A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.
———
BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
———
[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, byGeorge Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of Massachusetts.]
[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, byGeorge Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the District of Massachusetts.]
(Continued from page 147.)
Memoryis certainly a very strange gift, or quality of the mind—or whatever else it may be rightly termed; for I am no philosopher, and but little acquainted with the technology of metaphysics. It seems often a capricious faculty, selecting its own objects, and amusing itself with them to the rejection of others. But I am not quite sure that this imputation upon memory is justified. I must admit that with myself, as I suppose is the case with others, when I try to recall the past, the lady often proves restive with me, and without any apparent cause, recalls all the particulars of certain scenes, and omits other passages of life close by them. Nor is this to be attributed always to the particular interest of the scenes she recalls; for some of them are quite unimportant, light, and even ludicrous, while things affecting one’s whole destiny, if not utterly forgotten, are brought back but indistinctly. I suspect, however, that the fact is, memory is like a sentinel who will not let any one enter the treasury she guards without the countersign, even though it be the master of the treasure himself.
The objects and events that we remember best are, in fact, those for which we have learned the countersign by heart, and the moment that any accidental circumstance furnishes us with the pass-word, apparently forgotten, the door is thrown open, and we behold them again, somewhat dusty perhaps, but plain and distinct. Acts never die. They at least are immortal; and I do not think they ever die to memory either. They sleep within, and it only requires to have the key to waken them. The time will come when all shall be awakened: when every door of the heart shall be thrown open, and when the spirits of man’s deeds and thoughts will stand revealed to his own eyes at least—perhaps to be his bright companions in everlasting joy—perhaps his tormentors in the hell which he has dug for himself.
Often, often, as I look back in life, I see a cloud hanging over a particular spot in the prospect, which for days, sometimes for years, will hide all beyond. Then suddenly the lightest trifle—a casual word—a peculiar odor—the carol of a bird—the notes of some old melody, will, as with a charm, dispel that cloud—sometimes dissolving it in rain-drops—sometimes absorbing it in sunshine—and all that it concealed will burst upon the sight in horror or in loveliness. Even while I have been writing these few pages many things have thus been brought back to remembrance by the connection of one event with another, which seemed to have altogether passed away from memory when first I sat down to write. Now what is the next thing I remember; for the rest of our journey, after we left Juliers, has passed away from me?
I find myself on looking back, in a small, neat house, with a garden, and a little fountain in the garden, upon a sandy soil, and with a forest of long needle-leaved fir-trees stretching out to the westward. To the east there is a city of no very great extent, but still a capital, with a range of high hills running in a wavy line behind, and here and there an old ruined castle upon the lower points.
Before the city lies a wide plain, rich and smiling, full of corn-fields and vineyards, with here and there a curious-looking spire or a couple of dome-topped towers marking the place of a village or small town, and beyond the plain, glistening in a long, long wavy line of silver, glides a broad river—the mighty Rhine.
Oh! what sweet sunny lapses come cheering and softening the rapid course of life’s troubled stream. There are several of those green spots of memory, as the poet calls it—these oases in the midst of the desert, even within my own remembrance. But on few, if any of them can my heart rest with as much pleasure as on the months we passed in that little cottage. There were no events—there was no excitement—for me and Mariette, at least. I remember wandering with her about that sunny garden, playing with her in the cool, airy pleasure-house which stood in one corner, helping her to gather flowers to deck her mother’s table, wandering with her through the forest beneath the green shade, with the dry, brown filaments of the fir crackling under our young feet. Here and there we would come to a place where oaks and beeches mingled with the pine and a thick growth of underwood narrowed our path; but as compensation, we were there sure to find a rich treasure of wild-flowers, more beautiful in our eyes than all the garden bestowed. Very often, too, in the clear May evenings we would sit under the little shabby porch of the house—Mariette upon my knee, with her arms clasped round my neck—and as the sky grew gray, and the stars began to peer and glimmer up above, would listen to the notes of the nightingale as he prolonged his song after all the forest choir had fallen into silence; and when some of those peculiar notes were coming which we love the best to hear, and Mariette knew that the delicious cadence was nigh at hand, she would raise her beautiful liquid eyes to my face, and whisper “hark” and gaze at me still as if to share my enjoyment, and to make me share hers.
Oh! how that child twined herself round my boy’s heart. Dear, dear, dear Mariette. In all that I have seen in life, and strange and varied has that life been, I have never seen any thing that I loved as much as you. The first freshness of my thoughts—the first—the tenderest—the purest of my affections, were all yours!
But I took other tasks in hand. Good Father Bonneville resumed his lessons to me; but they were not very burdensome, and I began to teach Mariette. How this came about I must explain. Madame de Salins, who had borne up so well in times of danger and active exertion, became languid, inactive, sorrowful in the time of repose. She was evidently exceedingly anxious about something—often in tears—and often returned from the neighboring city where she went almost every day to seek for letters, with a look of gloom and disappointment. She began to teach Mariette something herself, however; for from various circumstances the dear child’s instruction had been neglected. It was always a task to her, however, and her mind seemed wandering away to other things, till at length good Father Bonneville suggested that I would teach Mariette, and Mariette was delighted, and I rejoiced; and Madame de Salins, too, was very well satisfied at heart, I believe. Every thing was speedily arranged, but Mariette and I set to work formally and in good order. The books, and the slate, and the pen and ink were produced at a fixed hour, and if it were fine weather, we sat in the little shabby porch—if it were raining, in the little room that looked upon it. Dear, stupid little thing! What a world of trouble she gave me. She did not half know her letters when I began to teach her, and was continually mistaking the P’s and B’s, and Q’s and D’s. R and S, too, were sad stumbling-blocks, and the putting letters together into syllables, together with pricking the page with a pin occupied a long time. Then she was so volatile too. When I was pouring forth my young philosophy upon her, and laboring hard to teach her the sounds produced by different combinations of letters, she would start up and dart out into the garden in chase of a butterfly, or tempted by a flower. Then, when she came back and was scolded, how she would coax and wheedle her soft young tutor, and kiss his cheek and pat his hair, and one way or another contrive to get the words “good Mariette” written at the end of every lesson to show her mother. I have got the book still, all full of pin holes, and strange figures scribbled on it with a pen; but not one lesson in it has not “good Mariette” written at the end, though Heaven knows she was often naughty enough to merit another comment. But I was a true lover even then, and perhaps loved the dear child’s faults.
Moreover, at the end of that book of little reading lessons there is a page which I have kissed a thousand times since. It represents—and not very badly—Mariette as she appeared then with a little spaniel dog looking up in her face. Oh! how well I recollect when it was drawn. I could always handle my pencil well, though I don’t know when I learnt to draw; but as we were coming near the end of the book, I promised Mariette if she would be a very good girl indeed, and get through the remaining lessons in a week, that I would draw her picture at the end with an imaginary dog which she was always to have at some indefinite period in the future; for she was exceedingly fond of dogs, and I believe the highest ambition of her heart at that moment was to have a spaniel of her own. Before Saturday night fell, the lessons were all done, and I was immediately reminded of my promise. We sat in the porch, with the western sky just growing purple, and I made her get up and stand at a little distance, and sketched her lightly with a pen and ink, and then at her feet, I drew from memory the best dog I could manufacture, with its ears falling back, and its face turned up toward her. How delighted she was when she saw it, and how she clapped her little hands! It was all charming, but the spaniel above all, and I doubt not she was convinced that she should soon have a dog exactly like that. She ran with it, first to Father Bonneville, who was in the next room, and then to her mother, who was very sad that evening; but she kissed her child, and looked at the drawing, and dropped some tears upon it—the traces are there still.
Then Mariette came back to me, and thanked and embraced me, and declared that I was the dearest, best boy that ever lived, and that when she was old enough, she would draw me at the end of one of my books, with a great big dog as big as a horse.
This is all very trifling perhaps, and not much worthy of record, but in those trifling times, and those trifling things lie the brightest and the sweetest memories of my life. It was all so pure, so artless, so innocent. We were there in that little garden, as in a Paradise, and the atmosphere of all our thoughts was the air of Eden.
Such things never last very long. I reached my thirteenth birth-day there, and it was kept with kindly cheerfulness by Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins. Mariette I remember wove me a wreath of flowers, and put it on my head after dinner; but that was her last happy day for a long while. The next day Madame de Salins walked to the city as usual, and Father Bonneville went with her. They were long in returning; but when they did come back there was a sparkling light in the eyes of Madame de Salins which I little fancied augured so much wo to me.
“Come, Louis, come,” said Father Bonneville. “Madame de Salins has heard good news at length. She must set out this very evening for England. The carriage and horses will be here in an hour, and we must all help her to get ready.”
“And Mariette?” I asked, with an indescribable feeling of alarm. “Does she stay here?”
“No, my son, no,” replied Father Bonneville, almost impatiently. “She goes with her mother of course.”
Grown people forget the feelings of childhood, especially old people, and appreciate too little either the pangs or joys of youth. Blessed is the man who bestows a happy childhood upon any one. We cannot shelter mature life from its pangs and sorrows, but we can insure, if we like, that the brightest portion of the allotted space—the portion where the heart is pure, and the thoughts unsullied—shall be exempt in those we love from the pangs, and cares, and sorrows which, so insignificant in our eyes, are full of bitter significance to a child.
Father Bonneville did not know how terribly his intelligence depressed my heart. He rejoiced in Madame de Salins’ brightening prospects, although they deprived him of society that cheered and comforted. I was more selfish; I thought only that I was again to lose Mariette, and I grieved from my very heart. I would not disgrace the first manhood of my teens by bursting into tears, though the inclination to do so was very strong, and I assisted in the preparations as much as I could. But oh how I wished that some accident might happen to the horses before they reached our door, or that the carriage might break down—that any thing might happen which would give me one—but one day more. It was not to be, however: the ugly brutes, and the little less ugly driver, appeared not more than half an hour behind their time, the baggage was put up, and Madame de Salins proceeded to the door of the house. She embraced Father Bonneville tenderly, and then me, and taking a little gold chain which she had in her hand, and spreading it out with her fingers, she placed it round my neck, and I saw a small ring hanging to it, which I found afterward contained her own hair and Mariette’s.
“Keep it, Louis, keep it always,” she said. “I do not know when we shall meet again; but I pray God to bless you, dear boy, and repay you for all you have done for me and mine.”
It was at that moment that the idea of a long separation seemed to strike Mariette for the first time. She burst into the most terrible fit of tears I ever saw, and when I took her in my arms she clung round my neck so tight that it was hardly possible to remove her. Madame de Salins wept too, but went slowly into the carriage, and Father Bonneville unclasping the dear child’s arms carried her away to her mother’s knee. I could bear no more, and running away to my own little room, gave way to all I felt; only lifting up my head to take one more look, when I heard the harsh grating of the carriage-wheels as they rolled away.
——
I have often thought that it must be a curious, and by no means unimportant, or useless process, which the Roman Catholic is frequently called upon to go through, when preparing his mind for confession.
The above sentence may startle any one who reads these pages, and he may exclaim—
“The Roman Catholic!” Is not the writer—born in a Roman Catholic country, educated by a Roman Catholic priest, and with the force of his beautiful example to support all his precepts—is he not himself a Roman Catholic, or does he mean to say that he has never himself been to confession?
Never mind. That shall all be explained hereafter.
The process I allude to is that of making, as it were, a summary of all the acts and events, which have occurred within a certain period of the past, trying them by the test of reason and of conscience, and endeavoring to clear away all the mists of passion, prejudice, and error which crowd round man and obscure his sight in the moment of exertion or pursuit. Such is not exactly the task I propose to myself just now. All I propose to myself is to give a very brief and sketch-like view of the facts which occupied the next two or three years of my life. It will be faint enough. Rather a collection of reminiscences than of any thing else—often detached from each other, and never, I fear, very sharply defined. The truth is, events at that period were so hurried that they seemed to jostle each other in the memory, and often when I wish to render my own thoughts clear upon the particular events of the period, I am obliged to have recourse to the written or printed records of the events, where they lie chronicled in the regular order of occurrence.
I know that after Mariette’s departure, I was very sad and very melancholy for several weeks. Father Bonneville with all his kindness and tenderness, and with much greater consideration for the faults and weaknesses of others than for his own, did not seem to comprehend my sensations at all at first, and could not imagine—till he had turned it in his own mind a great many times, and painted a picture of it, as it were in imagination, that the society of a little girl of six years old could have become so nearly a necessity to a boy of thirteen. He became convinced, however, in the end that I was, what he called “pining after Mariette.” He strove then to amuse me in various ways—occupied my mind with fresh studies—procured for me many English books, and directed my attention to the study of German, which he himself spoke well, and which I mastered with the ready facility of youth. We all know how children imbibe a language, rather than learn it, and I had not at that time lost the blessed faculty of acquisition.
All this had its effect, while I was busying my mind with other things—for I pursued every object with earnestness, nay with eagerness—I thought little of my loneliness, but often when my lessons were done, and I was tired of reading, and indisposed to walk, I would sit in our little garden, and looking round upon the various objects about me, would recall the pretty figure of my dear little lost Mariette dancing in and out amongst the trees and shrubs, and almost fancy I heard her sweet voice, and the prattle which used so to delight me, strangely mingled as it was, of the innocent frankness of her nature, and a certain portion of shy reserve, which had been forced into her mind by the various painful scenes she had gone through.
One evening as I was thus seated and looking out upon the road, which ran between our small house and the forest, I saw an old woman coming down from the high road which led to the town with a slow and weary pace. I should not have taken much notice of her, perhaps, had not her dress been very different from that of the peasantry in the neighborhood. It was a dress which awakened old recollections—that of the Canton in which I had been brought up, if not born. There was the white cap, with the long ears flapping down almost to the shoulders, and the top running up and curling over into a sort of helmet shape—Heaven only knows how it was constructed; but it was a very complicated piece of architecture. Then again there was the neat little jacket of dull colored gingham, and beneath it the short petticoat of bright red cloth, with the blue stockings, and the red embroidered clocks, and the high-heeled shoes with the silver buckles in them. She carried a good sized bundle in her hand, and held her head upright, though she was evidently tired. But as she came nearer, I saw a round, dry, apple-like face, with two sparkling black eyes and a nose of extensive proportions. I was upon my feet in one moment, and the next, good old Jeanette was in my arms.
I need not say how rejoiced I was to see her, or how rejoiced was also Father Bonneville, nor need I tell all her simple history since we had left her in France; nor how we wondered at her achieving so long a journey in perfect safety. Her account, however, showed how simple the whole process had been, though I do not mean to say that Jeanette put her statement altogether in the most simple terms. She was not without her own little share of vanity, innocent and primeval as it was. She did not, indeed, strive to enhance the value of her services and affection toward us, but she seemed to consider that she was magnified in abstract importance by dangers undergone and privations suffered. She told us how far she had walked on foot, where she had got a Diligence, where somebody had given her a ride in a cart, where she had got no supper, where she had got a good one, where she had been cheated of fifteen sous at least, and where the landlord and landlady were good honest people, and had treated her well for a reasonable remuneration. Her great difficulties had begun in Germany; the language of which land she understood not at all, but by dint of patient perseverance, and asking questions in French of every person she met—whether they understood that language or not—she had made her way at length to the spot which good Father Bonneville’s last letter had indicated as his place of residence, not having gone, by the nicest calculation, more than eight hundred and seventy-four miles out of her way. She looked upon it as a feat of great importance, and was reasonably proud of it; but she thought fit to assign her motives for coming at all—although those motives were not altogether very coherent, nor did the premises invariably agree with the deductions. Indeed, Father Bonneville was a little shocked at some of the proceedings of his good housekeeper; for he had a great objection to using dirty arms against those who even used dirty arms against him. It seemed that after Jeanette had notified his absence to the municipality, his books, papers, and furniture had been seized for the rapacious maw of the public good. An auction had been held on the premises, and every thing had been sold; but Jeanette boldly produced a claim upon the effects of the absconding priest for a great arrear of wages, which she roundly asserted had never been paid. She brought forward the agreement between Father Bonneville and herself, in which the amount to be paid monthly was clearly stated, and as the commune could show no receipts it was obliged to pass the good housekeeper’s account, and pay her the money out of the funds raised by the sale. Some laughed, indeed, and said that the good woman had learnt the first grand art of taking care of herself, while others defended her on the ground that it was rather laudable than otherwise to pillage an aristocrat. They cited even the cases of Moses and Pharaoh, where the plunder of the Egyptians was not only lauded, but commanded. An old touch of religious fanaticism reigned in that part of the country, and men, even the most atheistical in profession and in action, which is still more, could quote Scripture for their purpose when it served their purpose.
We are told that the devil does the same—and I think it very likely.
The sum thus received from Jeanette—swelled by every item she could think of, was by no means inconsiderable; but she had not cheated a fraudulent and oppressive civic government for her own peculiar benefit. The sum which had been left her by Father Bonneville, and the wages which had been paid her, sufficed to maintain her for several months in Angoumois—in her frugal mode of living—and to carry her across the whole of France, leaving her with some dozen or two of livres at the time she reached us in Germany. The money which she had obtained from the commune, all carefully deposited in a canvas bag, she produced and placed in the hands of Father Bonneville, who, to say sooth, did not well know what to do in the peculiar circumstances of the case. Jeanette justified her acts and deeds toward the commune upon the same principle on which some members of the commune had justified her supposed acts toward Father Bonneville. She did not know much about spoiling the Egyptians indeed; but her mind was not sufficiently refined to see the harm of cheating cheats, or spoiling plunderers of part of their plunder.
I believe the good Father talked to her seriously on the subject when I was not present; but what became of the money I do not know. All I can tell, is, that the good Father never seemed to be actually in want of money, and that all those romantic distresses which hinge upon the absence of a crown-piece, were spared us even in our exile.
Time passed. Jeanette was fully established in her old post in the household, with the addition of another German maid-servant. The one whom she found with us was strongly imbued with despotic ideas; and was, for good reasons, unwilling to submit either to the orders of a foreign superior in her peculiar department, or to the inspection of accounts and prices which she soon found was to be established. Another German girl, consequently, was sought for and found, who being younger in age, unhardened by experience, and of a diffident nature, willingly undertook to receive a dollar and a half a month, and do the harder work of the house under the orders of Jeanette, of which she did not understand one word.
Our peaceful state of existence, however, was not destined to be of very long duration. The successes of the allies, then combating the republicans of France, both on the northern and eastern frontier, insured us, for some time, tranquillity and safety. We heard of the defeat of the French army at Neerwinden, and the fall of Valenciennes andCondé, mixed with vague rumors of the defection ofDumouriez, and the flight of some of the most celebrated generals in the French army. These latter events gave great joy and satisfaction to Father Bonneville; for his hopeful mind looked forward to the re-establishment of law and order in his native country, and to the utter abasement of the anarchical party in France before the skill ofDumouriez, and the bayonets of the Austrians joined with those of all the well disposed and moderate of the land itself.
Many others shared in the same delusions; but the manifestoes of the Austrians, soon checked all enthusiasm, even on the part of the emigrants. No pretence was made of coming to support the loyal and orderly in the re-establishment of a monarchy, and a war of aggression and dismemberment was gladly commenced against France from the moment thatDumouriez’s more generous—and I must say, more prudent schemes, were rendered abortive by circumstances.
Doubtless, this first raised some indignation in the bosom of Father Bonneville, who was of too true and really loyal a nature to see unmoved, his native land partitioned by the sword, upon any pretence or coloring whatever. I do not know why, but these matters did not appear to me in the same light. I thought the people of France had committed a great crime, and deserved to be punished, as if they were but one simple, individual man. I thought that all who were genuine loyalists or supporters of an orderly and constitutional system were guilty of a crime little less great than that of the anarchists, in their dastardly holding back when great questions involving the whole fate of France, hung upon the simple exertion of a well ordered body of the bourgeoisie; and I saw not why they should not be punished for their culpable negligence which was more disastrous in effect than all the virulence of the terrorists—I saw not why those who committed tremendous crimes under the name of justice should not be brought under the sword of justice, and I looked forward, I confess, to a period of retribution with no little joy and satisfaction. It mattered not to me, in my ignorance of great affairs whether this was effected by the Austrians, the Prussians, or any other nation on the face of the earth, but France deserved punishment, and I hoped she might be punished.
The expectations of retribution were destined to be long unfulfilled. The manifestoes of the Allies acted with singular power and significance, producing combinations not at all expected. The royalists, the constitutionalists, who still remained in France, prepared to resist operations, the avowed object of which was the dismemberment of France itself, and not the restoration of a purified monarchy. They were willing to support even their mortal enemies within the land, in resisting the newly declared enemies of the whole land, who were advancing along two frontiers. The republicans were roused to the most powerful and successful exertions in order to repel a slow and cautious, but victorious enemy from their frontiers, and even the émigrés, who were scattered all along the banks of the Rhine, protested loudly against a scheme, which not only menaced the integrity of France as it then existed, but threatened to deprive the monarchy of some of its fairest provinces, if the legitimate line of their sovereigns should ever be restored.
No contrivance could have been devised so well calculated to reunite the greatest possible number of Frenchmen in opposition to a counter-revolution, and to render all others indifferent to the progress of the allied arms, as the proclamation of the Prince of Coburg. Some few, indeed, thought with me, but mine were doubtless boyish thoughts: for I have ever remarked that it is experience, and the hard lessons of the world, which bring moderation.
Father Bonneville seldom talked upon these subjects with me; for he had rightly no great opinion of my judgment in matters of which I could have had but a very vague knowledge, and he little knew how often and how deeply I thought upon such questions.
The siege and capture of Mayence, however: the inactivity of Custine, and the retreat of the whole of the French armies within the frontier line, seemed to insure to us perfect security, for a long time to come, in our calm and pleasant retreat upon the banks of the Rhine: when suddenly burst forth that wild and vengeful spirit of reaction which armed all France, almost as one man, against attacks from without, and soon retrieved all she had lost under a weak government and inexperienced commander.
Toward the end of the year, our situation became somewhat perilous. After a long period of successes, the fruits of which were all lost by indecision or procrastination, the allied armies found themselves the assailed rather than the assailers, the conquered rather than the conquerors; and the fierce spirit of the Frank, the most war-loving, if not the most warlike, of all the nations of the earth was soon ready to carry the flaming sword into all the neighboring lands.
I have given this little sketch merely to connect the events together, without at all wishing to imply that I knew or comprehended all the facts at the time, or recollect them now, except with the aid of books. My own memories are very slight and merely personal. I remember lingering on for some months in that small house by the Rhine. I recollect the warm, bright summer sinking down into heavy autumn, and the year withering in the old age of winter. I recollect numerous reports and rumors, and gossip’s tales, and—falser than all—newspaper narratives, and printed dispatches, reaching us in our solitude, some of them exciting my wonder, and some of them my alarm, and then I recollect various passages of no great importance in a somewhat long journey, till I find myself in a quaint old town upon the border of Switzerland, near which the Rhine breaks over high rocks and forms the cascade of Schaffhausen.
This place is only notable in my memory for the beauty of the water-fall, which I have since seen surpassed in grandeur, but not in picturesque effect, and by one little incident which there brightened many an hour. One day, when we were there, a letter was delivered to Father Bonneville, in my presence, which he found to contain a small note addressed to me. It was the first letter I had ever received in my life, although I was now between fourteen and fifteen years of age, and the sensations which I experienced when it was placed in my hands, and I saw my own name on the back, were very strange. Imagination went whirling here and there, seeking to divine whence it could come. The mystery of my own strange, isolated existence—which was frequently present to my thoughts, was the first thing that fancy snatched at; but I did not remain long in uncertainty. The seal was soon broken, and I found a few lines in a round, childlike hand, very well written, and very well expressed, with the name of “Mariette de Salins” at the bottom.
She told me that she wrote to show me, her dear instructor, how much progress she had made in her studies; and to tell me that although she had now a great number of companions, she loved me as well as ever, and better than them all. She bade me not forget her though she did not doubt that I had grown a great, tall man, and she was still but a little girl.
I cannot express how much pleasure this gave me; for I had been oppressed by the thought that in new scenes and new circumstances, all memory of her young companion would soon be obliterated in the mind of my little Mariette. That such had not yet been the case was in itself a pleasure; but I calculated sagaciously that the very fact of having to write to me, and to recall our youthful intercourse would renew all her recollections of the time we had passed together, and give memory, as it were, a new point to start from.
Our stay in Schaffhausen only continued a few months; for the progress of events in France, and the revolutionary spirit which began to effect other countries, left it hardly possible for emigrants to find any secure spot in Europe, except indeed in England, and thither Father Bonneville did not seem inclined to go. At Schaffhausen, however, I pursued my studies very eagerly, and had the opportunity of acquiring some knowledge of those manly exercises which I had never yet had any opportunity of practicing. There was a very good riding-school in the town, to which Father Bonneville sent me every day; and a French exile, celebrated for his knowledge of the sword exercise, had set up a fencing school, in which I soon became a favorite pupil. I was now a tall, powerful lad, and what between the continual exercise of the riding-school, and the Salle d’Armes, all the powers of a frame, naturally robust, were speedily developed. Previous to this time, I had stooped a little from the habit of bending over books and drawings; but my chest now became expanded, my step firm, and I acquired a sort of military air, of which, I need hardly say, I was very proud.
Thus passed four months and a few days; but rumors of the intention of the French to march an army up the Rhine, induced Father Bonneville to move our quarters, and about a fortnight before my fifteenth birth-day, we traveled up to Constance, and then across what they call theBoden See—or lake of Constance, to the Vorarlberg.
——
We passed some time in Switzerland, wandering from place to place, and never remaining for above a few months in any. Though not very rich, we were never in want of money; but it seemed to me that Father Bonneville protracted his stay occasionally in different towns, waiting the arrival of letters, and I concluded—having now acquired some knowledge of the general affairs of life—that these letters contained remittances. Whence they came, or by whom they were sent, I did not know; for Father Bonneville transacted all his money affairs himself, but at the age of sixteen he began to make me a regular allowance, too much for what is usually called pocket-money, and enough to have maintained me in a humble mode of life, even if he had not paid the whole expenses of housekeeping. With this money, at first, I committed, as I suppose all boys do, a great number of follies and extravagancies. I bought myself a Swiss rifle, and became a practiced shot, not only in the target-grounds, but upon the mountains, and Father Bonneville, seeming now to judge that the education of my mind was nearly completed, encouraged me to pursue that education of the body in which the good old man was unable himself to be my instructor. The Swiss hunters, however, were good enough teachers, and I acquired powers of endurance very serviceable to me in after life. About this period, however, although I was full of active energy, and fond of every robust exercise, a new and softening spirit seemed to come into my heart. Vague dreams of love took possession of me, and pretty faces and bright eyes produced strange sensations in my young bosom. I became somewhat sentimental, bought Rosseau’snouvelle Heloise, and poured over its burning, enthusiastic pages with infinite delight. The beautiful scenery, which before had only attracted my attention by the effect of the forms and coloring upon the eye of one naturally fond of the arts, now seemed invested with new splendor, and the very air of the mountains fell with a sort of dreamy light, streaming from my own imaginations. I peopled the glens and dells with fair forms. I walked over the mountain-tops with beautiful creations of fancy. My daily thoughts became a sort of romance, and many a strange scene was enacted before the eyes of imagination in which I myself always took some part, as the lover, the deliverer, or the hero.
Was my little Mariette forgotten all this time? Oh no! Although I could not give her features or her look to the pretty girls of the Canton with whom from time to time I dallied, yet I pleased myself by fancying that there was some trait of Mariette in each of them, and I do not recollect fancy ever having presented me with a heroine for my dreams in whose fair face the beautiful, liquid eyes of Mariette did not shine out upon me with looks of love.
I do not believe that amongst all the many books which have been written to corrupt the heart of man—and they are ten times in number, I fear, those which have been written to improve it—there is one to be found so dangerous to youth as the works of Rousseau. The vivid richness of his imagination, the strong enthusiasms of the man, and the indefinite insinuation of pernicious doctrines can be only safely encountered by reason in its full vigor, aided by experience. I happily escaped the contamination, but it was by no powers of my own. Father Bonneville found Rousseau lying on my table, and when I returned from one of my long rambles he sat down to discuss with me both the character of the man, and the tendency of his writings. He showed no heat, no vehement disapprobation of the subject of my study; but he calmly and quietly, and with a clearness and force of mind I have seldom seen equaled, examined the doctrines, dissected the arguments, tore away the glittering veils with which vice, and selfishness, and vanity are concealed, and left with too strong a feeling of disgust for the unprincipled author, for my admiration of his style and powers of imagination ever to seduce me again. I felt ashamed of what I had done, and when the good Father closed the book which he had been commenting upon, I rose, exclaiming, “I will never read any more of his works again.”
“Not so, Louis,” replied the good Father. “Do not read his works at present. Pause till you are thirty. Your reason may be active, and I believe it is; but the mind, like the body, only acquires its full vigor after a long period of regular exercise and training. You will soon have to mingle largely with the world, to share in its struggles, to taste its sorrows, and to encounter its disappointments. You will see much of man and his actions. Mark them well. Trace them back to their causes. Follow them out to their consequences. It is a study never begun too soon, and about five or six-and-twenty, men who wish to found virtue upon reason, apply the lessons they have thus learned to their own hearts. If you do this, wisely and systematically, neither the works of Rousseau, nor of any other man will do you any harm. But here is another thing I wish to say to you, Louis. The income that is allowed you is intended to give you some means of practically learning to regulate your expenditure—to teach you, in fact, the value of money. This is a branch of study as well as every thing else, and each young man has to master it. At first, when he possesses money, his natural desire is to spend it upon something that he fancies will give him pleasure; it matters not what; and when he has wasted numerous small sums upon trifles which afford him no real satisfaction, he finds that there is some object far more desirable, which he has not left himself the means of obtaining. Then comes regret, and it is very salutary; for when the experiment has been frequently repeated, reason arrives at a conclusion, applicable, not only to the mere expenditure of money, but to the use of all man’s possessions, including the faculties both of mind and body. The conclusion I mean, is, that small enjoyments often kill great ones.”
That evening’s conversation I shall never forget. It afforded me much matter for thought at the time, and I have recurred to it frequently since.
Another little picture stands forth about this time, clear and distinct upon the canvas of memory, and I strongly suspect that the fact I am about to mention had a great influence on my after life.
We were then at Zurich, and I had been out on one summer evening for a long ramble through the hills. When I re-entered the town, it was dark, and going into the house of which we rented a part, I found a stranger sitting with Father Bonneville. He was a very remarkable man, and you could not even look at him for a moment without being struck by his appearance. His dress was exceedingly plain, consisting of a large, black, horseman’s coat, with a small cape to it, and a pair of high riding-boots; and round his neck he had a white cravat of very many folds, tied in a large bow in front. He was tall and well-proportioned, and of the middle age; but his head was the finest I think I ever beheld, and his face a perfect model of manly beauty. I shall never forget his eye—that eye so soon after to be closed in death. There was a calm intensity in it—a bright, searching, peculiar lustre which seemed to shed a light upon whatever it turned to; and when, as I entered the room, it fixed tranquilly on me, and seemed to read my face as if it were a book, the color mounted into my cheek I know not why. He remained for nearly an hour after my arrival, conversing with my good old friend and myself in a strain of sweet but powerful eloquence, such as I have never heard equaled. During a part of the time the subject was religion, and his opinions, though very strong and decided, were expressed with gentleness and forbearance; for he and Father Bonneville differed very considerably. The stranger, indeed, seemed to have the best of the argument, and I think Father Bonneville felt it too; for he became as warm as his gentle nature would permit. In the end, however, the stranger rose, and laid his hand kindly in that of the good priest. “Read, my good friend,” he said. “Read. Such a mind as yours should not shut out one ray of light which God himself has given to guide us on our way. We both appeal to the same book as the foundation of our faith, and no man can study it too much. From the benefit I myself have received from every word that it contains, I should feel, even were there not a thousand other motives for such a conclusion, that there is something wrong in that system of religion which can shut the great store-house of light and truth against the people for whose benefit it was provided.”
The moment he was gone I exclaimed eagerly, “Who is that?”
“One of the best and greatest men in the world,” replied Father Bonneville, “That is Lavater.”
I would fain have asked more questions, but good Father Bonneville was evidently not in a mood for further conversation that night. The visit of Lavater had pleased him—had interested him; but things had been said while it lasted which had afforded him matter for deep thought—nay, I am not sure but I might say, painful thought. I could tell quite well by his aspect when there was any vehement struggle going on in the good man’s mind, and from all I saw I thought that such was the case now.
A few days after, he went to call upon Lavater, who was living in the same town, but he did not take me with him. Lavater came again and again to see him, and they had long conversations together, at some of which I was present, at others not; and still there seemed to be a struggle in Father Bonneville’s mind. He was very grave and silent, though as kind and as gentle as ever—fell often into deep reveries, and sometimes did not hear when I spoke to him. At length, one day, when I returned somewhat earlier than usual from my afternoon rambles, I found him bent over a table reading attentively, and coming in front of him, I perceived not only that the tears were in his eyes, but that some of them had dropped upon the page. He did not at all attempt to conceal his emotion, but wiped his eyes and spectacles deliberately, and then laying his hand flat upon the page, he looked into my face, saying, “Louis, you must read this book; let men say what they will, it was written for man’s instruction—for his happiness—for his salvation. It contains all that is necessary for him; and beyond this, there is nothing.”
I looked over his shoulder and found that it was the Bible. “I thought I had read it long ago,” added Father Bonneville, “but I now find that I have never read it half enough.”
“I will read it very willingly, Father,” I replied, “but Father Mezieres to whom you sent me preparatory to my first communion, told me, that if not an actual sin, it was great presumption in a layman to read any part of it but the New Testament.”
“Mind not that, my son,” replied Father Bonneville. “It is hard to struggle with old prejudices; to root out from our minds ideas planted in our youth, which have grown with our growth and strengthened with our strength. But in this book there is life, there is light, and God forbid that any man should be prevented from drinking the waters of life freely.”
A faint smile came upon his face as he spoke, and after a moment’s pause, he continued, saying, “Do you know, Louis, I am going to become a boy again, and recommence my studies from a new point. Some months hence I will talk with you further, and every day in the mean time I will have my lesson.”
He had his lesson, as he said, each day; for he would sit for hours poring over either the pages of the Bible or some book of theology; but from that day I am quite sure that Father Bonneville was, at heart, a Protestant.
There is only one other incident worthy of notice which I remember in connection with the events of which I have just spoken. That was our separation from good Jeanette, who had hitherto been the companion of all our travels. For more than a month after our arrival in Zurich I remarked that she looked anxious and uneasy. She said nothing on the subject of her own feelings, however, to me, but was less communicative and more thoughtful than usual, would be in the same room with me for a long time without speaking one word to him who was I knew the darling of her heart, and was more than once spoken to without appearing to hear.
At length one day when I entered Father Bonneville’s room I found her standing before him; and heard her say as I came in, “I must go and see my lady. I am sure she is ill and wants help. I must go and see her. I have done nothing but dream of her every night.”
“Well, Jeanette, well,” replied he, “you must have your way; but you know not what you undertake. At all events you had better stay till some favorable opportunity can be found for sending you in safety.”
Jeanette only shook her head, however, repeating in a low voice, “I must go and see my lady.”
She remained with us two days after this interview, and I recollect quite well her coming into my room one night just as I was going to bed, and looking at me very earnestly, while I, with sportsman-like care, was cleaning my rifle ere I lay down.
“Ah, Monsieur Louis,” she said in a somewhat sad tone, “you are growing a man quite fast, and I dare say, you will soon be a soldier; but do not get into any of their bad ways here; and never, never forget your religion. They turn older and wiser heads than yours or mine; but do not let them turn yours.”
“No fear, I hope, Jeanette,” I answered; “but what do you want, my dear old dame?”
“Nothing, nothing, but only to see what you are doing,” she replied. “I see your light burning often late of nights, and I thought you might be reading bad books that craze many strong brains. Better clean a gun by far, Louis—only never forget your religion.”
I smiled at her anxious care of one no longer a boy, little thinking that I was so soon to lose one so closely connected with every memory of my youth, but when I rose the next morning somewhat later than usual, Jeanette was gone; and all I could learn from Father Bonneville was that she had set out upon a long and difficult journey, the thought of which gave him much uneasiness.
——
• • • • • • •
I was coming down the hill, and about five miles distant from the town, but my eyes had been rendered more keen by my hunter’s sports, and I was quite sure that it was so. The glittering of arms, both upon the heights above the city, and in the valley on the other side of the river, was perfectly distinct. Yet so still and silent was every thing, that I could hardly believe two hostile armies were there in presence of each other. Not a sound broke the stillness of the mountain air. No trumpet, no drum was heard at that moment; and my companion, Karl, would not believe that what I said was true. Soon after, we dipped into one of those profound wooded ravines which score the side of the mountains, and the scene was lost to our sight; but as we crossed over one of the shoulders of the hill again, and were forced to rise a little, in order to descend still farther, the loud boom of a cannon came echoing through the gorges, like a short and distant clap of thunder. The moment after, the full roar of a whole park of artillery was heard, shaking the hills around; and when we topped the height, we could see a dense cloud of bluish smoke rolling along to well-defined lines below.
Karl paused abruptly, saying, “We are well here, Louis. Better stay till it is over. We can help neither party, and shall only get our heads broke.”
Such reasoning was good enough for him—an orphan and tieless as he was—a mere child of the mountain; but I thought of good Father Bonneville, and told him, at once, that I should go on, and why. He would then fain have gone with me; but I would not suffer him; and leaving the chamois with him, I hurried as rapidly down as I could, taking many a bold leap, and many a desperate plunge, while the sound of cannon and musketry kept ringing in my ears, till I reached a spot where it was absolutely necessary to pause, and consider what was to be done next. I had come unexpectedly, not exactly into the midst of the battle that was going on, but to a point near that at which on the right of the French line, a strong body of infantry were pushing forward with fixed bayonets against an earthwork cresting the plateau, well defended by cannon. The guns were thundering upon the advancing column at the distance of about three hundred yards upon my left, and the Austrian infantry were already within a hundred paces of the steep ascent, along the face of which my path led toward the town. I was myself upon a pinnacle of the hill, a little above either party, and my only chance of making my way forward, was by taking a leap of some ten feet down, to a spot where asapinstarted from the bold rock, and thence by a small circuit, getting into the rear of the Austrian infantry. It was a rash attempt; for if I missed my footing on the roots of the tree, I was sure to be dashed to pieces; and I was somewhat incumbered by my rifle. I took the risk, however, and succeeded; and then hurried forward as fast as I could go. But now a new danger was before me—to say nothing of the murderous fire from the French battery—for by the time I had reached the point from which I could best pass into the suburb, the Austrian infantry had been repulsed for the moment, and were retreating in great confusion. I know not how to describe my feelings at that moment—afraid I certainly was not; but I felt my head turn with the wild bustle and indistinct activity of the scene. A number of men passed me, running in utter disarray. An officer galloped after them, shouting and commanding, for some time, in vain. At length, however, he succeeded in rallying them, just as I was passing along. The moment they were once more formed, he turned his eyes to the front, where another regiment, or part of a regiment, had been already rallied, and seeing me at some forty yards distance, he spurred on and asked me, in German, whether there was a way up the steep to the left of the line. Luckily, I spoke the language fluently, and replied that there was, pointing out to him the path by which I usually descended. Without paying any further attention to me, he hurried back to the head of his corps, and I ran on as fast as possible to get out of the way of the next charge. There was a little bridge which I had to pass, where not more than four or five men could go abreast, and over it a small body of Austrians were forcing their way, at the point of the bayonet, against a somewhat superior party of the French troops, who, in fact, were willing enough to retreat, seeing that a considerable impression had been made upon their right, and that they were likely to be cut off. At the same time, however, they would not be driven back without resistance, and several men fell. I followed impulsively the rear of the Austrians, where I observed one or two of the Swiss hunters appareled very much like myself, who were using their rifles, with deadly effect, amongst the officers of the Republican army; nor was it to be wondered at, after all that had happened. I could not, however, bring myself to give any assistance, and kept my gun under my arm, with the belt twisted round my wrist.
As soon as the bridge was forced, the Austrians debouched upon the ground beyond with greater rapidity and precision than the French seemed to expect; and while their right retreated in tolerable order toward the heights, their left scattered in confusion, and sought refuge in the suburbs of the town. I took the same direction, and the first little street I entered was so crowded with fugitives, comprising a number of the townspeople, who, looking forth to see the battle, had been taken by surprise on the sudden rush of the French soldiers in that direction, that it was impossible to pass; and although I saw a sort of tumult going on before me, and heard a gun or two fire, I turned away down the first narrow street, only eager to be with my good preceptor, who lived in a little street beyond the third turning.
When I entered that street, the sun, a good deal declined, poured straight down it, and I could see two or three groups of not more than two or three persons in each, with the dress of the Republican French soldier conspicuous here and there. I ran on eagerly, and passed three persons all apparently struggling together. One was a woman, another a French soldier, and the third, who had his back toward me, so that I could not see his face, was endeavoring to protect the woman from violence, and seemed to me, in figure, very like Lavater. I should have certainly stopped to aid him; but there was another scene going on a little in advance, which left me no time to think of any thing else; but the moment I had passed, I heard a shot behind me, and then a deep groan.
I gave it no thought; for within a stone’s throw I beheld an old man whose face and figure I knew well, brutally assaulted by one of the soldiers, and falling on his knees, under a blow from the butt-end of a musket. The next instant, the soldier—if such a brute deserved the name—drew back the weapon, and ere I could have reached the spot, the bayonet would have been through Father Bonneville’s body. I sent a messenger of swifter pace to stop the deed. In an instant the rifle was at my shoulder, and before I well knew that I touched the trigger, the Frenchman sprang more than a foot from the ground, and fell dead with the ball through his head.
I paused not to think—to ask myself what I had done—to consider what it is to take a human life, or to fight against one’s countrymen. I only thought of good, kind, gentle Father Bonneville, and springing forward, I raised him from the ground. He was bleeding from the blow on the forehead, but did not seem much hurt, and only bewildered and confused.
“Quick, into the house, good Father,” I cried. “Shut the lower windows and lock the door.”
“Oh, my son, my son!” he exclaimed, looking at me wildly, “do not mingle in this strife!”
“Lavater is behind,” I said; “I must hasten to help him. Go in, and I will join you in an instant.”
“Did you do that?” he inquired, looking at the dead soldier, and then at the rifle in my hand.
“I did,” I answered, in a firmer tone than might have been expected, “and he deserved his fate. But go in, dear Father. I will return in a moment.”
I led him toward the door as I spoke, and saw him enter the house; and then ran up the street to the spot where I had seen the struggle I have mentioned. Two dead bodies were lying on the pavement. One was that of a young woman of the lower class, fallen partly on her side, with a bayonet-wound in the chest. The other was that of a man dressed in black, who had fallen forward on his face. I turned him over, and beheld the features of Lavater; I took his hand, and the touch showed me that death was there.
I had knelt while doing this, when a sudden sound made me attempt to rise—but I could not do so; for, while still upon my knee, I was struck by the feet of two or three men, cast back upon the ground, and trampled under foot by a number of Austrians in full flight. Every thing became dark and confused. I saw the long gaiters, and caught a glance of arms and accoutrements, and felt heavy feet set upon my chest, and on my head—and then all was night.
Although the weather was hot, and summer at its height, in that high mountain region the night was almost invariably cool. Probably that circumstance saved my life; for I must have remained, I know, several hours on the pavement untended, and perhaps unnoticed by any one. When I recovered my senses, it was nearly midnight, and then I found several good souls around me. One woman was bathing my head and chest with cold water, while a man supported my shoulders upon his knee. The first objects I saw, however, were three or four persons moving the body of the woman, near whom I had fallen, to a small hand-bier. The body of Lavater was already gone.
“Look, look, he opens his eyes!” cried the woman who was tending me so kindly. “Poor lad! we shall get him round! Where will you be taken to, young man?”
I named faintly the house where we lodged, and then another woman, who was standing by, exclaimed, “Heaven! it is young Lassi! Better take him to the hospital.”
I tried in vain to inquire after Father Bonneville; for a faint, death-like sensation came over me, and I was obliged to let them do what they pleased with me. A blanket was soon procured, and placed in it, as in a hammock, I was carried up into the higher part of the town to the hospital, and there laid upon a bed, in a ward where some hundreds of wounded men were already congregated. A surgeon, with his hands bloody, an apron on, and a saw under his arm, soon came to me, and asked where I was wounded. I endeavored to answer, but could not make myself intelligible; and putting down the saw, he ordered me to be stripped, and examined me all over. Two of my ribs, it seemed had been broken, and my head terribly beaten about. Indeed, I was one general bruise. But my limbs were all sound, and in four or five days, although I suffered a great deal of pain, and the scenes which were going on around me were not calculated to revive the spirits of any one, I was sufficiently recovered to make inquiries for Father Bonneville, whenever I saw a new face, and to send a message for him to the house where we lodged, giving him notice that I was to be found at the hospital.
Father Bonneville himself did not appear, but our landlord came in his stead—a good, plain, honest man, of a kindly disposition. He told me, much to my consternation, that my good friend, as he called him, had been carried off as a prisoner by the Austrians, after they got possession of the town; that he was suspected of being one of the French Revolutionary Agents, and that most likely he would have been hanged at once, without the testimony of himself, our landlord, who had come forward to prove that he was a quiet, inoffensive man, who meddled not with politics in any shape, and would have gladly got out of the town, after the French occupation, had it been possible. This saved his life for the time; but the only favor that could be obtained was that the case should be reserved for further investigation. At the time he was carried away, Father Bonneville was perfectly ignorant of my fate, the landlord said, and feared that I had been killed. The good man, however, promised that he would make every inquiry for my friend, and urged me, in the meantime, to have myself carried to his house as soon as possible. For more than a fortnight, during which time I was unable to quit the hospital, he came every day to see me, but brought no intelligence of Father Bonneville. At length he had me removed to his own house, and there he, and his good old wife, attended upon me with great kindness till I was quite well.
As soon as I could move about, the landlord told me that Monsieur Charlier, as he called him, had left with him a hundred louis d’ors for me, in case of my return. “And lucky he did so,” added the old gentleman, “for the Austrians ransacked every thing in both your rooms, upon the pretence of searching for papers, and left not a bit of silver worth a batz that they could lay their hands upon.”
Days passed—weeks, and yet no tidings could be obtained of good Father Bonneville; and thus was I left, ere I had reached the age of nineteen, to make a way for myself in life, with a small store of clothing, a few books, a ride, and one hundred louis.
[To be continued.