Enough of surprise and gaping wonder would Dame Briton have discovered in other directions, had she sought the evidences; but from Bondo Emmins she looked down at her "old man," and she saw his tears. Then came Clarice, and before she knew it she was holding the little Christian Gabriel in her stern old arms, and kissing away the drops of hallowed water that flashed upon his eye-lids.
A sermon followed, the like of which, for poetry or wonder, was never heard among these people. The preacher seemed to think this an occasion for all his eloquence; nay, for the sake of justice, I will say, his heart was full of rejoicing, for now he believed a church was grafted here, a Branch which the Root would nourish. His words served to deepen the impression made by the ceremonial. Clarice Briton and little Gabriel shone in white raiment that day; and, thanks to him, when he went on to prove the Kingdom of Heaven upon earth one with that mysterious majesty on high, a single leap took Clarice Briton over the boundaries of faith.
But if to others Clarice seemed to have passed the boundary line of their dominion, to herself the bond of neighborhood was strengthened. The missionary told her all he had a right to expect of her now, as a fellow-worker, and pointed out to her the ways in which she might second his labors at the Bay. It was but a new form of the old work to which she had been accustomed her life long. Never, except in the dark summer months when all her life was eclipsed, had Clarice lived unmindful of the old and sick and helpless, or of the little children. Her kindliness of heart could surprise no one; her generosity was nothing strange; her caution, her industry, her courage, her gentleness, were not traits to which her character had been a stranger hitherto. But now they had a brighter manifestation. She became more than ever diligent in her service; the Sunday-school was the result of old sentiments in a new and intelligent combination; and the neighbors, who had always trusted Clarice, did not doubt her now. Novelty is always pleasing to simple souls among whom innovation has not first taken the pains to excite suspicion of itself.
For a long time, more than usual uncertainty seemed to attend the chances of Gabriel's life. In the close watching and constant care required of Clarice, the child became so dear to her, that doubtless there was some truth in the word repeated in her hearing with intent to darken any moment of special tenderness and joy, that this stranger was dearer to her than her "born relations."
As much as was possible by gentle firmness and constant oversight, Clarice kept him from hurtful influences. He was never mixed up in the quarrels of ungoverned children; he never became the victim of their rude sport or cruelty. She would preserve him peaceful, gentle, pure; and in a measure her aim was accomplished. She was the defender, companion, playmate of the child. She told him pretty tales, the creations of her fancy, and strove by them to throw a soft illusion around the rough facts of their daily life. The mystery surrounding him furnished her not meagrely with material for her imagination; she could invent nothing that seemed to herself incredible; her fairy tales were not more wonderful than facts as she beheld them. She taught the boy songs; she gave him language. The clothes he wore, bought with her own money, fashioned by her own hands, were such as became the beauty of the child, and the pure taste and the little purse of Clarice.
Never had a childhood so radiant in beauty, so wonderful in every manifestation, developed before the eyes of the folk of Diver's Bay. He became a wonder to the old and young. His sayings were repeated. Enchantment seemed added to mystery;—anything might have been believed of Gabriel.
Sometimes, when she had dressed him in his Sunday suit, and they were alone together, Clarice would put upon his finger the pearl ring,—her marriage ring. But she kept to herself the name of Luke Merlyn till the time should come when, a child no longer, he should listen to the story; and she would not make that story grievous for his gentle heart, but sweet and full of hope. Well she knew how he would listen as none other could,—how serious his young face would look when the sacred dawn of a celestial knowledge should begin to break; then a new day would rise on Gabriel, and nothing should separate them then.
But, lurking near her joy, and near her perfect satisfaction, even in the days when some result much toiled for seemed to give assurance that she was doing well and justly, was the shadow of a doubt. One day the shadow deepened, and the doubt appeared. Clarice was sitting in the doorway, busy at some work for Gabriel. The boy was playing with Old Briton, who could amuse him by the hour, drawing figures in the sand. Dame Briton was busy performing some household labor, when Bondo Emmins came rowing in to shore. Gabriel, at the sound of the oars, ran to meet the fisherman, who had been out all day; the fisherman took the child in his arms, kissed him, then placed in his hands a toy which he had brought for him from the Point, and bade him run and show it to Clarice. Gabriel set out with shouts, and Emmins went back smiling to look after his boatload.
"He's a good runner," said Old Briton, watching the child with laughter in his eyes. Dame Briton, drawn to the door by the unusual noise, looked out to see the little fellow flying into Clarice's arms, and she said, softly, "Pretty creature!" while she strode back to her toil.
Presently, the little flutter of his joy having subsided, Gabriel sat on the doorstep beside Clarice, his eyes seriously peering into the undiscoverable mystery of the toy. Then Bondo came up, and the toy was forgotten, the child darting away again to meet him. Emmins joined the group with Gabriel in his arms, looking well satisfied.
"Gabriel is as happy as if this was his home in earnest," said he. He dropped the words to try the group.
"His home!" cried Dame Briton, quickly. "Well, ain't it? Where then? I wonder."
The sharp tone of her voice told that the dame was not well pleased with Bondo's remark; for the child had found his way into her heart, and she would have ruined him by her indulgence, had it not been for Clarice's constant vigilance. And this was not the least of the difficulties the girl had to contend with. For Dame Briton, you may be sure, though she might be compelled to yield to her daughter's better sense, could never be constrained by her own child to hold her tongue, and the arguments with which she abandoned many of her foolish purposes were almost as fatal to Clarice's attempts at good government as the perfect accomplishment of these purposes would have been.
Bondo answered her quick interrogatory, and the troubled wonder in the eyes of Clarice, with a confused, "Of course it is his home; only I was thinking, that, to be sure, they must have come from some place, and maybe left friends behind them."
Now it seemed as if this answer were not given with malicious purpose, but in proper self-defence; and by the time Clarice looked at him, and made him thus speak, Bondo perhaps supposed that he had not intended to trouble the poor soul. But he could not avoid perceiving that a deep shadow fell upon the face of Clarice; and the conviction of her displeasure was not removed when she arose and led the child away. But Clarice was not displeased. She was only troubled sorely. She asked her surprised self a dreary question: If anywhere on earth the child had a living parent, or if he had any near of kin to whom his life was precious, what right to Gabriel had she? Providence had sent him to her, she had often said, with deep thankfulness; but now she asked, Had he sent the child that she might restore him not only to life, but to others, whom, but for her, death had forever robbed of him?
From the day that the shadow of this thought fell across her way, the composure and deep content of the life of Clarice were disturbed. Not merely the presence of Emmins became a trouble and annoyance, but the praise that her neighbors were prompt to lavish on Gabriel, whenever she went among them, became grievous to her ears. The shadow which had swept before her eyes deepened and darkened till it obscured all the future. She was experiencing all the trouble and difficulty of one who seeks to evade the weight of a truth which has nevertheless surrounded and will inevitably capture her.
Nothing of this escaped the eyes of the young fisherman. Time should work for him, he said; he had shot an arrow; it had hit the mark; now he would heal the wound. He might easily have persuaded himself that the wound was accidental, and so have escaped the conviction of injury wrought with intention. All would have been immediately well with him and Clarice, had it not been for Clarice! There are persons, their name is Legion, who are as wanton in offence as Bondo Emmins,—whose souls are black with murderous records of hopes they have destroyed; yet they will condole with the mourners!
To this doubt as to her duty, this evasion of knowledge concerning it, this silence in regard to what chiefly occupied her conscience, was added a new trouble. As Gabriel grew older, a restless, adventurous spirit began to manifest itself in him. From a distance regarding the daring feats of other children, his impulse was to follow and imitate them. At times, in ungovernable outbreaks of merriment, he would escape from the side of Clarice, with fleet, daring steps which seemed to set her pleasure at defiance; and when, after his first exploit, which filled her with astonishment, she prepared to join him in his sport, and did follow, laughing, a wilfulness, which made her tremble, roused to resist her, and gave an almost tragic ending to the play.
One day she missed the lad. Searching for him, she found that he had gone out in a boat with other children, among whom he sat like a little king, giving his orders, which the rest were obeying with shouted repetitions. When Clarice called to him, and begged the children to return, he followed their example, took off his cap, and waved it at her, in defiance, with the rest.
Clarice sat down on the shore in despair. Bitter tears ran down her cheeks.
Bondo Emmins passed by, and saw what was going on. "Ho! ho! Clarice needs some one to help her hold the rein," said he to himself; and going to the water's edge, he raised his voice, and beckoned the children ashore. He enforced the gesture by a word,—"Come home!"
The little rebels did not wait a second summons, but obeyed the strong voice of the strong man, trembling. They paddled the boat to the shore, and landed quite crestfallen, ashamed, it seemed. Then Bondo, having bid the youngsters disperse, with a threat, if he ever saw them engaged in the like business, walked away, without speaking to Gabriel, or even looking at him.
Clarice was half annoyed at this interference; it seemed to suppose, she thought, that she was unequal to the management of her own affairs.—Butwasshe equal to it?
After Bondo had walked away, she called to Gabriel, who stood alone when the other children had deserted him, and knew not what to do. He would have run away, had he not been afraid of fisherman Emmins.
"Come here, my son," said Clarice. She did not speak very loud, nor in the least sternly; but he heard her quite distinctly, and he hesitated.
"I'm not your son!" he concluded to answer.
A sword through the heart of Clarice would have killed her, but there are pains which do not slay that are worse than the pains of death. Clarice Briton's face was pale with anguish, when she arose and said,—
"Gabriel, come here!"
The child saw something awful in her eyes, and heard in her voice something that made him tremble. He came, and sat down in the place to which Clarice pointed. It was a hard moment for her. Other words bitter as this, which disowned her love and care and defied her authority, the child could not have spoken. She answered him as if he had not been a child; and a truth which no words could have made him comprehend seemed to break upon and overwhelm him, while she spoke.
"It is true," she said, "you are not my son. I have no right to call you mine. Listen, Gabriel, while I tell you how it happens that you live with me, and I take care of you, as if you were my child. I was down at the Point one day,—that place where we go to watch the birds, you know, my—Gabriel. While I sat there alone, I saw a plank that was dashed by the waves up and down, as you see a boat carried when the wind blows hard and sounds so terrible; but there was nobody to take care of that plank except God,—and He, oh, He, is always able to take care! When that plank was washed near to the shore, I stepped out on the rocks and caught it, and then I saw that a little child was tied fast to it; so I knew that some one must have thrown him into the water, hoping that he would be picked up. I do not know what they who threw the little child into the sea called him; but I, who found him, called him Gabriel, and I carried him, all dripping with the salt sea-water, to my father's cabin. I laid him on my bed, and my mother and I never stopped trying to waken him, till he opened his eyes; for he lay just like one who never meant to open his eyes or speak again. At last my mother said, 'Clarice, I feel his heart beat!' and I said in my heart, 'If it please God to spare his life, I will work for him, and take care of him, and be a mother to him.' And I thought, 'He will surely love me always, because God has sent him to me, and I have taken him, and have loved him.' But now he has left me! He is mine no more! And oh, how I have loved him!"
Long before this story was ended, tears were running down Gabriel's face, and he was drawing closer and closer to Clarice. When she ceased speaking, he hid his face in her lap and cried aloud, according to the boisterous privilege of childhood.
"Oh, mother, dear mother, I haven't gone away! I'm here! I do love you!I am your little boy!"
"Gabriel! Gabriel! it was terrible! terrible!" burst from Clarice, with a groan, and a flood of tears.
"Oh, don't, mother! Call me your boy! Don't say, Gabriel! Don't cry!"
So he found his way through the door of the heart that stood wide open for him. Storm and darkness had swept in, if he had not.
The reconciliation was perfect; but the shadow that had obscured the future deepened that obscurity after this day's experience. If her right to the lad needed no vindication, was she capable of the attempted guidance and care? Could she bear this blessed burden safely to the end?
Sometimes, for a moment, it may have seemed to Clarice that Bondo Emmins could alone help her effectually out of her bewilderment and perplexity. She had not now the missionary with whom to consult, in whose wisdom to confide; and Bondo had a marvellous influence over the child.
He was disposed to take advantage of that influence, as he gave evidence, not long after the exhibition of his control over the boat-load of delinquents, by asking Clarice if she were never going to reward his constancy. He seemed at this time desirous of bringing himself before her as an object of compassion, if nothing better; but she, having heard him patiently to the end of what he had to urge in his own behalf and that of her parents, replied in words that were certainly of the moment's inspiration, and almost beyond her will; for Clarice had been of late so much troubled, no wonder if she should mistake expediency for right.
"I am married already," she said. "You see this ring. Do you not know what it has meant to me, Bondo, since I first put it on? Death, as you call it, cannot part Luke Merlyn and me. 'Heart and hand,' he said. Can I forget it? My hand is free,—but he holds it; and my heart is his.—But I can serve you better than you ask for, Bondo Emmins. You learned the name of the vessel that sailed from Havre and was lost. Take a voyage. Go to France. See if Gabriel has any friends there who have a right to him, and will serve him better than I can; and if he has such friends, I myself will take Gabriel to them. Yes, I will do it.—You will love a sailor's life, Bondo. You were born for that. Diver's Bay is not the place for you. I have long seen it. The sea will serve you better than I ever could. Go, and Clarice will thank you. Oh, Bondo, I beg you!"
At these words the man so appealed to became scarlet. He seemed to reflect on what Clarice had said,—seriously to ponder; but his amazement at her words had almost taken away his power of speech.
"The Gabriel sailed from Havre," said he, slowly, "If I went out as a deckhand in the next ship that sails"—
"Yes!"
"To scour the country—I hope I shan't find what I look for; you couldn't live without him.—Very likely you will think me a fool for my pains. You will not give me yourself. You would have me take away the lad from you."—He looked at Clarice as if his words passed his belief.
"Yes, only do as I say,—for I know it must be the best for us all.There is nothing else to be done,—no other way to live."
"France is a pretty big country to hunt over for a man whose name you don't know," said Emmins, after a little pause.
"You can find what passengers sailed in the Gabriel," answered Clarice, eager to remove every difficulty, and ready to contend with any that could possibly arise. "The vessel was a merchantman. Such vessels don't take out many passengers.—Besides, you will see the world.—It is for everybody's sake! Not for mine only,—no, truly,—no, indeed! May-be if another person around here had found Gabriel, they would never have thought of trying to find out who he belonged to."
"I guess so," replied Bondo, with a queer look. "Only now be honest, Clarice; it's to get rid of me, isn't it? But you needn't take that trouble. If you had only told me right out about Luke Merlyn"—
While Bondo Emmins spoke thus, his face had unconsciously the very expression one sees on the face of the boy whose foot hovers a moment above the worm he means to crush. The boy does not expect to see the worm change to a butterfly just then and there, and mount up before his very eyes toward the empyrean. Neither did Bondo Emmins anticipate her quiet—
"You knew about it all the while."
"Not the whole," said he,—"that you were married to Luke, as you say"; and the fisherman looked hastily around him, as if he had expected to see the veritable Luke.
"It isn't to get rid of you, then, Bondo," Clarice explained; "but I read in the Book you don't think much of, but it's everything to me,If ye have not been faithful in that which is another man's, who shall give you that which is your own?So you see, I am a little selfish in it all; for I want peace of mind, and I never shall have peace till it is settled about Gabriel; if I must give him up, I can."
Bondo Emmins looked at Clarice with a strange look, as she spoke these words,—so faltering in speech, so resolute in soul.
"And if I'm faithful over another man's," said he, "better the chance of getting my own, eh? But I wonder what my own is."
"Everything that you can earn and enjoy honestly," replied Clarice.
Emmins rose up quickly at these words. He walked off a few paces without speaking. His face was gloomy and sullen as a sky full of tornadoes when he turned his back on Clarice,—hardly less so when he again approached her.
"I am no fool," said he, as he drew near.—From his tone one could hardly have guessed that his last impulse was to strike the woman to whom he spoke.—"I know what you mean. You haven't sent me on a fool's errand. Good bye. You won't see me again, Clarice—till I come back from France. Time enough to talk about it then."
He did not offer to take her hand when he had so spoken, but was off before Clarice could make any reply.
Clarice thought that she should see him again; but he went away without speaking to any other person of his purpose; and when wonder on account of his absence began to find expression in her father's house, and elsewhere, it was she who must account for it. People thereat praised him for his good heart, and made much of his generosity, and wondered if this voyage were not to be rewarded by the prize for which he had sought openly so long. Old Briton and his dame inclined to that opinion.
But in the week following that of his departure there was a great stir and excitement among the people of the Bay. Little Gabriel was missing. A search, that began in surprise when Clarice returned home from some errand, was continued with increasing alarm all day, and night descended amid the general conviction that the child was drowned. He had been seen at play on the shore. No one could possibly furnish a more reasonable explanation. Every one had something to say, of course, and Clarice listened to all, turning to one speaker after another with increasing despair. Not one of them could restore the child to life, if he was dead.
There was a suspicion in her heart which she shared with none. It flashed upon her, and there was no rest after, until she had satisfied herself of its injustice. She went alone by night to town, and made her way fearlessly down to the harbor to learn if any vessel had sailed that day, and when the last ship sailed for Havre. The answers to the inquiries she made convinced her that Bondo Emmins must have sailed for France the day after his last conversation with her.
By daylight Clarice was again on the shore of Diver's Bay, there to renew a search which for weeks was not abandoned. Gabriel had a place in many a rough man's heart, and the women of the Bay knew well enough that he was unlike all other children; and though it did not please them well that Clarice should keep him so much to herself, they still admired the result of such seclusion, and praised his beauty and wonderful cleanliness, as though these tokens of her care were really beyond the common range of things,—attainable, in spite of all she could say, by no one but Clarice Briton, and for no one but Gabriel. These fishermen and their wives did not speedily forget the wonderful boy; the boats never went out but those who rowed them thought about the child; the gatherers of sea-weed never went to their work but they looked for some token of him; and for Clarice,—let us say nothing of her just here. What woman needs to be told how that woman watched and waited and mourned?
Few events ever occurred to disturb the tranquillity of the people of Diver's Bay. People wore out and dropped away, as the old fishing boats did,—and new ones took their place.
Old Briton crumbled and fell to pieces, while he watched for the return of Bondo Emmins. And Clarice buried her old mother. She was then left alone in the cabin, with the reminiscences of a hard lot around her. The worn-out garments, and many rude traces of rough toil, and the toys, few and simple, which had belonged to Gabriel, constituted her treasures. What was before her? A life of labor and of watching; and Clarice was growing older every day.
Her hair turned gray ere she was old. The hopes that had specially concerned her had failed her,—all of them. She surveyed her experience, and said, weighing the result, the more need that she should strive to avert from others the evils they might bring upon themselves, so that, when the Lord should smite them, they, too, might be strong. The missionary had long since left this field of labor and gone to another, and his place at Diver's Bay was unfilled by a new preacher. The more need, then, of her. Remembering her lost child, she taught the children of others. She taught them to read and sew and knit, and, what was more important, taught them obedience and thankfulness, and endeavored to inspire in them some reverence and faith. The Church did not fall into ruin there.
I wish that I might write here,—it were so easy, if it were but true!—that Bondo Emmins came back to Diver's Bay in one of those long years during which she was looking for him, and that he came scourged by conscience to ask forgiveness of his diabolic vengeance.
I wish that I might write,—which were far easier, if it were but fact,—that all the patience and courage of the Pure Heart of Diver's Bay, all the constancy that sought to bring order and decency and reverence into the cabins there, met at last with another external reward than merely beholding, as the children grew up to their duties and she drew near to death, the results of all her teaching; that those results were attended by another, also an external reward; that the youth, who came down like an angel to fill her place when she was gone, had walked into her house one morning, and surprised her, as the Angel Gabriel once surprised the world, by his glad tidings. I wish, that, instead of kneeling down beside her grave in the sand, and vowing there, "Oh, mother! I, who have found no mother but thee in all the world, am here, in thy place, to strive as thou didst for the ignorant and the helpless and unclean," he had thrown his arms around her living presence, and vowed that vow in spite of Bondo Emmins, and all the world beside.
But it seems that the gate is strait, and the path is ever narrow, and the hill is difficult. And the kinds of victory are various, and the badges of the conquerors are not all one. And the pure heart can wear its pearl as purely, and more safely, in the heavens, where the white array is spotless,—where the desolate heart shall be no more forsaken,—where the BRIDEGROOM, who stands waiting the Bride, says, "Come, for all things are now ready!"—where the SON makes glad. Pure Pearl of Diver's Bay! not for the cheap sake of any mortal romance will I grieve to write that He has plucked thee from the deep to reckon thee among His pearls of price.
* * * * *
I bore my mystic chalice unto EarthWith vintage which no lips of hers might name;Only, in token of its alien birth,Love crowned it with his soft, immortal flame,And, 'mid the world's wide sound,Sacred reserves and silences breathed round,—A spell to keep it pure from low acclaim.
With joy that dulled me to the touch of scorn,I served;—not knowing that of all life's deedsService was first; nor that high powers are bornIn humble uses. Fragrance-folding seedsMust so through flowers expand,Then die. God witness that I blessed the HandWhich laid upon my heart such golden needs!
And yet I felt, through all the blind, sweet waysOf life, for some clear shape its dreams to blend,—Some thread of holy art, to knit the daysEach unto each, and all to some fair end,Which, through unmarked removes,Should draw me upward, even as it behoovesOne whose deep spring-tides from His heart descend.
To swell some vast refrain beyond the sun,The very weed breathed music from its sod;And night and day in ceaseless antiphonRolled off through windless arches in the broadAbyss.—Thou saw'st I, too,Would in my place have blent accord as true,And justified this great enshrining, God!
Dreams!—Stain it on the bending amethyst,That one who came with visions of the PrimeFor guide somehow her radiant pathway missed,And wandered in the darkest gulf of Time.No deed divine thenceforthStood royal in its far-related worth;No god, in truth, might heal the wounded chime.
Oh, how? I darkly ask;—and if I dareTake up a thought from this tumultuous streetTo the forgotten Silence soaring thereAbove the hiving roofs, its calm depths meetMy glance with no reply.Might I go back and spell this mysteryIn the new stillness at my mother's feet,—
I would recall with importunings longThat so sad soul, once pierced as with a knife,And cry, Forgive! Oh, think Youth's tide was strong,And the full torrent, shut from brain and life,Plunged through the heart, untilIt rocked to madness, and the o'erstrained willGrew wild, then weak, in the despairing strife!
And ever I think, What warning voice should call,Or show me bane from food, with tedious art,When love—the perfect instinct, flower of allDivinest potencies of choice, whose partWas set 'mid stars and flameTo keep the inner place of God—becameA blind and ravening fever of the heart?
I laugh with scorn that men should think them praisedIn women's love,—chance-flung in weary hours,By sickly fire to bloated worship raised!—O long-lost dream, so sweet of vernal flowers!Wherein I stood, it seemed,And gave a gift of queenly mark!—IdreamedOf Passion's joy aglow in rounded powers.
I dreamed! The roar, the tramp, the burdened airPour round their sharp and subtle mockery.Here go the eager-footed men; and thereThe costly beggars of the world float by;—Lilies, that toil nor spin,How should they know so well the weft of sin,And hide me from them with such sudden eye?
But all the roaming crowd begins to makeA whirl of humming shade;—for, since the dayIs done, and there's no lower step to take,Life drops me here. Some rough, kind hand, I pray,Thrust the sad wreck aside,And shut the door on it!—a little pride,That I may not offend who pass this way.
And this is all!—Oh, thou wilt yet give heed!No soul but trusts some late redeeming care,—But walks the narrow plank with bitter speed,And, straining through the sweeping mist of air,In the great tempest-call,And greater silence deepening through it all,Refuses still, refuses to despair!
Some further end, whence thou refitt'st with aimBewildered souls, perhaps?—Some breath in me,By thee, the purest, found devoid of blame,Fit for large teaching?—Look!—I cannot see,—I can but feel!—Far off,Life seethes and frets,—and from its shame and scoffI take my broken crystal up to thee.
* * * * *
[Concluded.]
The most remarkable event of the "Hundred Days" was the celebrated "Champ de Mai," where Napoleon met deputies from the Departments, and distributed eagles to representatives of his forces. He intended it as an assembly of the French people, which should sanction and legalize his second accession to the throne, and pledge itself, by solemn adjuration, to preserve the sovereignty of his family. It was a day of wholesale swearing, and the deputies uttered any quantity of oaths of eternal fidelity, which they barely kept three weeks. The distribution of the eagles was the only real and interesting part of the performance, and the deep sympathy between both parties was very evident. The Emperor stood in the open field, on a raised platform, from which a broad flight of steps descended; and pages of his household were continually running up and down, communicating with the detachments from various branches of the army, which passed in front of him, halting for a moment to receive the eagles and give the oath to defend them.
I was present during the whole of this latter ceremony. Through the forbearance of a portion of the Imperial Guard, into whose ranks I obtruded myself, I had a very favorable position, and felt that in this part of the day's work there was no sham.
I would here bear testimony to the character of those veterans known as the "Old Guard." I frequently came in contact with individuals of them, and liked so well to talk with them, that I never lost a chance of making their acquaintance. One, who was partial to me because I was an American, had served in this country with Rochambeau, had fought under the eye of Washington, and was at the surrender of Cornwallis. He had borne his share in the vicissitudes of the Republic, the Consulate, and the Empire. He was scarred with wounds, and his breast was decorated with the cross of the Legion of Honor, which he considered an ample equivalent for all his services. My intercourse with these old soldiers confirmed what has been said of them, that they were singularly mild and courteous. There was a gentleness of manner about them that was remarkable. They had seen too much service to boast of it, and they left the bragging to younger men. Terrible as they were on the field of battle, they seemed to have adopted as a rule of conduct, that
"In peace, there's nothing so becomes a manAs modest stillness and humility."
On this memorable day, I saw Napoleon more distinctly than at any other time. I was frequently present when he was reviewing troops, but either he or they were in motion, and I had to catch a glimpse of him as opportunities offered. At this time, as he passed through the Champs Elysées, I stood among my friends, the soldiers, who lined the way, and who suffered me to remain where a man would not have been tolerated. He was escorted by the Horse Grenadiers of the Guard. His four brothers preceded him in one carriage, while he sat alone in a state coach, all glass and gold, to which pages clung wherever they could find footing. He was splendidly attired, and wore a Spanish hat with drooping feathers. As he moved slowly through the crowd, he bowed to the right and left, not in the hasty, abrupt way which is generally attributed to him, but in a calm, dignified, though absent manner. His face was one not to be forgotten. I saw it repeatedly; but whenever I bring it up, it comes before me, not as it appeared from the window of the Tuileries, or when riding among his troops, or when standing, with folded arms or his hands behind him, as they defiled before him; but it rises on my vision as it looked that morning, under the nodding plumes,—smooth, massive, and so tranquil, that it seemed impossible a storm of passion could ever ruffle it. The complexion was clear olive, without a particle of color, and no trace was on it to indicate what agitated the man within. The repose of that marble countenance told nothing of the past, nor of anxiety for the deadly struggle that awaited him. The cheering sounds around him did not change it; they fell on an ear that heard them not. His eye glanced on the multitudes; but it saw them not. There was more machinery than soul in the recognition, as his head instinctively swayed towards them. The idol of stone was there, joyless and impassive amidst its worshippers, taking its lifeless part in this last pageant. But the thinking, active man was elsewhere, and returned only when he found himself in the presence of delegated France, and in the more congenial occupation which succeeded.
Immediately after this event, all the available troops remaining in Paris were sent toward the Belgian frontier, and in a few days were followed by the Emperor. Then came an interval of anxious suspense, which Rumor, with her thousand tongues, occupied to the best of her ability. I was in the country when news of the first collision arrived, and a printed sheet was sent to the château where I was visiting, with an account of the defeat of the Prussians at Ligny and the retreat of the British at Quatre Bras. Madame Ney was staying in the vicinity; and, as the Marshal had taken an active part in the engagement, I was sent to communicate to her the victory. She was ill, and I gave the message to a lady, her connection, much pleased to be the bearer of such welcome intelligence. I returned that day to Paris, and found my schoolmates in the highest exhilaration. Every hour brought confirmation of a decisive victory. It was thought that the great battle of the campaign had been fought, and that the French had only to follow up their advantage. Letters from officers were published, representing that the Allies were thoroughly routed, and describing the conflict so minutely, that there could be no doubt of the result. All was now joy and congratulation; and conjectures were freely made as to the terms to be vouchsafed to the conquered, and the boundary limits which should be assigned to the territory of France.
A day or two after this, we made a customary visit to a swimming-school on the Seine, and some of us entered into conversation with the gendarme, or police soldier, placed there to preserve order. He was very reserved and unwilling to say much; but, at last, when we dwelt on the recent successes, he shook his head mournfully, and said he feared there had been some great disaster; adding, "The Emperor is in Paris. I saw him alight from his carriage this morning, when on duty; he had very few attendants, and it was whispered that our army had been defeated." That my companions did not seek relief at the bottom of the river can be ascribed only to their entire disbelief of the gendarme's story. But, as they returned home, discussing his words at every step, fears began to steal over them when they reflected how seriously he talked and how sorrowful he looked.
The gendarme spoke the truth. Napoleon was in Paris. His army no longer existed, and his star had been blotted from the heavens. His plans, wonderfully conceived, had been indifferently executed; a series of blunders, beyond his control, interrupted his combinations, and delay in important movements, added to the necessity of meeting two enemies at the same moment, destroyed the centralization on which he had depended for overthrowing both in succession. The orders he sent to his Marshals were intercepted, and they were left to an uncertainty which prevented any unity of action. The accusation of treason, sometimes brought against them, is false and ungenerous; and the insinuations of Napoleon himself were unworthy of him. They may have erred in judgment, but they acted as they thought expedient, and they never showed more devotion to their country and to their chief than on the fatal day of Waterloo.
I have been twice over that field, and have heard remarks of military men, which have only convinced me that it is easier to criticize a battle than to fight one. Had Grouchy, with his thirty thousand men, joined the Emperor, the British would have been destroyed. But he stopped at Wavre, to fight, as he supposed, the whole Prussian army, thinking to do good service by keeping it from the main battle. Blücher outwitted him, and, leaving ten thousand men to deceive and keep him in check, hurried on to turn the scale. The fate of both contending hosts rested on the cloud of dust that arose on the eastern horizon, and the eyes of Napoleon and Wellington watched its approach, knowing that it brought victory or defeat. The one was still precipitating his impetuous columns on the sometimes penetrated, but never broken, squares of infantry, which seemed rooted to the earth, and which, though torn by shot and shell, and harassed by incessant charges of cavalry, closed their thinned ranks with an obstinacy and determination such as he had never before encountered. The other stood amidst the growing grain, seeing his army wasting away before those terrible assaults; and when the officers around him saw inevitable ruin, unless the order for retreat was given, he tore up the unripened corn, and, grinding it between his hands, groaned out, in his agony,—"Oh, that Blücher, or night, would come!"
The last time I was at Waterloo, many years ago, the guide who accompanied me told me, that, a short time before, a man, whose appearance was that of a substantial farmer, and who was followed by an attendant, called on him for his services. The guide went his usual round, making his often-repeated remarks and commenting severely on Grouchy. The stranger examined the ground attentively, and only occasionally replied, saying, "Grouchy received no orders." At last, the servant fell back, detaining the guide, and, in a low tone, said to him, "Speak no more about Marshal Grouchy, for that is he." The man told me, that, after that, he abstained from saying anything offensive; but that he watched carefully the soldier's agitation, as the various positions of the battle became apparent to him. He, doubtless, saw how little would have turned the current of the fight, and knew that the means of doing it had been in his own hands. The guide seemed much impressed with the deep feeling of the Marshal, and said to me, "I will never speak ill of him again."
The battle of Waterloo is often mentioned as the sole cause of Napoleon's downfall; and it is said, that, had he gained that day, he would have secured his throne. It seems to be forgotten that a complete victory would have left him with weakened forces, and that he had already exhausted the resources of France in his preparations for this one campaign; that the masses of Austria and Russia were advancing in hot haste, which, with the rallied remains of Prussia, and the indomitable perseverance and uncompromising hostility of England, quickened by a reverse of her arms, would have presented an array against which he could have had no chance of success. The hour of utter ruin would only have been procrastinated, involving still greater waste of life, and augmenting the desolation which for so many years had been the fate of Europe.
Yes, Napoleon was in Paris,—a general without soldiers, and a sovereign without subjects. The prestige of his name was gone; and had the Chamber of Deputies invested him with the Dictatorship, as was suggested, it would have been "a barren sceptre in his gripe," and the utmost stretch of power could not have collected materials to meet the impending invasion. At no period did he show such irresolution as at this time. He tendered his abdication, and it was accepted. He offered his services as a soldier, and they were declined. He had ceased, for the moment, to be anything to France. Yet he lingered for days about the capital, the inhabitants of which were too intent in gazing at the storm, ready to burst upon them, to be mindful of his existence. There was, however, one exception. Theboyswere still faithful to him, and were more interested in his position than in that of the enemy at their gates.
There was a show of resistance. The fragments of the army of Belgium gathered round Paris; the National Guard, or militia of the city, was marched out; and the youth of the colleges were furnished with field-pieces and artillery officers, who drilled them into very effective cannoneers, and they took naturally to the business, pronouncing it decidedly better fun than hard study. They were of an age which is full of animal courage, and their only fear was a peremptory order from parents or guardians to leave college and return home. Some of my school-fellows, anticipating such an injunction, joined the camp outside the city, and saw service enough to talk about for the remainder of their lives.
One morning, I was at the Lyceum, where all were prepared for an immediate order to march, and each one was making his last arrangements. No person could have supposed that these young men expected to be engaged, within a few hours, in mortal combat. They were in the highest spirits, and looked forward to the hoped-for battle as though it were to be the most amusing thing imaginable. While I was there, a false report came in that Napoleon had resumed the command of the army. The excitement instantly rose to fever-heat, and the demonstration told what hold he still had on these his steadfast friends. From our position the rear of the army was but a short distance, while the advanced portions of it were engaged. Versailles had been entered by the Allies, who were attacked and driven out by the French under Vandamme. The cannonade was at one time as continuous as the roll of a drum. Prisoners were guarded through the streets, and wagons, conveying wounded men, were continually passing.
Stragglers from the routed army of Waterloo were to be met in all directions, many of them disabled by their pursuers, or the fatigues of a harried retreat. Pride was forgotten in extreme misery, and they were grateful for any attention or assistance. One of them was taken into our institution as a servant. He had been in the army eighteen years, fifteen of which he had served as drummer. He had been in some of the severest battles, had gone through the Russian campaign, and was among the few of his regiment who survived the carnage of Waterloo. And yet this man, who had been familiar with death more than half his life, and who at times talked as though he were a perfect tornado in the field, was as arrant a poltroon as ever skulked.
After the Allied Troops entered Paris, and were divided among the inhabitants, some Prussian cavalry soldiers were quartered on us. Collisions occasionally took place between them and the scholars; and in one instance, one of them entered a study-room in an insulting manner, and in consequence thereof made a progress from the top of the stairs to the bottom with a celerity that would have done credit to his regiment in a charge. His comrades armed themselves to avenge the indignity, and the students, eager for the fray, sallied out to meet them with pistols and fencing-foils, the latter with buttons snapped off and points sharpened. There was hopeful promise of a very respectable skirmish; but it was nipped in the bud by the interposition of our peace-making instructors, aided by the authority of a Prussian officer. When the affair was over, some wonder was expressed why our fire-eating military attendant had not given us his professional services; and, on search being made, we found him snugly stowed away in a hole under the stairs, where he had crept on the first announcement of hostilities. He afterwards confessed to me that he was a coward, and that no one could imagine what he had suffered in his agonies of fear during his various campaigns. Yet he came very near being rewarded for extraordinary valor and coolness. His regiment was advancing on the enemy, and as he was mechanically beating the monotonouspas de charge, not knowing whether he was on his head or his heels, a shot cut the band by which his drum was suspended, and as it fell, he caught it, and without stopping, held it in one hand while he continued to beat the charge with the other. An officer of rank saw the action, and riding up, said, "Your name, brave fellow? You shall have the cross of honor for that gallant deed." He told me he really did not know what he was doing; he was too frightened to think about anything. But he added, that it was a pity the general was killed in that very battle, as it robbed him of the promised decoration.
I mention this incident as an evidence of what diversified materials an army is composed, and that the instruments of military despotism are not necessarily endowed with personal courage, the discipline of the mass compensating for individual imperfection. It also gives evidence that luck has much to do in the fortunes of this world, and that many a man who "bears his blushing honors thick upon him" would as poorly stand a scrutiny as to the means by which they were acquired, as our friend, the drummer, had he been enabled to strut about, in piping times of peace, with a strip of red ribbon at his button-hole.
While preparations were making for the defence of Paris, and the alarmed citizens feared, what was at one time threatened, that the defenders would be driven in, and the streets become a scene of warfare, involving all conditions in the chances of indiscriminate massacre, the powers that were saw the futility of resistance, and opening negotiations with the enemy, closed the war by capitulation. Whatever relief this may have been to the people generally, it was a sad blow to the martial ardor of my schoolmates. Their opinion of the transaction was expressed in language by no means complimentary to their temporary rulers. To lose such an opportunity for a fight was a height of absurdity for which treason and cowardice were inadequate terms. Their military visions melted away, the field-pieces were wheeled off, the army officers bade them farewell, they were required to deliver up their arms, and they found themselves back again to their old bondage, reduced to the inglorious necessity of attending prayers and learning lessons.
The Hundred Days were over. The Allies once more poured into France, and in their train came back the poor, despised, antiquated Bourbons, identifying themselves with the common enemy, and becoming a byword and a reproach, which were to cling to them until they should be driven into hopeless banishment. The King reentered Paris, accompanied by foreign soldiers. I saw him pass the Boulevard, and I then hastened across the Garden to await his arrival at the Tuileries, standing near the spot where, three months before, I had seen Napoleon. The tricolor was no longer there, but the white flag again floated over the place so full of historical recollections. Louis XVIII soon reached this ancestral abode of his family, and having mounted, with some difficulty and expenditure of breath, to the second story, he waddled into the balcony which overlooked the crowd silently waiting for the expected speech, and, leaning ponderously on the railing, he kissed his hand, and said, in a loud voice, "Good day, my children." This was the exordiam, body, and peroration of his address, and it struck his audience so ludicrously, that a laugh spread among them, until it became general, and all seemed in the best possible humor. The King laughed, too, evidently regarding his reception as highly flattering. The affair turned out well, for the multitude parted in a merry mood, considering his Majesty rather a jolly old gentleman, and making sundry comparisons between him and the late tenant, illustrative of the difference between King Stork and King Log.
Paris was crowded with foreign soldiers. The streets swarmed with them; their encampments filled the public gardens; they drilled in the open squares and on the Boulevards; their sentinels stood everywhere. Their presence was a perpetual commentary on the vanity of that glory which is dependent on the sword. They gazed at triumphal monuments erected to commemorate battles which had subjected their own countries to the iron rule of conquest. They stood by columns on which the history of their defeat was cast from their captured cannon, and by arches whose friezes told a boastful tale of their subjugation. They passed over bridges whose names reminded them of fields which had witnessed their headlong rout. They strolled through galleries where the masterpieces of art hung as memorials that their political existence had been dependent on the will of a victorious foe. Attempts were made to destroy these trophies of national degradation; but, in some instances, the skill of the architect and the fidelity of the builder were an overmatch for the hasty ire of an incensed soldiery, and withstood the attacks until admiration for the work brought shame on their efforts to demolish it.
But for the Parisians there was a calamity in reserve, which sank deeper into their souls than the fluttering of hostile banners in their streets, or the clanging tread of an armed enemy on their door-stones. It was decided that the Gallery of the Louvre should be despoiled, and that the works of art, which had been collected from all nations, making that receptacle the marvel of the age, should be restored to their legitimate owners. A wail went up from the universal heart of France at this sad judgment. It was felt that this great loss would be irreparable. Time, the soother of all sorrow, might restore her worn energies, recruit her wasted population, cover her fields with abundance, and, turning the activity of an intelligent people into industrial channels, clothe her with renewed wealth and power. But the magnificence of that collection, once departed, could never come to her again; and the lover of beauty, instead of finding under one roof whatever genius had created for the worship of the ages, would have to wander over all Europe, seeking in isolated and widely-separated positions the riches which at the Louvre were strewed before him in congregated prodigality. But lamentations were in vain. The miracles of human inspiration were borne to the congenial climes which originated them, to have, in all after time, the tale of their journeyings an inseparable appendage to their history, and even their intrinsic merit to derive additional lustre from the perpetual boast, that they had been considered worthy a place in the Gallery of Napoleon.
In the general amnesty which formed an article in the capitulation of Paris, there was no apprehension that revenge would demand an atonement. But hardly had the Bourbons recommenced their reign, when, in utter disregard of the faith of treaties, they sought satisfaction for their late precipitate flight in assailing those who had been instrumental in causing it. Many of their intended victims found safety in foreign lands. Labedoyère, who joined the Emperor with his regiment, was tried and executed. Lavalette was condemned, but escaped through the heroism of his wife and the generous devotion of three Englishmen. Ney was shot in Paris. I would dwell a moment on his fate, not only because circumstances gave me a peculiar interest in it, but from the fact that it had more effect in drawing a dividing line between the royal family and the French people than any event that occurred during their reign. It was treasured up with a hate that found no fit utterance until the memorable Three Days of 1830; and when the insurgents stormed the Tuileries, their cries bore evidence that fifteen years had not diminished the bitter feeling engendered by that vindictive, unnecessary, and most impolitic act.
During the Hundred Days, and shortly before the battle of Waterloo, I was, one Sunday afternoon, in the Luxembourg Garden, where the fine weather had brought out many of the inhabitants of that quarter. The lady I was accompanying remarked, as we walked among the crowd, "There is Marshal Ney." He had joined the promenaders, and his object seemed to be, like that of the others, to enjoy an hour of recreation. Probably the next time he crossed those walks was on the way to the place of his execution, which was between the Garden and the Boulevard. At the time of his confinement and trial at the Luxembourg Palace, the gardens were closed. I usually passed through them twice a week, but was now obliged to go round them. Early one morning, I stopped at the room of a medical student, in the vicinity, and, while there, heard a discharge of musketry. We wondered at it, but could not conjecture its cause; and although we spoke of the trial of Marshal Ney, we had so little reason to suppose that his life was in jeopardy, that neither of us imagined that volley was his death-knell. As I continued on my way, I passed round the Boulevard, and reaching the spot I have named, I saw a few men and women, of the lowest class, standing together, while a sentinel paced to and fro before a wall, which was covered with mortar, and which formed one side of the place. I turned in to the spot and inquired what was the matter. A man replied,—"Marshal Ney has been shot here, and his body has just been removed." I looked at the soldier, but he was gravely going through his monotonous duty, and I knew that military rule forbade my addressing him. I looked down; the ground was wet with blood. I turned to the wall, and seeing it marked by balls, I attempted, with my knife, to dig out a memorial of that day's sad work, but the soldier motioned me away. I afterwards revisited the place, but the wall had been plastered over, and no indications remained where the death-shot had penetrated.
The sensation produced by this event was profound and permanent. Many a heart, inclined towards the Bourbons, was alienated by it forever. Families which had rejoiced at the Restoration now cursed it in their bitterness, and from that day dated a hostility which knew no reconciliation. The army and the youth of France demanded, why a soldier, whose whole life had been passed in her service, should be sacrificed to appease a race that was a stranger to the country, and for which it had no sympathy. A gloom spread like a funeral pall over society, and even those who had blamed the Marshal for joining the Emperor were now among his warmest defenders. The print-shops were thronged with purchasers eager to possess his portrait and to hang it in their homes, with a reverence like that attaching to the image of a martyred saint. Had he died at Waterloo, as he led on the Imperial Guard to their last charge, when five horses were shot under him, and his uniform, riddled by balls, hung about him in tatters, he would not have had such an apotheosis as was now given him, with one simultaneous movement, by all classes of his countrymen.
The inveterate intention of the reigning family was to obliterate every mark that bore the impress of Napoleon. Wherever the initial of his name had been inserted on the public edifices, it was carefully erased; his statues were broken or removed; prints of him could not be exposed for sale; and it appeared to be their fixed determination to drive him from men's memories. But he had left mementos which jealousy could not conceal nor petty malice destroy. His Code was still the law of the land; the monuments of his genius were thickly scattered wherever his dominion had extended; his mighty name was on every tongue; and as time mellowed the remembrance of him, the good he had done survived and the evil was forgotten or extenuated.
Whoever would judge this man should consider the times which produced him and the fearful authority he wielded. He came to take his place among the rulers of the earth, while she was rocking with convulsions, seeking regeneration through the baptism of blood. He came as a connecting link between anarchy and order, an agent of destiny to act his part in the great tragedy of revolution, the end of which is not yet. His mission was to give a lesson to sovereigns and people, to humble hereditary power, and to prove by his own career the unsubstantial character of a government which deludes the popular will that creates it. During his captivity, he understood the true causes of his overthrow, and talked of them with an intelligence which misfortune had saddened down into philosophy. He saw that the secret of his reverses was not to be found in the banded confederacy of kings, but in the forfeited sympathy of the great masses of men, who felt with him, and moved with him, and bade him God-speed, until he abandoned the distinctive principle which advanced him, and relinquished their affection for royal affiances and the doubtful friendship of monarchs. His better nature was laid aside, his common sense became merged in court etiquette, he sacrificed his conscience to his ambition, and the Man was forgotten in the Emperor.
It is creditable to the world, that his divorce did more, perhaps, than anything else to alienate the respect and attachment of mankind; and many who could find excuses for his gravest public misdeeds can never forgive this impiety to the household gods.
I was most forcibly impressed with the relation between him and Josephine, in a visit I made to Malmaison a short time subsequent to her death, which occurred soon after his first abdication. It was the place where they had lived together, before the imperial diadem had seared his brain; and it was the chosen spot of her retreat, when he, "the conqueror of kings, sank to the degradation of courting their alliance." The house was as she left it. Not a thing had been moved, the servants were still there, and the order and comfort of the establishment were as though her return were momently expected. The plants she loved were carefully tended, and her particular favorites were affectionately pointed out. The old domestic who acted as my guide spoke low, as if afraid of disturbing her repose, or as if the sanctity of death still pervaded the apartments. He could not mention her without emotion; and he told enough of her quiet, unobtrusive life, of her kindness to the poor, of her gentleness to all about her, to account for the devotion of her dependants. The evidences of her refined taste were everywhere, and there were tokens that her love for her husband had survived his injustice and desertion. After his second marriage, he occasionally visited her, and she never allowed anything to be disturbed which reminded her that he had been there. Books were lying open on the table as he had left them; the chair on which he sat was still where he had arisen from it; the flower he had plucked withered where he had dropped it. Every article he had touched was sacred, and remained unprofaned by other hands. Doubtless, long after he had returned to his brilliant capital, and all remembrance of her was lost in the glittering court assembled about the fair-haired daughter of Austria, that lone woman wandered, in solitary sadness, through the places which had been hallowed by his presence, and gazed on the senseless objects consecrated by his passing attention.
After his last abdication, he retired once more to Malmaison, where he passed the few days that remained, until he bade a final farewell to the scenes which he had known at the dawn of his prosperity. No man can tell his thoughts during those lonely hours. His wife was in the palace of her ancestors, and his child was to know him no more. He could hear the din of marching soldiers, and the roar of distant battle, but they were nothing to him now. His wand was broken, the spell was over, the spirits that ministered to him had vanished, and the enchanter was left powerless and alone. But, in the still watches of the night, a familiar form may have stood beside him, and a well-known voice again whispered to him in the kindly tones of by-gone years. The crown, the sceptre, the imperial purple, the long line of kings, for which he had renounced a woman worth them all, must have faded from his memory in the swarming recollections of his once happy home. He could not look around him without seeing in every object an accusing angel; and if a human heart throbbed in his bosom, retribution came before death.
Yet call him not up for judgment, without reflecting that his awful elevation and the gigantic task he had assumed had perverted a heart naturally kind and affectionate, and left him little leisure to devote to the virtues which decorate domestic life. The numberless anecdotes related of him, the charm with which he won to himself all whom he attempted to conciliate, the warm attachment of those immediately about him, tend to the belief that there was much of good in him. But his eye was continually fixed on the star he saw blazing before him, and in his efforts to follow its guidance, he heeded not the victims he crushed in his onward progress. He considered men as mere instruments to extend his dominion, and he used them with wasteful expenditure, to advance his projects or to secure his conquests. But he was not cruel, nor was he steeled to human misery. Had he been what he is sometimes represented, he never could have retained the ascendency over the minds of his followers, which, regardless of defeat and suffering and death, lived on when even hope had gone.
Accusatory words are easily spoken, and there is often a disposition to condemn, without calculating the compelling motives which govern human actions, or the height of place which has given to surrounding objects a coloring and figure not to be measured by the ordinary rules of ethics. Many a man who cannot bear a little brief authority without abusing it, who lords it over a few dependants with insolent and arbitrary rule, whose temper makes everybody uncomfortable within the limited sphere of his government and whose petty tyranny turns his own home into a despotic empire, can pronounce a sweeping doom against one who was clothed with irresponsible power, who seemed elevated above the accidents of humanity, whose audience-chamber was thronged by princes, whose words were as the breath of life, and who dealt out kingdoms to his kindred like the portions of a family inheritance. Let censure, then, be tempered with charity, nor be lightly bestowed on him who will continue to fill a space in the annals of the world when the present shall be merged in that shadowy realm where fact becomes mingled with fable, and the reality, dimmed by distance, shall be so transfigured by poetry and romance, that it may even be doubted whether he ever lived.
Seventeen years after the period which I have attempted to illustrate by a few incidents, I stood by his grave at St. Helena. I was returning from a long residence in the East, and, having doubled the stormy Cape of Good Hope, looked forward with no little interest to a short repose at the halting-place between India and Europe. But when I saw its blue mass heaving from the ocean, the usual excitement attendant on the cry of "Land!" was lost in the absorbing feeling, that there Napoleon Bonaparte died and was buried. The lonely rock rose in solitary barrenness, a bleak and mournful monument of some rude caprice of Nature, which has thrown it out to stand in cheerless desolation amidst the broad waters of the Atlantic. The day I passed there was devoted to the place where the captive wore away the weary and troubled years of his imprisonment, and to the little spot which he himself selected when anticipating the denial of his last wish,—now fully answered,—"that his ashes might repose on the banks of the Seine, in the midst of that French people whom he had so much loved."
There was nothing in or about the house to remind one of its late occupant. It was used as a granary. The apartments were filled with straw; a machine for threshing or winnowing was in the parlor; and the room where he died was now converted into a stable, a horse standing where his bed had been. The position was naked and comfortless, being on the summit of a hill, perpetually swept by the trade-winds, which suffered no living thing to stand, except a few straggling, bare, shadeless trees, which contributed to the disconsolate character of the landscape. The grave was in a quiet little valley. It was covered by three plain slabs of stone, closely surrounded by an iron railing; a low wooden paling extended a small distance around; and the whole was overhung by three decaying willows. The appearance of the place was plain and appropriate. Nothing was wanting to its unadorned and affecting simplicity. Ornament could not have increased its beauty, nor inscription have added to its solemnity.
The mighty conqueror slept in the territory of his most inveterate foes; but the path to his tomb was reverently trodden, and those who had stood opposed to him in life forgot that there had been enmity between them. Death had extinguished hostility; and the pilgrims who visited his resting-place spoke kindly of his memory, and, hoarding some little token, bore it to their distant homes to be prized by their posterity as having been gathered at his grave.
The dome of the Invalides now rises over his remains; his statue again caps the column that commemorates his exploits; and one of his name, advanced by the sole magic of his glory, controls, with arbitrary will and singular ability, the destinies, not of France only, but of Europe.
The nations which united for his overthrow now humbly bow before the family they solemnly pledged themselves should never again taste power, and, with ill-concealed distrust and anxiety, deprecate a resentment that has not been weakened by years nor forgotten in alliances.
Not to them alone has Time hastened to bring that retributive justice which falls alike on empires and individuals. The son of "The Man" moulders in an Austrian tomb, leaving no trace that he has lived; while the lineal descendant of the obscure Creole, of the deposed empress, of the divorced wife, sits on the throne of Clovis and Charlemagne, of Capet and Bonaparte. Within the brief space of one generation, within the limit of one man's memory, vengeance has revolved full circle; and while the sleepless Nemesis points with unresting finger to the barren rock and the insulted captive, she turns with meaning smile to the borders of the Seine, where mausoleum and palace stand in significant proximity,—the one covering the dust of the first empire, the other the home of the triumphant grandson of Josephine.
* * * * *
Said Fortune to a common spit,"Your rust and grease I'll rid ye on,And make ye in a twinkling fitFor Ireland's Sword of Gideon!"
In vain! what Nature meant for baseAll chance for good refuses;M. gave one gleam, then turned apaceTo dirtiest kitchen uses.