egerton for his nominee. But the ex-Minister’s haughty soul
shrunk from this contrast to his past position. And to fight against the
popular measure, as member of one of the seats most denounced by the
people—he felt it was a post in the grand army of parties below his
dignity to occupy, and foreign to his peculiar mind, which required the
sense of consequence and station. And if, in a few months, these seats
were swept away—were annihilated from the rolls of[Pg 53] Parliament—where
was he? Moreover, Egerton, emancipated from the trammels that had
bound his will while his party was in office, desired, in the turn
of events, to be nominee of no other man—desired to stand at least
freely and singly on the ground of his own services, be guided by his
own penetration; no law for action, but his strong sense and his stout
English heart. Therefore he had declined all offers from those who could
still bestow seats in Parliament. Those he could purchase with hard gold
were yet open to him. And the £5000 he had borrowed from Levy were yet
untouched.

To this lone public man, public life, as we have seen, was the all in
all. But now more than ever it was vital to his very wants. Around
him yawned ruin. He knew that it was in Levy’s power at any moment to
foreclose on his mortgaged lands—to pour in the bonds and the bills
which lay within those rosewood receptacles that lined the fatal lair of
the sleek usurer—to seize on the very house in which now moved all the
pomp of a retinue that vied with the valetaille of dukes—to advertise
for public auction, under execution, “the costly effects of the Right
Hon. Audley Egerton.” But, consummate in his knowledge of the world,
Egerton felt assured that Levy would not adopt these measures against
him while he could still tower in the van of political war—while he
could still see before him the full chance of restoration to power,
perhaps to power still higher than before—perhaps to power the highest
of all beneath the throne. That Levy, whose hate he divined, though he
did not conjecture all its causes, had hitherto delayed even a visit,
even a menace, seemed to him to show that Levy still thought him one
“to be helped,” or, at least, one too powerful to crush. To secure
his position in Parliament unshackled, unfallen, if but for another
year—new combinations of party might arise, new reactions take place in
public opinion! And, with his hand pressed to his heart, the stern, firm
man muttered: “If not, I ask but to die in my harness, and that men may
not know that I am a pauper, until all that I need from my country is a
grave.”

Scarce had these words died upon his lips ere two quick knocks in
succession resounded at the street-door. In another moment Harley
entered, and, at the same time, the servant in attendance approached
Audley, and announced Baron Levy.

“Beg the Baron to wait, unless he would prefer to name his own hour to
call again,” answered Egerton, with the slightest possible change of
color. “You can say I am now with Lord L’Estrange.”

“I had hoped you had done forever with that deluder of youth,” said
Harley, as soon as the groom of the chambers had withdrawn. “I remember
that you saw too much of him in the gay time, ere wild oats are sown;
but now surely you can never need a loan; and if so, is not Harley
L’Estrange by your side?”

Egerton.—”My dear Harley! doubtless he but comes to talk to me
of some borough. He[Pg 54] has much to do with those delicate negotiations.”

Harley.—”And I have come on the same business. I claim the
priority. I not only hear in the world, but I see by the papers, that
Josiah Jenkins, Esq., known to fame as an orator who leaves out his h’s,
and young Lord Willoughby Whiggolin, who is just now made a Lord of the
Admiralty, because his health is too delicate for the army, are certain
to come in for the city which you and your present colleague will as
certainly vacate. That is true, is it not?”

Egerton.—”My old committee now vote for Jenkins and Whiggolin.
And I suppose there will not be even a contest. Go on.”

“So my father and I are agreed that you must condescend, for the sake of
old friendship, to be once more member for Lansmere!”

“Harley,” exclaimed Egerton, changing countenance far more than he had
done at the announcement of Levy’s portentous visit—”Harley—No, no!”

“No! But why? Wherefore such emotion?” asked L’Estrange in surprise.

Audley was silent.

Harley.—”I suggested the idea to two or three of the late
Ministers; they all concur in advising you to accede. In the first
place, if declining to stand for the place which tempted you from
Lansmere, what more natural than that you should fall back on that
earlier representation? In the second place, Lansmere is neither a
rotten borough, to be bought, nor a close borough, under one man’s
nomination. It is a tolerably large constituency. My father, it is true,
has considerable interest in it but only what is called the legitimate
influence of property. At all events, it is more secure than a contest
for a larger town, more dignified than a seat for a smaller. Hesitating
still? Even my mother entreats me to say how she desires you to renew
that connection.”

“Harley,” again exclaimed Egerton; and, fixing upon his friend’s earnest
face, eyes which, when softened by emotion, were strangely beautiful
in their expression: “Harley, if you could but read my heart at this
moment, you would—you would—” His voice faltered, and he fairly bent
his proud head upon Harley’s shoulder; grasping the hand he had caught,
nervously, clingingly: “Oh, Harley, if I ever lose your love, your
friendship!—nothing else is left to me in the world.”

“Audley, my dear, dear Audley, is it you who speak to me thus? You, my
school friend, my life’s confidant—you?”

“I am grown very weak and foolish,” said Egerton, trying to smile. “I
do not know myself. I, too, whom you have so often called ‘Stoic,’ and
likened to the Iron Man in the poem, which you used to read by the
river-side at Eton.”

“But even then, my Audley, I knew that a warm human heart (do what you
would to keep it down) beat strong under the iron ribs. And I often
marvel now, to think you have gone through life so free from the wilder
passions. Happier so!”

Egerton, who had turned his face from his friend’s gaze, remained silent
for a few moments, and he then sought to divert the conversation, and
roused himself to ask Harley how he had succeeded in his views upon
Beatrice, and his watch on the Count.

“With regard to Peschiera,” answered Harley, “I think we must have
overrated the danger we apprehended, and that his wagers were but an
idle boast. He has remained quiet enough, and seems devoted to play. His
sister has shut her doors both on myself and my young associate during
the last few days. I almost fear that, in spite of very sage warnings of
mine, she must have turned his poet’s head, and that either he has met
with some scornful rebuff to incautious admiration, or that he himself
has grown aware of peril, and declines to face it; for he is very much
embarrassed when I speak to him respecting her. But if the Count is not
formidable, why, his sister is not needed: and I hope yet to get justice
for my Italian friend through the ordinary channels. I have secured
an ally in a young Austrian prince, who is now in London, and who has
promised to back, with all his influence, a memorial I shall transmit
to Vienna. Apropos, my dear Audley, now that you have a little
breathing-time, you must fix an hour for me to present to you my young
poet, the son of her sister. At moments the expression of his face is
so like hers.”

“Ay, ay,” answered Egerton, quickly, “I will see him as you wish, but
later. I have not yet that breathing-time you speak of; but you say he
has prospered; and, with your friendship, he is secure from fortune. I
rejoice to think so.”

“And your own protégé, this Randal Leslie, whom you forbid me to
dislike—hard task!—what has he decided?”

“To adhere to my fate. Harley, if it please heaven that I do not live
to return to power, and provide adequately for that young man, do not
forget that he clung to me in my fall.”

“If he still cling to you faithfully, I will never forget it. I will
forget only all that now makes me doubt him. But you talk of not living,
Audley! Pooh!—your frame is that of a pre-destined octogenarian.”

“Nay,” answered Audley, “I was but uttering one of those vague
generalities which are common upon all mortal lips. And now farewell—I
must see this Baron.”

“Not yet, until you have promised to consent to my proposal, and be
once more member for Lansmere. Tut! don’t shake your head. I can not be
denied. I claim your promise in right of our friendship, and shall be
seriously hurt if you even pause to reflect on it.”

“Well, well, I know not how to refuse you, Harley; but you have not
been to Lansmere yourself since—since that sad event. You must not
revive the old wound—you must not go; and—I own it, Harley; the
remembrance of it pains even me. I would rather not go to Lansmere.”

“Ah! my friend; this is an excess of sympathy, and I can not listen to
it. I begin even to blame my own weakness, and to feel that we have no
right to make ourselves the soft slaves of the past.”

“You do appear to me of late to have changed,” cried Egerton, suddenly,
and with a brightening aspect. “Do tell me that you are happy in the
contemplation of your new ties—that I shall live to see you once more
restored to your former self.”

“All I can answer, Audley,” said L’Estrange, with a thoughtful brow,
“is, that you are right in one thing—I am changed; and I am struggling
to gain strength for duty and for honor. Adieu! I shall tell my father
that you accede to our wishes.”

CHAPTER VI.

When Harley was gone, Egerton sunk back on his chair, as if in extreme
physical or mental exhaustion, all the lines of his countenance relaxed
and jaded.

“To go back to that place—there—there—where—Courage, courage—what
is another pang?”

He rose with an effort, and folding his arms tightly across his breast,
paced slowly to and fro the large, mournful, solitary room. Gradually
his countenance assumed its usual cold and austere composure—the secret
eye, the guarded lip, the haughty collected front. The man of the world
was himself once more.

“Now to gain time, and to baffle the usurer,” murmured Egerton, with
that low tone of easy scorn, which bespoke consciousness of superior
power and the familiar mastery over hostile natures. He rang the bell:
the servant entered.

“Is Baron Levy still waiting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Admit him.”

Levy entered.

“I beg your pardon, Levy,” said the ex-minister, “for having so long
detained you. I am now at your commands.”

“My dear fellow,” returned the Baron, “no apologies between friends so
old as we are; and I fear that my business is not so agreeable as to
make you impatient to discuss it.”

Egerton (with perfect composure).—”I am to conclude, then,
that you wish to bring our accounts to a close. Whenever you will, Levy.”

The Baron (disconcerted and surprised).—”Peste! mon cher,
you take things coolly. But if our accounts are closed, I fear you will
have but little to live upon.”

Egerton.—”I can continue to live on the salary of a Cabinet
Minister.”

Baron.—”Possibly; but you are no longer a Cabinet Minister.”

Egerton.—”You have never found me deceived[Pg 55] in a political
prediction. Within twelve months (should life be spared to me) I shall
be in office again. If the same to you, I would rather wait till then,
formally and amicably to resign to you my lands and this house. If you
grant that reprieve, our connection can thus close, without the éclat
and noise, which may be invidious to you, as it would be disagreeable
to me. But if that delay be inconvenient, I will appoint a lawyer to
examine your accounts, and adjust my liabilities.”

The Baron (soliloquizing).—”I don’t like this. A lawyer! That
may be awkward.”

Egerton (observing the Baron, with a curl of his lip).—”Well,
Levy, how shall it be?”

The Baron.—”You know, my dear fellow, it is not my character
to be hard on any one, least of all upon an old friend. And if you
really think there is a chance of your return to office, which you
apprehend that an esclandre as to your affairs at present might
damage, why, let us see if we can conciliate matters. But, first, mon
cher, in order to become a Minister, you must at least have a seat in
Parliament; and, pardon me the question, how the deuce are you to find
one?”

Egerton.—”It is found.”

The Baron.—”Ah, I forgot the £5000 you last borrowed.”

Egerton.—”No; I reserve that sum for another purpose.”

The Baron (with a forced laugh).—”Perhaps to defend yourself
against the actions you apprehend from me?”

Egerton.—”You are mistaken. But to soothe your suspicions, I
will tell you plainly, that finding any sum I might have insured on my
life would be liable to debts pre-incurred, and (as you will be my sole
creditor) might thus at my death pass back to you; and doubting whether,
indeed, any office would accept my insurance, I appropriate that sum to
the relief of my conscience. I intend to bestow it, while yet in life,
upon my late wife’s kinsman, Randal Leslie. And it is solely the wish
to do what I consider an act of justice, that has prevailed with me to
accept a favor from the hands of Harley L’Estrange, and to become again
the member for Lansmere.”

The Baron.—”Ha!—Lansmere! You will stand for Lansmere?”

Egerton (wincing).—”I propose to do so?”

The Baron.—”I believe you will be opposed, subjected to even a
sharp contest. Perhaps you may lose your election.”

Egerton.—”If so, I resign myself, and you can foreclose on my
estates.”

The Baron (his brow coloring).—”Look you, Egerton, I shall be
too happy to do you a favor.”

Egerton (with stateliness).—”Favor! No, Baron Levy, I ask
from you no favor. Dismiss all thought of rendering me one. It is but a
consideration of business on both sides. If you think it better that we
shall at once settle our accounts, my lawyer shall investigate them. If
you agree to the delay I request, my lawyer shall give you[Pg 56] no trouble;
and all that I have, except hope and character, pass to your hands
without a struggle.”

The Baron.—”Inflexible and ungracious, favor or not—put it as
you will—I accede, provided first, that you allow me to draw up a fresh
deed, which will accomplish your part of the compact; and secondly, that
we saddle the proposed delay with the condition that you do not lose
your election.”

Egerton.—”Agreed. Have you any thing further to say?”

The Baron.—”Nothing, except that, if you require more money, I
am still at your service.”

Egerton.—”I thank you. No; I owe no man aught except yourself.
I shall take the occasion of my retirement from office to reduce
my establishment. I have calculated already, and provided for the
expenditure I need, up to the date I have specified, and I shall have no
occasion to touch the £5000 that I still retain.”

“Your young friend, Mr. Leslie, ought to be very grateful to you,” said
the Baron, rising. “I have met him in the world—a lad of much promise
and talent. You should try and get him also into Parliament.”

Egerton (thoughtfully).—”You are a good judge of the practical
abilities and merits of men, as regards worldly success. Do you really
think Randal Leslie calculated for public life—for a Parliamentary
career?”

The Baron.—”Indeed I do.”

Egerton (speaking more to himself than Levy).—”Parliament
without fortune—’tis a sharp trial; still he is prudent, abstemious,
energetic, persevering; and at the onset, under my auspices and advice,
he might establish a position beyond his years.”

The Baron.—”It strikes me that we might possibly get him into
the next Parliament; or, as that is not likely to last long, at all
events into the Parliament to follow—not for one of the boroughs which
will be swept away, but for a permanent seat, and without expense.”

Egerton.—”Ay—and how?”

The Baron.—”Give me a few days to consider. An idea has
occurred to me. I will call again if I find it practicable. Good day to
you, Egerton, and success to your election for Lansmere.”

CHAPTER VII.

Peschiera had not been so inactive as he had appeared to Harley and
the reader. On the contrary, he had prepared the way for his ultimate
design, with all the craft and the unscrupulous resolution which
belonged to his nature. His object was to compel Riccabocca into
assenting to the Count’s marriage with Violante, or, failing that, to
ruin all chance of his kinsman’s restoration. Quietly and secretly
he had sought out, among the most needy and unprincipled of his own
countrymen, those whom he could suborn to depose to Riccabocca’s
participation in plots and conspiracies against the Austrian dominions.
These his former connection with the Carbonari enabled him to track in
their refuge in London; and his knowledge of the characters he had to
deal with fitted him well for the villainous task he undertook.

He had, therefore, already collected witnesses sufficient for his
purposes, making up in number for their defects in quality. Meanwhile,
he had (as Harley had suspected he would) set spies upon Randal’s
movements; and the day before that young traitor confided to him
Violante’s retreat, he had, at least, got scent of her father’s.

The discovery that Violante was under a roof so honored, and seemingly
so safe as Lord Lansmere’s, did not discourage this bold and desperate
adventurer. We have seen him set forth to reconnoitre the house at
Knightsbridge. He had examined it well, and discovered the quarter which
he judged favorable to a coup-de-main, should that become necessary.

Lord Lansmere’s house and grounds were surrounded by a wall, the
entrance being to the high-road, and by a porter’s lodge. At the rear
there lay fields crossed by a lane or by-road. To these fields a small
door in the wall, which was used by the gardeners in passing to and
from their work, gave communication. This door was usually kept locked;
but the lock was of the rude and simple description common to such
entrances, and easily opened by a skeleton key. So far there was no
obstacle which Peschiera’s experience in conspiracy and gallantry did
not disdain as trivial. But the Count was not disposed to abrupt and
violent means in the first instance. He had a confidence in his personal
gifts, in his address, in his previous triumphs over the sex, which
made him naturally desire to hazard the effect of a personal interview;
and on this he resolved with his wonted audacity. Randal’s description
of Violante’s personal appearance, and such suggestions as to her
character, and the motives most likely to influence her actions, as that
young lynx-eyed observer could bestow, were all that the Count required
of present aid from his accomplice.

Meanwhile we return to Violante herself. We see her now seated in
the gardens at Knightsbridge, side by side with Helen. The place was
retired, and out of sight from the windows of the house.

Violante.—”But why will you not tell me more of that early
time? You are less communicative even than Leonard.”

Helen (looking down, and hesitatingly).—”Indeed there is
nothing to tell you that you do not know; and it is so long since, and
things are so changed now.”

The tone of the last words was mournful, and the words ended with a sigh.

Violante (with enthusiasm)—”How I envy you that past which
you treat so lightly! To have been something, even in childhood, to the
formation of a noble nature; to have borne on those slight shoulders
half the load of a man’s grand labor. And now to see Genius moving calm
in its clear career; and to say inly, ‘Of that genius I am a part!'”

Helen (sadly and humbly).—”A part! Oh, no! A part? I don’t
understand you.”

Violante.—”Take the child Beatrice from Dante’s life, and
should we have a Dante? What is a poet’s genius but the voice of its
emotions? All things in life and in Nature influence genius; but what
influences it the most, are its sorrows and affections.”

Helen looks softly into Violante’s eloquent face, and draws nearer to
her in tender silence.

Violante (suddenly).—”Yes, Helen, yes—I know by my own heart
how to read yours. Such memories are ineffaceable. Few guess what
strange self-weavers of our own destinies we women are in our veriest
childhood!” She sunk her voice into a whisper: “How could Leonard fail
to be dear to you—dear as you to him—dearer than all others?”

Helen (shrinking back, and greatly disturbed).—”Hush, hush!
you must not speak to me thus; it is wicked—I can not bear it. I would
not have it be so—it must not be—it can not!”

She clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then lifted her
face, and the face was very sad, but very calm.

Violante (twining her arm round Helen’s waist).—”How have I
wounded you?—how offended? Forgive me—but why is this wicked? Why must
it not be? Is it because he is below you in birth?”

Helen.—No, no—I never thought of that. And what am I? Don’t
ask me—I can not answer. You are wrong, quite wrong, as to me. I can
only look on Leonard as—as a brother. But—but, you can speak to him
more freely than I can. I would not have him waste his heart on me,
nor yet think me unkind and distant, as I seem. I know not what I say.
But—but—break to him—indirectly—gently—that duty in both forbids us
both to—to be more than friends-than—”

“Helen, Helen!” cried Violante, in her warm, generous passion, “your
heart betrays you in every word you say. You weep; lean on me, whisper
to me; why—why is this? Do you fear that your guardian would not
consent? He not consent! He who—”

Helen.—”Cease—cease—cease.”

Violante.—”What! You can fear Harley—Lord L’Estrange? Fie;
you do not know him.”

Helen (rising suddenly).—”Violante, hold; I am engaged to
another.”

Violante rose also, and stood still, as if turned to stone; pale as
death, till the blood came, at first slowly, then with suddenness from
her heart, and one deep glow suffused her whole countenance. She caught
Helen’s hand firmly, and said, in a hollow voice—

“Another! Engaged to another! One word, Helen—not to him—not
to—Harley—to—”

“I can not say—I must not. I have promised,” cried poor Helen, and as
Violante let fall her hand, she hurried away.

[Pg 57]

Violante sat down, mechanically. She felt as if stunned by a mortal
blow. She closed her eyes and breathed hard. A deadly faintness seized
her; and when it passed away, it seemed to her as if she were no longer
the same being, nor the world around her the same world—as if she were
but one sense of intense, hopeless misery, and as if the universe were
but one inanimate void. So strangely immaterial are we really—we human
beings, with flesh and blood—that if you suddenly abstract from us but
a single, impalpable, airy thought, which our souls have cherished, you
seem to curdle the air, to extinguish the sun, to snap every link that
connects us to matter, and to benumb every thing into death, except woe.

And this warm, young, southern nature, but a moment before was so full
of joy and life, and vigorous, lofty hope. It never till now had known
its own intensity and depth. The virgin had never lifted the veil from
her own soul of woman. What, till then, had Harley L’Estrange been to
Violante? An ideal—a dream of some imagined excellence—a type of
poetry in the midst of the common world. It had not been Harley the
Man—it had been Harley the Phantom. She had never said to herself, “He
is identified with my love, my hopes, my home, my future.” How could
she? Of such, he himself had never spoken; an internal voice, indeed,
had vaguely yet irresistibly whispered to her that, despite his light
words, his feelings toward her were grave and deep. O false voice! how
it had deceived her. Her quick convictions seized the all that Helen
had left unsaid. And now suddenly she felt what it is to love, and what
it is to despair. So she sat, crushed and solitary, neither murmuring
nor weeping, only now and then passing her hand across her brow, as if
to clear away some cloud that would not be dispersed; or heaving a deep
sigh, as if to throw off some load that no time henceforth could remove.
There are certain moments in life in which we say to ourselves, “All
is over; no matter what else changes, that which I have made my all is
gone evermore—evermore.” And our own thought rings back in our ears,
“Evermore—evermore!”

CHAPTER VIII.

As Violante thus sat, a stranger, passing stealthily through the trees,
stood between herself and the evening sun. She saw him not. He paused a
moment, and then spoke low, in her native tongue, addressing her by the
name which she had borne in Italy. He spoke as a relation, and excused
his intrusion: “For,” said he, “I come to suggest to the daughter the
means by which she can restore to her father his country and his honors.”

At the word “father” Violante roused herself, and all her love for that
father rushed back upon her with double force. It does so ever—we love
most our parents at the moment when some tie[Pg 58] less holy is abruptly
broken; and when the conscience says, “There, at least, is a love that
never has deceived thee!”

She saw before her a man of mild aspect and princely form. Peschiera
(for it was he) had banished from his dress, as from his countenance,
all that betrayed the worldly levity of his character. He was acting a
part, and he dressed and looked it.

“My father!” she said quickly, and in Italian. “What of him? And who are
you, signior? I know you not.”

Peschiera smiled benignly, and replied in a tone in which great respect
was softened by a kind of parental tenderness.

“Suffer me to explain, and listen to me while I speak.” Then quietly
seating himself on the bench beside her, he looked into her eyes, and
resumed.

“Doubtless you have heard of the Count di Peschiera?”

Violante.—”I heard that name, as a child, when in Italy. And
when she with whom I then dwelt (my father’s aunt), fell ill and died, I
was told that my home in Italy was gone, that it had passed to the Count
di Peschiera—my father’s foe.”

Peschiera.—”And your father, since then, has taught you to
hate this fancied foe?”

Violante.—”Nay; my father did but forbid me ever to breathe
his name.”

Peschiera.—”Alas! what years of suffering and exile might have
been saved your father, had he but been more just to his early friend
and kinsman; nay, had he but less cruelly concealed the secret of his
retreat. Fair child, I am that Giulio Franzini, that Count di Peschiera.
I am the man you have been told to regard as your father’s foe. I am the
man on whom the Austrian emperor bestowed his lands. And now judge if I
am in truth the foe. I have come hither to seek your father, in order
to dispossess myself of my sovereign’s gift. I have come but with one
desire, to restore Alphonso to his native land, and to surrender the
heritage that was forced upon me.”

Violante.—”My father, my dear father! His grand heart
will have room once more. Oh! this is noble enmity, true revenge. I
understand it, signior, and so will my father, for such would have been
his revenge on you. You have seen him?”

Peschiera.—”No, not yet. I would not see him till I had seen
yourself; for you, in truth, are the arbiter of his destinies, as of
mine.”

Violante.—”I—Count? I—arbiter of my father’s destinies? Is
it possible?”

Peschiera (with a look of compassionate admiration, and in a
tone yet more emphatically parental)—”How lovely is that innocent joy;
but do not indulge it yet. Perhaps it is a sacrifice which is asked
from you—a sacrifice too hard to bear. Do not interrupt me. Listen
still, and you will see why I could not speak to your father until I
had obtained an interview with yourself. See why a word from you may
continue still to banish me from his presence. You know, doubtless,
that your father was one of the chiefs of a party that sought to free
Northern Italy from the Austrians. I myself was at the onset a warm
participator in that scheme. In a sudden moment I discovered that some
of its more active projectors had coupled with a patriotic enterprise
schemes of a dark nature—and that the conspiracy itself was about to
be betrayed to the government. I wished to consult with your father;
but he was at a distance. I learned that his life was condemned. Not an
hour was to be lost. I took a bold resolve, that has exposed me to his
suspicious, and to my country’s wrath. But my main idea was to save him,
my early friend, from death, and my country from fruitless massacre.
I withdrew from the intended revolt. I sought at once the head of the
Austrian government in Italy, and made terms for the lives of Alphonso,
and of the other more illustrious chiefs, which otherwise would have
been forfeited. I obtained permission to undertake myself the charge
of securing my kinsman in order to place him in safety, and to conduct
him to a foreign land, in an exile that would cease when the danger was
dispelled. But unhappily he deemed that I only sought to destroy him.
He fled from my friendly pursuit. The soldiers with me were attacked by
an intermeddling Englishman; your father escaped from Italy—concealing
his retreat; and the character of his flight counteracted my efforts to
obtain his pardon. The government conferred on me half his revenues,
holding the other at its pleasure. I accepted the offer to save his
whole heritage from confiscation. That I did not convey to him, what
I pined to do—viz., the information that I held but in trust what
was bestowed by the government, and the full explanation of what
seemed blamable in my conduct—was necessarily owing to the secrecy he
maintained. I could not discover his refuge; but I never ceased to plead
for his recall. This year only I have partially succeeded. He can be
restored to his heritage and rank, on one proviso—a guarantee for his
loyalty. That guarantee the government has named: it is the alliance
of his only child with one whom the government can trust. It was the
interest of all Italian nobility, that the representation of a house so
great falling to a female, should not pass away wholly from the direct
line; in a word, that you should ally yourself with a kinsman. But one
kinsman, and he the next in blood, presented himself. Brief—Alphonso
regains all that he lost on the day in which his daughter gives her
hand to Giulio Franzini, Count di Peschiera. Ah,” continued the Count,
mournfully, “you shrink—you recoil. He thus submitted to your choice is
indeed unworthy of you. You are scarce in the spring of life. He is in
its waning autumn. Youth loves youth. He does not aspire to your love.
All that he can say is, love is not the only joy of the heart—it is joy
to raise from ruin a beloved father—joy to restore to a land poor in
all but memories, a chief in whom it reverences a line of heroes. These
are the joys I offer to you—you, a daughter, and an Italian maid. Still
silent! Oh speak to me!”

Certainly this Count Peschiera knew well how woman is to be wooed and
won; and never was woman more sensitive to those high appeals which most
move all true earnest womanhood, than was the young Violante. Fortune
favored him in the moment chosen. Harley was wrenched away from her
hopes, and love a word erased from her language. In the void of the
world, her father’s image alone stood clear and visible. And she who
from infancy had so pined to serve that father, who had first learned to
dream of Harley as that father’s friend! She could restore to him all
for which the exile sighed; and by a sacrifice of self! Self-sacrifice,
ever in itself such a temptation to the noble! Still, in the midst of
the confusion and disturbance of her mind, the idea of marriage with
another seemed so terrible and revolting, that she could not at once
conceive it; and still that instinct of openness and honor, which
pervaded all her character, warned even her inexperience that there was
something wrong in this clandestine appeal to herself.

Again the Count besought her to speak; and with an effort she said,
irresolutely—

“If it be as you say, it is not for me to answer you; it is for my
father.”

“Nay,” replied Peschiera. “Pardon if I contradict you. Do you know so
little of your father as to suppose that he will suffer his interest
to dictate to his pride. He would refuse, perhaps, even to receive my
visit—to hear my explanations; but certainly he would refuse to buy
back his inheritance by the sacrifice of his daughter to one whom he
has deemed his foe, and whom the mere disparity of years would incline
the world to say he had made the barter of his personal ambition. But
if I could go to him sanctioned by you—if I could say, Your daughter
overlooks what the father might deem an obstacle—she has consented
to accept my hand of her own free choice—she unites her happiness,
and blends her prayers, with mine—then, indeed, I could not fail
of success: and Italy would pardon my errors, and bless your name.
Ah! Signorina, do not think of me save as an instrument toward the
fulfillment of duties so high and sacred—think but of your ancestors,
your father, your native land, and reject not the proud occasion to
prove how you revere them all!”

Violante’s heart was touched at the right chord. Her head rose—her
color came back to her pale cheek—she turned the glorious beauty of her
countenance toward the wily tempter. She was about to answer, and to
seal her fate, when at that instant Harley’s voice was heard at a little
distance, and Nero came bounding toward her, and thrust himself, with
rough familiarity, between herself and Peschiera. The Count drew back,
and Violante, whose eyes were still fixed on his face, started at the
change that passed there. One quick gleam of rage sufficed in an instant
to[Pg 59] light up the sinister secrets of his nature—it was the face of the
baffled gladiator. He had time but for few words.

“I must not be seen here,” he muttered; “but to-morrow—in these
gardens—about this hour. I implore you, for the sake of your
father—his hopes, fortunes, his very life, to guard the secret of this
interview—to meet me again. Adieu!”

He vanished amidst the trees, and was gone—noiselessly, mysteriously,
as he had come.

CHAPTER IX.

The last words of Peschiera were still ringing in Violante’s ears when
Harley appeared in sight, and the sound of his voice dispelled the vague
and dreamy stupor which had crept over her senses. At that voice there
returned the consciousness of a mighty loss, the sting of an intolerable
anguish. To meet Harley there, and thus, seemed impossible. She turned
abruptly away, and hurried toward the house. Harley called to her by
name, but she would not answer, and only quickened her steps. He paused
a moment in surprise, and then hastened after her.

“Under what strange taboo am I placed?” said he gayly, as he laid his
hand on her shrinking arm. “I inquire for Helen—she is ill, and can not
see me. I come to sun myself in your presence, and you fly me as if gods
and men had set their mark on my brow. Child!—child!—what is this? You
are weeping?”

“Do not stay me now—do not speak to me,” answered Violante through her
stifling sobs, as she broke from his hand and made toward the house.

“Have you a grief, and under the shelter of my father’s roof? A grief
that you will not tell to me? Cruel!” cried Harley, with inexpressible
tenderness of reproach in his soft tones.

Violante could not trust herself to reply. Ashamed of her
self-betrayal—softened yet more by his pleading voice—she could have
prayed to the earth to swallow her. At length, checking back her tears
by a heroic effort, she said, almost calmly, “Noble friend, forgive
me. I have no grief, believe me, which—which I can tell to you. I was
but thinking of my poor father when you came up; alarming myself about
him, it may be, with vain superstitious fears; and so—even a slight
surprise—your abrupt appearance, has sufficed to make me thus weak and
foolish; but I wish to see my father!—to go home—home!”

“Your father is well, believe me, and pleased that you are here. No
danger threatens him; and you, here, are safe.”

“I safe—and from what?”

Harley mused irresolute. He inclined to confide to her the danger which
her father had concealed; but had he the right to do so against her
father’s will?

“Give me,” he said, “time to reflect, and to obtain permission to
intrust you with a secret which, in my judgment, you should know.
Meanwhile, this much I may say, that rather than you should incur the
danger that I believe[Pg 60] he exaggerates, your father would have given you
a protector—even, in Randal Leslie.”

Violante started.

“But,” resumed Harley, with a calm, in which a certain deep mournfulness
was apparent, unconsciously to himself—”but I trust you are reserved
for a fairer fate, and a nobler spouse. I have vowed to live henceforth
in the common workday world. But for you, bright child, for you, I am a
dreamer still!”

Violante turned her eyes for one instant toward the melancholy speaker.
The look thrilled to his heart. He bowed his face involuntarily. When he
looked up, she had left his side. He did not this time attempt to follow
her, but moved away and plunged amidst the leafless trees.

An hour afterward he re-entered the house, and again sought to see
Helen. She had now recovered sufficiently to give him the interview he
requested.

He approached her with a grave and serious gentleness,

“My dear Helen,” said he, “you have consented to be my wife, my life’s
mild companion; let it be soon—soon—for I need you. I need all the
strength of that holy tie. Helen, let me press you to fix the time.”

“I owe you too much,” answered Helen, looking down, “to have a will but
yours. But your mother,” she added, perhaps clinging to the idea of some
reprieve—”your mother has not yet—”

“My mother—true. I will speak first to her. You shall receive from my
family all honor due to your gentle virtues. Helen, by the way, have you
mentioned to Violante the bond between us?”

“No—that is, I fear I may have unguardedly betrayed it, against Lady
Lansmere’s commands too—but—but—”

“So, Lady Lansmere forbade you to name it to Violante. This should not
be. I will answer for her permission to revoke that interdict. It is due
to Violante and to you. Tell your young friend all. Ah, Helen, if I am
at times cold or wayward, bear with me—bear with me; for you love me,
do you not?”

CHAPTER X.

That same evening Randal heard from Levy (at whose house he staid late)
of that self-introduction to Violante which (thanks to his skeleton-key)
Peschiera had contrived to effect; and the Count seemed more than
sanguine—he seemed assured as to the full and speedy success of his
matrimonial enterprise. “Therefore,” said Levy, “I trust I may very soon
congratulate you on the acquisition of your family estates.”

“Strange!” answered Randal, “strange that my fortunes seem so bound up
with the fate of a foreigner like Beatrice di Negra and her connection
with Frank Hazeldean.” He looked up at the clock as he spoke, and added—

“Frank, by this time, has told his father of his engagement.”

“And you feel sure that the Squire can not be coaxed into consent?”

“No; but I feel sure that the Squire will be so choleric at the first
intelligence, that Frank will not have the self-control necessary for
coaxing; and, perhaps, before the Squire can relent upon this point,
he may, by some accident, learn his grievances on another, which would
exasperate him still more.”

“Ay, I understand—the post obit?”

Randal nodded.

“And what then?” asked Levy.

“The next of kin to the lands of Hazeldean may have his day.”

The Baron smiled.

“You have good prospects in that direction, Leslie: look now to another.
I spoke to you of the borough of Lansmere. Your patron, Audley Egerton,
intends to stand for it.”

Randal’s heart had of late been so set upon other and more avaricious
schemes, that a seat in Parliament had sunk into a secondary object;
nevertheless, his ambitious and all-grasping nature felt a bitter pang,
when he heard that Egerton thus interposed between himself and any
chance of advancement.

“So!” he muttered sullenly—”so. This man, who pretends to be my
benefactor, squanders away the wealth of my forefathers—throws me
penniless on the world; and, while still encouraging me to exertion and
public life, robs me himself of—”

“No!” interrupted Levy—”not robs you; we may prevent that. The Lansmere
interest is not so strong in the borough as Dick Avenel’s.”

“But I can not stand against Egerton.”

“Assuredly not—you may stand with him.”

“How.”

“Dick Avenel will never suffer Egerton to come in; and though he can
not, perhaps, carry two of his own politics, he can split his votes
upon you.”

Randal’s eyes flashed. He saw at a glance, that if Avenel did not
overrate the relative strength of parties, his seat could be secured.

“But,” he said, “Egerton has not spoken to me on such a subject; nor can
you expect that he would propose to me to stand with him, if he foresaw
the chance of being ousted by the very candidate he himself introduced.”

“Neither he nor his party will anticipate that possibility. If he ask
you, agree to stand—leave the rest to me.”

“You must hate Egerton bitterly,” said Randal; “for I am not vain enough
to think that you thus scheme but from pure love to me.”

“The motives of men are intricate and complicated,” answered Levy, with
unusual seriousness. “It suffices to the wise to profit by the actions,
and leave the motives in shade.”

There was silence for some minutes. Then the two drew closer toward each
other, and began to discuss details in their joint designs.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

[Pg 61]

OCEAN LIFE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT

Sat. Eve, March 20, 1852. Atlantic Ocean.

At precisely seven minutes after 12 o’clock to-day, the steamer Arctic
left New York for Liverpool. Our whole ship’s company, passengers and
crew, amounted to one hundred and eighty. The day was clear and cold.
A strong north wind swept from the snow-clad hills over the rough bay.
Icicles were pendent from the paddle-wheels, and the spray was freezing
upon the decks. As the majestic steamship left the wharf, the crowd
assembled there gave three cheers, and two guns were fired from on
board. With the engines in active play, and our sails pressed by the
fresh breeze, we passed rapidly down the narrows. No one can thus leave
his home, to traverse weary leagues of land and sea, without emotion.
Images of the loved, who may never be seen again, will rush upon the
mind. And even if the most resolute retire for a moment to their
state-rooms, throw themselves upon the sofa, bury their faces in the
pillow, and, with a moistened eye, plead with God for a blessing upon
those who are left behind, it is not to be condemned as a weakness. I
soon returned to the deck. It was swept by a bleak wintry wind. There
was not a single individual on board the ship whom I had ever seen
before. Taking a stand in the shelter of the enormous smoke-pipe, so
vast that twenty men could with perfect convenience cluster under its
lee, we watched the receding shores. At half past three o’clock the
gong summoned us to a sumptuous dinner. Again returning to the deck
we watched the dim outline of the land until it disappeared beneath
the horizon of the sea. At seven o’clock we were again summoned to
the tea-table. Returning to the deck, we found dark and gloomy night
brooding over the ocean. The wind, though piercingly cold, was fresh
and fair. The stars shone brilliantly through black masses of clouds.
Our ship rose and fell as it plowed its way over the majestic billows
of the Atlantic. Retiring to the dining-saloon,[Pg 62] which is brilliantly
illuminated with carcel lamps, I commenced this journal. And now

Sabbath Eve, Mar. 21. Lat. 43° 50′. Long. 65° 15′.

Miles made at noon 300. We have had truly a magnificent Sabbath day.
The sky has been cloudless, the wind fresh and favorable. At 12 o’clock
each day the captain takes an observation to decide our latitude and
longitude, and the number of miles the ship has made during the last
twenty-four hours. The sea is rough, and it is more comfortable,
or, rather, less uncomfortable to be upon deck than in the saloons.
Sheltered in some degree by the smoke-pipe, round which the wind is ever
circling, I have passed the weary hours of the monotonous day, looking
out upon the solitary ocean and the silent sky; both impressive emblems
of eternity and infinity. Toward night the wind changed into the east,
and blew more freshly. Clouds gathered. Angry waves, black and foaming,
swept madly by. The solitude of stormy night upon the ocean! What pen
can describe! And yet who can be insensible to the luxury of that
solitude—to its melancholy sublimity! As I now write, our ship plunges
and rolls in the heavy sea, and a death-like nausea comes over me.

Monday Night, Mar. 22. Lat. 42° 23′. Long. 61° 23′.

Miles made 308. The malady of the sea drove me rather suddenly last
night from my pen to the deck. But in an hour the clouds and the gust
passed away. The stars came out in all their brilliance. The wind,
however, has steadily increased, and it has been quite rough all day.
Many are very sick, and nearly all are in a state of decided discomfort.
There is an indescribable charm which the ocean has in its wide expanse,
and in its solitude, and the imagination loves to revel in its wild
scenes, but it is, even in its best estate, an uncomfortable place
for the body to inhabit. Our most poetic descriptions of ocean life
have been written in the enjoyment of warm and comfortable firesides
on the land. Cushioned upon the parlor sofa, the idea is delightful,
upon the ocean wives to be “borne like a bubble onward.” But there is
altogether too much prose in the reality. It is indeed “distance which
lends enchantment to the view.” Never did there float upon the ocean
a more magnificent palace than that which now bears us. Our ship is
two hundred and eighty-five feet in length, that is, nearly as long
as four ordinary country churches. From the keel to the deck it is as
high as a common five story house. Its width from the extremities of
the paddle wheels is seventy-two feet, which is equal to length of most
churches. The promenade deck, as we now sail, is as high above the water
as the ridge-pole of an ordinary two story house. The dining-saloon
is a large, airy, beautiful room, sixty-two feet long and thirty feet
wide, with windows opening upon the ocean as pleasantly as those of any
parlor, and where two hundred guests can dine luxuriously. The parlor
or saloon is embellished in the very highest style of modern art. The
walls are constructed of the most highly polished satin-wood, and
rosewood, and decorated with paintings of the coats of arms of the
various States of the Union. Magnificent mirrors, stained glass, silver
plate, costly carpets, marble centre tables and pier tables, luxurious
sofas and arm-chairs, and a profusion of rich gilding give an air of
almost Oriental magnificence to a room one hundred feet in length and
twenty-five feet in breadth. When this saloon is brilliantly lighted in
the evening it is gorgeous in the extreme. The state-rooms are really
rooms, provided with every comfort which can be desired. There are
beds to accommodate two hundred passengers. Some of these rooms have
large double beds with French bedsteads and rich curtains. There are
nine cooks on board, whose united wages amount to over four thousand
dollars a year. There is the head cook, and the second cook, and the
baker, and the pastry cook, and the vegetable cook, &c. We have our
butcher, our store-keeper, our porter, our steward. The ship’s crew
consists of one hundred and thirty-five men. There are four boilers,
each heated by eight furnaces, and unitedly they consume eighty tons
of coal a day. The two engines are of one thousand horse-power, and
the weight of these enormous machines is eight hundred tons. Fifty-two
men are constantly employed in their service. The ship carries about
3000 tons. From the waste steam 1500 gallons of pure soft water can
be condensed each day. This wonderful floating palace, which is built
as strongly as wood and iron can be put together, cost seven hundred
thousand dollars. Even the ancients, endeavoring, with the imagination
to form a craft worthy of Neptune, their god of the ocean, never
conceived of a car so magnificent as this to be driven one thousand
steeds in hand.

The United States have never yet done any thing which has contributed
so much to their honor in Europe, as the construction of this Collins
line of steamers. We have made a step in advance of the whole world.
Nothing ever before floated equal to these ships. Their speed is in
accordance with their magnificence. No one thinks of questioning
their superiority. Every American abroad feels personally ennobled by
them, and participates in his country’s glory. There are four ships
of this line, all of equal elegance—the Arctic, Baltic, Pacific, and
Atlantic. It is not to be supposed that such ships should be immediately
profitable to the owners. They were built for national glory. They do
exalt and honor our nation. How much more glorious is such a triumph of
humanity and art, than any celebrity attained by the horrors and the
misery of war. The English government liberally patronizes the Cunard
line of steamers. This line now needs the patronage of the government of
the United States. We had far better sink half a dozen of our ships of
war, important as they may be, than allow these ships to be withdrawn.

Tuesday Night, Mar. 23, Lat. 44°, Long. 55° 28′.

Miles made 278. We are now about 300 miles south of Nova Scotia, yet in
the “lee of the land,” as one of our officers says. Toward morning we
shall reach the western edge of the great bank of Newfoundland, which
is about 200 miles broad. The wind is ahead, and the sea rolls in heavy
billows. Our ship rises and plunges over these vast waves with much
grandeur. It is majestically sickening, sublimely nauseating. The day is
magnificent—clear, cloudless; and this fresh breeze upon the land would
be highly invigorating. The ocean, in its solitude, spreads every where.
We see no sails, no signs of life, except a few sea-fowl, skimming the
cold and dreary waves. Though not absolutely sick, I am in that state
that I must remain upon the wind and spray swept deck. We are now about
a thousand miles from New York. On the whole, the discomfort of the
voyage, thus far, has been less than I had anticipated. March is a cold
and blustering month. We breakfast at eight o’clock, have an abundant
lunch at twelve, dine at half-past three very sumptuously, take tea at
seven, and those who wish it have supper at ten. The sun has gone down,
the twilight has faded away, and night—cold, black, and stormy—has
settled upon us. The wind is in the east, directly ahead; and, as we
drive through it, it sweeps the deck with hurricane fury. I have been
sitting upon deck, behind the smoke-pipe, around which the wind would
most maliciously circle, till I was pierced through and through with
the cold. Life upon the sea is indeed monotonous, as hour after hour,
and day after day, lingers along, and you look out only upon the chill
dreary expanse of wintry waves, and the silent or stormy sky. The sunset
to-night was, however, magnificent in the extreme, and we made the most
of it. As the sun sunk beneath the perfect horizon, it was expanded by
the mist, and resembled one of the most magnificent domes of fire of
which the imagination can conceive. We have the prospect of a stormy
night. The saloon is brilliantly illumined, and ladies and gentlemen are
reclining upon the sofas, some reading, but more pensively thinking of
home and absent friends. The imagination in such hours will fondly run
back to the fireside and the loved ones there. The voyager who has a
home that is dear to him, pays a very high price for his enjoyments, he
finds, in abandoning that home for the pleasures of the sea.

Wed. Morn., Mar. 24, Lat. 45° 39′, Long. 49° 30′

Miles made 270. We have now been out four days, and are 1156 miles on
our way. The sun rose this morning bright and glorious. A strong east
wind sweeps the ocean. The enormous billows rush by, crested with foam.
Our ship struggles manfully against the opposing waves. The log is
thrown every two hours, to ascertain our speed. Notwithstanding the
head wind, we are advancing nine miles an hour. The breeze wails most
doleful requiems through our rigging. We are now upon the banks of
Newfoundland. During the day our upper saloon has looked like an elegant
parlor, spacious and luxurious. The sun has shone in brightly through
the windows upon the carpet. Still the ship pitches so vio[Pg 63]lently that
it is with no little difficulty that one staggers from place to place.
During many hours of the day, I stood upon the deck, watching the black
and raging sea. As the sun went down in clouds, and the darkness of a
stormy night came on, it became necessary to house the topmast. It
was fearful to see the sailors clinging to the ropes as the ship rolled
to and fro in these vast billows. Suddenly there was a loud outcry, and
terrific groans came from the topmast. A poor sailor had somehow got
his arm caught, and it was being crushed amidst the ponderous spars,
far up in the dark and stormy sky. O! how drearily those groans fell
upon the ear. After some time he was extricated and helped down, and
placed in the care of the surgeon. From this scene, so sad, so gloomy, I
descended to the ladies’ saloon. How great the transition! The gorgeous
yet beautiful apartment was brilliant with light. Its ceiling richly
carved and gilded, its walls of the most precious and highly polished
woods, its mirrors, its luxurious furnishings, presented as cheerful a
scene as the heart could crave. Taking a seat upon the sofa with one of
the most accomplished and agreeable matrons I have ever met, I found
the barometer of my spirits rapidly rising to the region of clear and
fair. It was a happy hour. The dark sea, the storm, the night, all were
forgotten, as in that beautiful saloon, in social converse, time flew
on silken wings. It is now nearly eleven o’clock at night. I have just
returned from the deck. It is sublimely gloomy there. We are pitching
about so violently, that it is with the utmost difficulty that I write.
Occasionally my inkstand takes a rapid slide across the table, when it
is caught by a ledge, which prevents it from falling.

Thursday Night, Mar 25. Lat. 47° 24′. Long. 43° 35′.

Miles passed 267. A dull easterly wind is still rolling a heavy sea
against us which much retards our progress. The day has been cold,
cloudy, and wet. Sheets of mist are sweeping over the sombre and
solitary ocean. It has been so cold, even in the saloons, which are
warmed by steam-pipes, that it has been necessary to sit with an
overcoat on. It is estimated that we are now just about in the middle
of the Atlantic. It is 3055 miles from New York to Liverpool, by the
route which the steamers take. The difference in time between the two
cities is 4 hours 55 minutes. The wind to-night is high, and the ocean
rough. But in our beautiful parlor we have passed a pleasant evening.
Nearly all have now become so accustomed to the motion of the ship, as
to be social and agreeable. We have Jews and Gentiles, Catholics and
Protestants, on board, and all tongues are spoken. Our fellow-passengers
are very pleasant and gentlemanly. Most of them appear to be clerks or
younger partners in mercantile houses going out to make purchases. There
is, however, an amazing fondness for champagne and tobacco. Were Byron
here, he would, without doubt, correct his celebrated line, “Man, thou
pendulum betwixt a smile and a tear,” into, “Man, thou pendulum betwixt
the wine glass and the cigar.”

[Pg 64]

Friday Night, Mar. 28. Lat. 49° 38′. Long. 39° 57′.

Miles made 263. The wind still continues in the east, strong and cold.
Nothing has occurred all day to break the monotony of ocean life. We
are so far north that we meet no ships, and nothing relieves the dreary
expanse of the dark clouds above and the angry waves below. Our ship
plows her way majestically through these hostile billows.

“Oh!” said a gentleman this morning, as he looked out sadly upon the
gloomy spectacle, “that is a fine song to sing upon the land.” As
our ship incessantly rises and plunges over these heavy swells, we
become excessively weary of the ceaseless motion, even though no
nausea is excited. One is often reminded of Madame de Stäel’s remark,
that “traveling is the most painful of pleasures.” Still, by reading
a little, writing a little, talking a little, and thinking much, time
passes quite rapidly. There are moments of exhilaration. There are hours
of contentment. There are many hours of submissive endurance. Now and
then there will come moments of sickness, and pain, and gloom, very
nearly approaching to misery. It, is perhaps, not well to introduce
the reader into these dark chambers of the soul. But, if unintroduced
the untraveled can not know what life upon the ocean is. This evening
we plunged quite suddenly into a dense fog-bank. No one can imagine a
more desolate and dreary scene than the ocean now presents. The rain
falls dripping upon the deck. The fog is so thick that you can see but a
few feet before you. The stormy wind directly ahead, wails through our
moaning shrouds. The sky is black and threatening. The angry waves with
impotent fury dash against the sides of the ship. The gloom without is
delightfully contrasted with the cheerful scene within. The saloon is
brilliantly illuminated. Groups of ladies and gentlemen are gathered
upon the sofas, some reading, some talking, some playing various games.

Saturday Night, Mar. 27. Lat. 50° 56′. Long. 30° 54′.

Miles passed 286. We are now 1962 miles from New York. We have been
out just one week, and, for five days, we have had a strong head wind.
To-day the wind has increased into a violent storm. The decks are swept
with rain and spray. The ocean is white with foam. Our ship, enormous as
it is, is tossed, like a bubble, upon these raging billows. You start to
cross the saloon; a wave lifts the stern of the ship some twenty feet
into the air, and you find yourself pitching down a steep hill. You lean
back as far as possible to preserve your balance, when suddenly another
wave, with gigantic violence, thrusts up the bows of the ship, and you
have a precipitous eminence before you. Just as you are recovering from
your astonishment, the ship takes a lurch, and, to your utter confusion,
you find yourself floundering in a lady’s lap, who happens to be reading
upon a sofa on one side of the saloon. Hardly have you commenced your
apology ere another wave comes kindly to your rescue, and pitches you
bodily out of the door. It is with the utmost difficulty that I write.
I have, however, contrived to block up my inkstand with books, and, by
clinging to the table, succeed in making these hieroglyphics, which I
fear that the printer will hardly be able to read. Many are very sick
and very miserable. I am in a state of submissive endurance. The reader,
however, may be fully assured, that there are many positions far more
agreeable than to be on the middle of the Atlantic ocean in a wet,
easterly storm. Our noble ship is so magnificently strong, that we have
no more sense of danger than when upon the land. There is something
in this nausea, which seems to paralyze all one’s mental energies.
Never before have I found such an effort of will requisite to make
any mental exertions. There was a portion of the evening, however,
notwithstanding all these discomforts, passed very pleasantly away. In
the boudoir-like magnificence of the ladies’ saloon, with our excellent
captain, and a few intelligent and pleasant companions, gentlemen and
ladies, we almost forgot, for an hour, the storm and the gloom without,
and conversed with just as much joyousness as if we had been in the
most luxurious parlor on the land. These saloons, brilliantly lighted
with carcel lamps, look far more gorgeous and imposing by night than by
day. It is now eleven o’clock at night. Every other moment an enormous
billow lifts us high into the air, and then we go down, down, down,
exciting that peculiar sensation which I remember often to have had in
my dreams, when a child. The scene from the deck is truly sublime. The
howling of the tempest, the rush of the waves, the roar of the sea, the
blackness of the night, the reflection that we are more than a thousand
miles from any land, floating like a bubble upon the vast waves, all
combine to invest this midnight hour upon the ocean with sublimity. The
waves to-night will rock us to sleep, while the winds wail our mournful
lullaby.

Sabbath Night, Mar. 28. Lat. 51°, Long. 25° 7′

Miles made 219. Last night our easterly storm increased to a gale,
and blew with hurricane fury. It was utterly impossible to sleep, we
were all so rudely jostled in our berths. The motion of the ship was
so great that we were in constant danger of being rolled from our
beds upon the floor. Every timber in the iron-bound ship creaked and
groaned, and occasionally a sea would strike our bows, which would make
the whole fabric shiver. It was, indeed, an exercise in gymnastics to
perform one’s toilet this morning. Every thing which was not a fixture
was rolling hither and thither. It was utterly impossible to stand for
a single moment, without catching hold of something for support. The
ship now keeling in one direction, now in another; at one time rising
ten or fifteen feet into the air, and again as suddenly sinking; now,
apparently stopping, as struck by a heavy sea, and again plunging
forward with the most sullen and determined resolution, presented a
series of movements which defied all calculations. Early in the morning
I clambered upon deck, and leaning against the mast, and clinging to
the ropes, looked out upon the wild, wild scene. The roar of the gale
through our shrouds was almost terrific. It seemed like the voice of
an angry God. But five persons sat down at the breakfast-table at the
usual hour. It was, indeed, a curiosity to see the waiters attempt to
move about upon the unstable footing of our floor. One would take a
cup of coffee, and, clinging to the side of the cabin, and carefully
watching his opportunity, would dart toward a pillar, to which he would
cling, until he was prepared to take another start. But with all his
precautions, he would frequently be thrown upon one of the cushioned
seats of the dining-room, and the liquid contents of his dishes would be
any where. A gentleman would attempt to raise a cup of tea to his lips.
Alas! there is many a slip. A sudden lurch of the ship ejects the hot
beverage into his bosom instead of his mouth. It is almost dangerous to
attempt to move about, you are thrown to and fro with so much violence.
Every thing is made fast which can be secured. It is a wild scene of
uproar and confusion, and I have no desire again to witness a storm at
sea. Nausea sadly detracts from all conceptions of the sublime. Very
many are sick. I am very far from feeling comfortable. As I look around
me upon this tumultuous scene, listening to the uproar of the elements,
I feel how utterly impossible it is for the pen to communicate to the
distant reader any idea of this midnight ocean-storm. By clinging to
the table, so as to become, as it were, a part of it, I succeed, with
much difficulty, in writing. The wind seems still to be rising as we
advance into the hours of the night, and the ship struggles and plunges
more and more violently. We have had a dismal, dismal day. There is no
comfort any where. One can neither walk, nor stand, nor sit, nor lie. I
have spent many hours of the day wrapped in my cloak, shivering upon the
bleak and storm-swept deck. And now I dread to return to my state-room,
for there can be no sleep upon these angry billows. The head aches, the
stomach remonstrates. As the night, black and stormy, settled down upon
the cold, bleak, wet deck, I thought of home, of the pleasant songs of
our Sabbath evening, of those lines, written by a sainted one, and ever
sung in the peaceful twilight of the Lord’s day:

I hummed the familiar tune, in the midst of the dirges of the ocean.
And as memories of the past came rushing over me the subdued spirit
vanquished the sternness of manhood. Who can not sympathize with the
childish emotions of the pilgrim of three score years and ten, as he
loved to place his gray hairs upon his pillow, and to repeat the infant
prayer his mother taught him:

[Pg 65]

Monday Night, Mar. 29. Lat. 50° 52′. Long. 19° 35′.

Miles made 209. Toward morning the wind abated and backed round into
the north, and with a clear sky and a fresh breeze, we bounded over the
agitated ocean. About two o’clock, however, the wind returned again to
the east, and dim masses of clouds were rolled up into the sky. The
barometer rapidly fell, and we were threatened with another gale. The
sea was rising, the rain beginning to fall, and the ship was rolling and
pitching, each moment more heavily, in the waves. We plunged suddenly
into a dense fog bank, and prepared for a dreary and stormy afternoon
and night. But after two or three hours of cold, and wet and dismal
sailing, we suddenly emerged from the fog bank, and came out into
pleasant weather on the other side. The moon shone out resplendently.
Just as the evening twilight was fading away we descried, far off in
the northern horizon, a large steamship, undoubtedly the Africa, which
left Liverpool yesterday. Two signal rockets were thrown up from our
ship, but they were probably not seen, as we obtained no response. I
was quite amused with a little incident which occurred this evening. A
large party of gentlemen were clustered upon the deck, talking together.
A ship was dimly discerned in the distance. A gentleman looked through
the telescope at the faint speck in the horizon, and very confidently
said, “It is an English ship.” “How can you tell?” another inquired
“Because,” he replied, “she has so little sail set. An American captain
would have every sheet spread in such a wind as this.” Some doubt was
expressed whether one could thus accurately judge. “Ask the captain,”
said he, “whether that is an English or an American ship.” The captain
was at some distance from us, and had not heard our conversation. He
had, however, silently examined the ship with his glass. “Captain,” one
called out, “what ship is that?” “It is an English ship,” he quietly
replied. “How can you tell?” was immediately asked. “Because,” he
answered, “she has so little sail spread. No Yankee would be creeping
along at that pace in this breeze.” It was afterward stated that the
English captains are paid only while their ships are at sea, and
that the payment is quite small. They are therefore rather under the
inducement to make long voyages. The Americans, on the contrary, are
paid while the ship is in port, and they drive their voyages with the
utmost speed. Whether there be any foundation for this opinion, I know
not. The incident however was quite interesting.

Tuesday Night, Mar. 30. Lat. 50° 53′. Long. 11° 54′.

Miles made 219. The captain informed us that we were 95 miles from Cape
Clear at noon to-day, and that we might expect to see the coast of
Ireland about six o’clock. The day has been magnificently beautiful. We
have seen[Pg 66] many ships in the horizon, indicating that we were leaving
the solitudes of the ocean behind us. Immediately after dinner all the
passengers assembled upon deck to catch the first glimpse of land. At
just a quarter before six o’clock we saw the highlands of the Irish
coast looming through the haze before us. No one who has not crossed
the ocean can conceive of the joyous excitement of the scene. All the
discomfort of ocean life was forgotten in the exhilaration of the hour.
As twilight faded away, the outline of the shore became more visible
under the rays of a most brilliant moon. Soon the light from Cape Clear
beamed brilliantly before us. It is now half-past ten o’clock at night,
and the night is clear, serene, and gorgeously beautiful. The dim
outline of the Irish coast looks dark and solitary. Upon those gloomy
headlands, and in those sombre valleys what scenes of joy and woe have
transpired during centuries which have lingered away. We are rapidly
sailing up the channel, having still some two hundred and fifty miles to
make, before we land in Liverpool. But our ocean life is ended. We have
crossed the Atlantic. At seven o’clock to-morrow evening we expect to
leave the ship.

Wednesday Night, March 31. Waterloo House, Liverpool, 12 o’clock.

This last day, much to my surprise, has been one of the most cheerless
and disagreeable days of our whole voyage. A chilling east wind has
swept the cold and foggy ocean. The decks were wet and slippery. Drops
of water were falling upon us from the drenched shrouds. Nothing
could be seen but the dense mist around us, and the foamy track of
our majestic steamer. It was a great annoyance to think that, were
the sky clear, we might be almost enchanted by the view of the green
hills and the cottages of England. For a few moments, about noon, we
caught a glimpse, through the sheet of mist sweeping the ocean, of the
coast of Wales, but in a few moments the vail was again drawn over it,
and wailing winds and rain and gloom again enveloped us. At about six
o’clock in the evening we discerned, through the fog the steeples and
the docks of Liverpool. The whole aspect of the scene was too dingy,
wet, and sombre for either beauty or sublimity. We were long delayed
in our attempts to get into the dock, and finally had to relinquish
our endeavor for the night, and to cast anchor in the middle of the
river. About half-past seven o’clock a small steamer came on board
bringing several custom-house officers. All our trunks were placed in
the dining-saloon in a row, and the officers employed three tedious
hours in searching our trunks for contraband goods. Faithfully they did
their duty. Every thing was examined. Many of our passengers were much
annoyed and complained bitterly. I saw however, no disposition whatever,
on the part of the custom-house, to cause any needless trouble. So far
as I could judge they performed an unpleasant duty faithfully, and
with as much courtesy as the nature of the case would allow. There is
a very heavy duty imposed upon tobacco and cigars. There is a strong
disposition to smuggle both of these articles into the kingdom. If
it is understood that writing desks are not to be unlocked, and that
packages are not to be opened, and that the mere word of any stranger
is to be taken, the law at once sinks into contempt. The long delay was
tedious, very tedious; but the fault was ours. Had every man honestly,
so arranged his trunk, as to show at once what was dutyable, the work
might have been accomplished in one-third of the time. At eleven o’clock
by a long step-ladder, we descended the sides of the ship to a little
steamer, and were landed in the darkness of the fog upon the wet docks.
Taking hacks, nearly all of our passengers soon found themselves in more
comfortable quarters at the Waterloo Hotel. It is now midnight. Most of
my companions are mirthfully assembled around the supper table. If songs
and laughter constitute enjoyment, they are happy. I, in enjoyment more
congenial with my feelings, am alone in my comfortable little chamber,
in an English Inn, penning these last lines of our ocean life. But I
can not close without a tribute of respect and gratitude to our most
worthy commander, Capt. Luce. By his social qualities, and his untiring
vigilance, he won the esteem of all in the ship. Our shipmates were
friendly and courteous, and though of sundry nations, and creeds, and
tongues, dwelt together in singular harmony.

Reader, forgive me for the apparent egotism of this journal. I have
wished to give the thousands in our country who have never traversed
the ocean, an idea of ocean life. I could not do so, but by giving free
utterance to the emotions which the varied scenes excited in my own
heart. I have only to add, that if you ever wish to cross the Atlantic,
you will find in the Arctic one of the noblest of ships, and in Capt.
Luce one of the best of commanders.

DROOPING BUDS.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

In Paris, Berlin, Turin, Frankfort, Brussels, and Munich; in Hamburgh,
St. Petersburg, Moscow, Vienna, Prague, Pesth, Copenhagen, Stuttgart,
Grätz, Brünn, Lemberg, and Constantinople, there are hospitals for sick
children. There was not one in all England until the other day.

No hospital for sick children! Does the public know what is implied in
this? Those little graves two or three feet long, which are so plentiful
in our church-yards and our cemeteries—to which, from home, in absence
from the pleasures of society, the thoughts of many a young mother sadly
wander—does the public know that we dig too many of them? Of this great
city of London—which, until a few weeks ago, contained no hospital
wherein to treat and study the diseases of children—more than a third
of the whole population perishes in infancy and childhood. Twenty-four
in a hundred die during the two first years of life; and, during the
next eight years, eleven die out of the remaining seventy-six.

Our children perish out of our homes: not because there is in them an
inherent dangerous sickness (except in the few cases where they are
born of parents who communicate to children heritable maladies), but
because there is, in respect of their tender lives, a want of sanitary
discipline and a want of medical knowledge. What should we say of a
rose-tree in which one bud out of every three dropped to the soil dead?
We should not say that this was natural to roses; neither is it natural
to men and women that they should see the glaze of death upon so many
of the bright eyes that come to laugh and love among them—or that
they should kiss so many little lips grown cold and still. The vice is
external. We fail to prevent disease; and, in the case of children, to a
much more lamentable extent than is well known, we fail to cure it.

Think of it again. Of all the coffins that are made in London, more
than one in every three is made for a little child: a child that has
not yet two figures to its age. Although science has advanced, although
vaccination has been discovered and brought into general use, although
medical knowledge is tenfold greater than it was fifty years ago, we
still do not gain more than a diminution of two per cent in the terrible
mortality among our children.

It does not at all follow that the intelligent physician who has
learnt how to treat successfully the illnesses of adults, has only to
modify his plans a little, to diminish the proportions of his doses,
for the application of his knowledge to our little sons and daughters.
Some of their diseases are peculiar to themselves; other diseases,
common to us all, take a form in children varying as much from their
familiar form with us as a child varies from a man. Different as the
ways are, or ought to be, by which we reach a fault in a child’s mind,
and reach a fault in the mind of an adult; so, not less different, if
we would act successfully, should be our action upon ailments of the
flesh. There is another thing, also, which puzzles the physician who
attends on children. He comes to us when we are ill, and questions us
of this symptom, and of that; and on our answers he is taught, in very
many cases, to base a large part of his opinion. The infant can only
wail; the child is silenced by disease; or, when it answers, wants
experience, and answers incorrectly. Again, for life or death, all the
changes in the sickness of a child are commonly very rapid: so rapid,
that a child which suffers under an acute disease should be seen at
least every five or six hours by its medical attendant. He knows this
quickness of action; he knows how swiftly and how readily the balance
may be turned upon which hang life and death. He may have been to Paris
or to Vienna, and have studied in an hospital for children; and, out
of his experience, he may know how to restore the child whole to the
mother’s bosom. But all English students can not go abroad for this
good knowledge; nor is it fit that they have need to do so. They have
need at[Pg 67] present. In a rough way, English practitioners of medicine no
doubt administer relief to many children; but, that they are compelled
to see those perishing continually whom a better knowledge might have
saved, none are more ready than themselves—the more skillful the more
ready—to admit and to deplore.

The means of studying the diseases of children in London have been
confined to one dispensary, and the general hospitals. In these, the
hours, the management, and discipline are not readily adapted to the
wants of children. It was found, when a committee of the Statistical
Society, in 1843, inquired into such matters, that only one in a
hundred of the inmates of hospital wards was a child suffering from
internal disease. Can we wonder, then—when we call to mind the peculiar
characteristics of disease in a child, and the sagacity and close
observation they demand—can we wonder that the most assiduous students,
growing into medical advisers, can in so many cases, do no more than
sympathize with the distress of parents, look at a sick child’s tongue,
feel its pulse, send powders, and shake their heads with vain regret
over the little corpse, around which women weep so bitterly?

The want of a Child’s Hospital in London is supplied. The Hospital for
Sick Children, lately established and now open, is situated in Great
Ormond-street, Queen-square.

London, like a fine old oak, that has lived through some centuries, has
its dead bits in the midst of foliage. When we had provided ourselves
with the address of the Child’s Hospital, and found it to be No. 49
Great Ormond-street, Queen-square, we were impressed with a sense of
its being very far out of the way. Great Ormond-street belonged to
our great-grandfathers; it was a bit of London full of sap a great
number of years ago. It is cut off, now, from the life of the town—in
London, but not of it—a suburb left between the New Road and High
Holborn. We turned out of the rattle of Holborn into King-street, and
went up Southampton-row through a short passage which led us into a
square, dozing over its own departed greatness. Solitude in a crowd
is acknowledged by the poets to be extremely oppressive, and we felt
so much scared in Queen-square at finding ourselves all alone there,
that we had not enough presence of mind to observe more than space and
houses, and (if our vague impression be correct) a pump. Moreover,
there were spectral streets, down which the eye was drawn. Great
Ormond-street was written on a corner house in one of them. It was the
enchanter’s label by which we were bidden forward; so we went into
Great Ormond-street—wondering who lived in its large houses, some of
them mansions—and looking hazily for No. 49. That was a mansion too
broad, stuccoed front, quite fresh and white, bearing the inscription
on its surface, “Hospital for Sick Children.” A woman with a child in
her arms was finding ready admission at the great hall-door. The neat
and new appearance of the hospital walls from the outside, restored[Pg 68]
our thoughts to our own day; and we presently resolved, and carried,
that the committee had shown great judgment in their selection of a
situation—quiet (very quiet), airy, and central.

At the hall-door there was a porter, so new to his new work that the
name of a surgeon to the institution was a strange sound in his ears.
Crossing a spacious hall, we were ushered into a fine old ancestral
parlor, which is now the board-room of the institution; and there,
before a massive antique chimney-piece, we found a young house-surgeon.

Many stiff bows and formal introductions had those old walls seen, when
Great Ormond-street was grand, and when frills and farthingales lent
state to the great mansion. Many a minuet had been solemnly danced
there; many hearts and fans had fluttered, many buckram flirtations had
had their little hour; many births, marriages, and deaths had passed
away, in due and undue course, out of the great hall-door into the
family vaults—as old-fashioned now as the family mansion. Many little
faces, radiant in the wintry blaze, had looked up in the twilight,
wondering at the great old monument of a chimney-piece, and at the
winking shadows peeping down from its recesses. Many, far too many
pretty house-fairies had vanished from before it, and left blank spaces
on the hearth, to be filled up nevermore.

O! baby’s dead, and will be never, never, never seen among us any more!
We fell into a waking dream, and the Spring air seemed to breathe the
words. The young house-surgeon melted out of the quaint, quiet room; in
his place, a group of little children gathered about a weeping lady;
and the lamentation was familiar to the ancient echoes of the house.
Then, there appeared to us a host of little figures, and cried, “We are
baby. We were baby here, each of us in its generation, and were welcomed
with joy, and hope, and thankfulness; but no love, and no hope, though
they were very strong, could keep us, and we went our early way!”—”And
we,” said another throng of shades, “were that little child who lived
to walk and talk, and to be the favorite, and to influence the whole
of this great house, and make it very pleasant, until the infection
that could not be stopped, was brought here from those poor houses not
far off, and struck us one day while we were at play, and quenched the
light of our bright eyes, and changed our prattle into moaning, and
killed us in our promise!”—”And I,” said another shadow, “am that girl
who, having been a sick child once, grew to be a woman, and to love and
to be blessed with love, and then—oh, at that hardest time! began to
fade, and glided from the arms of my young husband, never to be mine on
earth!”—”And I,” said another shadow, “am the lame mis-shapen boy who
read so much by this fireside, and suffered so much pain so patiently,
and might have been as active and as straight as you, if any one had
understood my malady; but I said to my fond father, carrying me in his
arms to the bed from which I never rose: ‘I think, oh dear papa, that
it is better I should never be a man, for who could then carry me like
this, or who could be so careful of me when you were gone!'” Then all
the shadows said together: “We belonged to this house, but others like
us have belonged to every house, and many such will come here now to be
relieved, and we will put it in the hearts of mothers and fathers to
remember them. Come up, and see!”

We followed, up the spacious stairs into a large and lofty room, airy
and gay. It had been the drawing-room of the old house. A reviving touch
had passed over its decorations; and the richly-ornamented ceiling,
to which little eyes looked up from little beds, was quite a cheerful
sight. The walls were painted, in panel, with rosy nymphs and children;
and the light laughter of children welcomed our entrance. There was
nothing sad here. Light iron cribs, with the beds made in them, were
ranged, instead of chairs, against the walls. There were half-a-dozen
children—all the patients then contained in the new hospital; but,
here and there, a bed was occupied by a sick doll. A large gay ball was
rolling on the floor, and toys abounded. From this cheerful place we
looked into a second room—the other drawing-room, furnished in a like
manner, but as yet unoccupied.

There were five girls and a boy. Five were in bed near the windows; two
of these, whose beds were the most distant from each other, confined
by painful maladies, were resting on their arms, and busily exporting
and importing fun. A third shared the profits merrily, and occasionally
speculated in a venture on its own account. The most delightful music in
this world, the light laughter of children floated freely through the
place. The hospital had begun with one child. What did he think about,
or laugh about? Maybe those shadows who had had their infant home in the
great house, and had known in those same rooms the needs now sought to
be supplied for him, told him stories in his sleep.

One of the little patients followed our movements with its eyes, with a
sad, thoughtful, peaceful look; one indulged in a big stare of childish
curiosity and wonder. They had toys strewn upon their counterpanes.
A sick child is a contradiction of ideas, like a cold summer. But to
quench the summer in a child’s heart is, thank God! not easy. If we
do not make a frost with wintry discipline, if we will use soft looks
and gentle words; though such an hospital be full of sick and ailing
bodies, the light, loving spirits of the children will fill its wards
with pleasant sounds, contrasting happily with the complainings that
abound among our sick adults. Suffer these little ones to come to such
a Christian House, and forbid them not! They will not easily forget it.
Around the gates of the Child’s Hospital at Frankfort, hangs a crowd of
children who have been discharged, lying in wait to pounce with a loving
word upon any of those who tended them when sick. They send little
petitions in to the hospital authorities to be allowed, as a special
favor, to come into the garden again, to play. A child’s heart is soon
touched by gentle people; and a Child’s Hospital in London, through
which there should pass yearly eight hundred children of the poor,
would help to diffuse a kind of health that is not usually got out of
apothecaries’ bottles.

We have spoken only of five children; the sixth was not in bed and not
at rest. He was a literary character, studiously combining into patterns
letters of the alphabet; but he had removed his work so far out of the
little world to which he belonged, that he attracted no attention from
his neighbors. There are larger children in a greater world who do the
like. The solitary child was lonely—not from want of love—its thoughts
were at home wandering about its mother; it had not yet learned to
reconcile itself to temporary separation. We seemed to leave the shadows
of our day-dream in attendance on it, and to take up our young surgeon
again.

Having paid as we were able brief respects to each member of the little
company, and having seen the bath-rooms on this floor, we continued our
progress upward. Of course there were no more stately drawing-rooms, but
all the rooms were spacious, and, by modern care, had been, moreover,
plentifully furnished with the means of ventilation. There were
bath-rooms, of course; there were wards cut off from the rest for fever
cases. Good thought had been evidently directed to a good purpose every
where.

Having seen all these things, we came downstairs again, and passing
trough the surgery—upon whose jars and bottles our eyes detected many
names of compounds palatable to little mouths—we were shown through an
excellent consulting-room, into a wide hall, with another of the massive
chimney-pieces. This hall is entered from a side street, and is intended
for a waiting-room for out-patients. It had always belonged to the
brave house in Great-Ormond-street, and had been used at one time for
assemblies.

What we have said of the few patients admitted at the early period of
our visit, will have shown the spirit in which a Child’s Hospital should
be conducted. Of course, to such an institution a garden and play-ground
for the convalescent is an essential requisite. We inquired, therefore,
for the garden in Great Ormond-street. We were shown out through a large
door under a lattice, and found a terrace in the old style, descending
by steps to a considerable space of ground. The steps were short, suited
to little feet; so also in the house, according to the old style, which
curiously fits itself to the modern purpose. We found that an air of
neatness had been given to that portion of the ground immediately near
the house; but the space generally is very ample, and is at present
a mere wilderness. The funds of the hospital have only sufficed to
authorize the occupation of a building, and the preparation for a great
useful work. For means to plant the roses in the garden, and to plant
the roses in the cheeks of many children[Pg 69] besides those who come under
their immediate care, the Hospital Committee has support to find.

So large a piece of garden-ground waiting for flowers, only a quarter
of a mile from Holborn, was a curious thing to contemplate. When we
looked into the dead house, built for the reception of those children
whom skill and care shall fail to save, and heard of the alarm which its
erection had excited in the breasts of some “particular” old ladies in
the neighborhood, we felt inclined to preach some comfort to them. Be of
good heart, particular old ladies! In every street, square, crescent,
alley, lane, in this great city, you will find dead children too easily.
They lie thick all around you. This little tenement will not hurt you;
there will be the fewer dead-houses for it; and the place to which it
is attached may bring a saving health upon Queen-square, a blessing on
Great Ormond-street!

THE LAST REVEL.

A TALE OF THE COAST-GUARD.

When I was quite a lad, a servant lived with us of the name of Anne
Stacey. She had been in the service of William Cobbett, the political
writer, who resided for some years at Botley, a village a few miles
distant from Itchen. Anne might be about two or three and twenty years
of age when she came to us; and a very notable, industrious servant she
was, and remarked, moreover, as possessing a strong religious bias.
Her features, every body agreed, were comely and intelligent. But
that advantage in the matrimonial market was more than neutralized by
her unfortunate figure, which, owing, as we understood, to a fall in
her childhood, was hopelessly deformed, though still strongly set and
muscular. Albeit a sum of money—about fifty pounds—scraped together by
thrifty self-denial during a dozen years of servitude, amply compensated
in the eyes of several idle and needy young fellows for the unlovely
outline of her person; and Anne, with an infatuation too common with
persons of her class and condition, and in spite of repeated warning,
and the secret misgivings, one would suppose, of her own mind, married
the best-looking, but most worthless and dissipated of them all. This
man, Henry Ransome by name, was, I have been informed, constantly
intoxicated during the first three months of wedlock, and then the
ill-assorted couple disappeared from the neighborhood of Itchen, and
took up their abode in one of the hamlets of the New Forest. Many years
afterward, when I joined the Preventive Service, I frequently heard
mention of his name as that of a man singularly skillful in defrauding
the revenue, as well as in avoiding the penalties which surround that
dangerous vocation. One day, he was pointed out to me when standing
by the Cross-House near the Ferry, in company with a comparatively
youthful desperado, whose real name was John Wyatt, though generally
known among the smuggling fraternity and other personal intimates, by
the sobriquet of Black Jack—on account, I suppose, of his dark,[Pg 70]
heavy-browed, scowling figure-head, one of the most repulsive, I think,
I have ever seen. Anne’s husband, Henry Ransome, seemed, so far as
very brief observation enabled me to judge, quite a different person
from his much younger, as well as much bigger and brawnier associate.
I did not doubt that, before excessive indulgence had wasted his now
pallid features, and sapped the vigor of his thin and shaking frame, he
had been a smart, good-looking chap enough; and there was, it struck
me, spite of his reputation as “a knowing one,” considerably more of
the dupe than the knave, of the fool than the villain, in the dreary,
downcast, skulking expression that flitted over his features as his eye
caught mine intently regarding him. I noticed also that he had a dry,
hard cough, and I set down in my own mind as certain that he would, ere
many months passed away, be consigned, like scores of his fellows, to a
brandy-hastened grave. He indicated my presence—proximity, rather—to
Wyatt, by a nudge on the elbow, whereupon that respectable personage
swung sharply round, and returned my scrutinizing gaze by one of
insolent defiance and bravado, which he contrived to render still more
emphatic by thrusting his tongue into his cheek. This done, he gathered
up a coil of rope from one of the seats of the Cross-House, and said:
“Come, Harry, let’s be off. That gentleman seems to want to take our
pictures—on account that our mugs are such handsome ones, no doubt; and
if it was a mildish afternoon, I shouldn’t mind having mine done; but as
the weather’s rather nippy like, we’d better be toddling, I think.” They
then swaggered off, and crossed the Ferry.

Two or three weeks afterward, I again met with them, under the following
circumstances: I landed from the Rose at Lymington, for the purpose of
going by coach to Lyndhurst, a considerable village in the New Forest,
from which an ex-chancellor derives his title. I had appointed to meet a
confidential agent there at the Fox and Hounds Inn, a third-rate tavern,
situate at the foot of the hill upon which the place is built; and as
the evening promised to be clear and fine, though cold, I anticipated
a bracing, cross-country walk afterward in the direction of Hythe,
in the neighborhood whereof dwelt a person—neither a seaman nor a
smuggler—whose favor I was just then very diligently cultivating. It
was the month of November; and on being set down at the door of the
inn somewhere about six o’clock in the evening, I quietly entered and
took a seat in the smoking-room unrecognized, as I thought, by any
one—for I was not in uniform. My man had not arrived; and after waiting
a few minutes, I stepped out to inquire at the bar if such a person
had been there. To my great surprise, a young woman—girl would be a
better word, for she could not be more than seventeen, or at the utmost
eighteen years old—whom I had noticed on the outside of the coach,
was just asking if one Dr. Lee was expected. This was precisely the
individual who was to meet me, and I looked with some curiosity at the
inquirer. She was a coarsely, but neatly attired person, of a pretty
figure, interesting, but dejected cast of features, and with large,
dark, sorrowing eyes. Thoughtfulness and care were not less marked in
the humble, subdued tone in which she spoke. “Could I sit down any
where till he comes?” she timidly asked, after hearing the bar-woman’s
reply. The servant civilly invited her to take a seat by the bar-fire,
and I returned, without saying any thing, to the smoking-room, rang the
bell, and ordered a glass of brandy and water, and some biscuits. I
had been seated a very short time only, when the quick, consequential
step, and sharp, cracked voice of Dr. Lee sounded along the passage, and
after a momentary pause at the bar, his round, smirking, good-humored,
knavish face looked in at the parlor-door, where, seeing me alone, he
winked with uncommon expression, and said aloud: “A prime fire in the
smoking-room, I see; I shall treat myself to a whiff there presently.”
This said, the shining face vanished, in order, I doubted not, that
its owner might confer with the young girl who had been inquiring for
him. This Lee, I must observe, had no legal right to the prefix of
doctor tacked to his name. He was merely a peripatetic quacksalver
and vender of infallible medicines, who, having wielded the pestle in
an apothecary’s shop for some years during his youth, had acquired a
little skill in the use of drugs, and could open a vein or draw a tooth
with considerable dexterity. He had a large, but not, I think, very
remunerative practice among the poaching, deer-stealing, smuggling
community of those parts, to whom it was of vital importance that the
hurts received in their desperate pursuits should be tended by some one
not inclined to babble of the number, circumstances, or whereabouts
of his patients. This essential condition Lee, hypocrite and knave as
he was, strictly fulfilled; and no inducement could, I think, have
prevailed upon him to betray the hiding-place of a wounded or suffering
client. In other respects, he permitted himself a more profitable
freedom of action, thereto compelled, he was wont apologetically to
remark, by the wretchedly poor remuneration obtained by his medical
practice. If, however, specie was scarce among his clients, spirits, as
his rubicund, carbuncled face flamingly testified, were very plentiful.
There was a receipt in full painted there for a prodigious amount of
drugs and chemicals, so that, on the whole, he could have had no great
reason to complain.

He soon reappeared, and took a chair by the fire, which, after civilly
saluting me, he stirred almost fiercely, eying as he did so the blazing
coals with a half-abstracted and sullen, cowed, disquieted look
altogether unusual with him. At least, wherever I had before seen him,
he had been as loquacious and boastful as a Gascon.