The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 364, April 4, 1829

NAPOLEON AT FONTAINBLEAU,

As related by De Bausset

On the evening of April 8, 1814, De Bausset left Blois, commissioned by Josephine to deliver at Paris, a letter to the Emperor of Austria, and afterwards another at Fontainbleau to her husband. Having executed the first part of this commission, he set out at two in the morning of the 11th of April for Fontainbleau, and arrived at the palace about nine o'clock. He was introduced to Napoleon immediately, and gave him the letter from the empress. "Good Louise!" exclaimed Napoleon, after having read it, and then asked numerous questions as to her health and that of his son. De Bausset expressed his wish to carry back an answer to the empress, and Napoleon promised to give him a letter in the afternoon. He was calm and decided; but his tones were milder, and his manners mere gentle than was his wont. He began talking about Elba, and showed to De B. the maps and books of geography which he had been consulting on the subject of his future little empire. "The air is good," said he, "and the inhabitants well-disposed: I shall not be very ill off there, and I hope Marie-Louise will put up with it as well as I shall." He knew that for the present they were not to meet, but his hope was that when she was once in the possession of the duchy of Parma, she and his son would be allowed to reside with him in the island. But he never saw either again. The prince of Neufchâtel, Berthier, entered the room to demand permission to go to Paris on his private affairs; he would return the next day. After he had left the room, Napoleon said with a melancholy tone:—"Never! he will never return hither!" "What, sire!" replied Maret, who was present, "can that be the farewell of your Berthier?" "Yes! I tell you; he will not return." He did not. At two o'clock in the afternoon Napoleon sent again for De Bausset. He was walking on the terrace under the gallery of Francis I. He questioned De B. as to all he had seen or heard during the late events; he found great fault with the measure adopted by the council in leaving Paris; the letter to his brother, upon which they acted, had been written under very different circumstances; the presence of Louise at Paris would have prevented the treason and defection of many of his soldiers, and he should still have been at the head of a formidable army, with which he could have forced his enemies to quit France and sign an honourable peace. De B. expressed his regret that peace had not been made at Châtillon. "I never could put any confidence," said Napoleon, "in the good faith of our enemies. Every day they made fresh demands, imposed fresh conditions; they did not wish to have peace—and then—I had declared publicly to all France that I would not submit to humiliating terms, although the enemy were on the heights of Montmartre." De B. remarked that France within the Rhine would be one of the finest kingdoms in the world; on which Napoleon, after a pause, said—"I abdicate; but I yield nothing." He ran rapidly over the characters of his principal officers, but dwelt on that of Macdonald. "Macdonald," said he, "is a brave and faithful soldier; it is only during these late events that I have fully appreciated his Worth; his connexion with Moreau prejudiced me against him: but I did him injustice, and I regret much that I did not know him better." Napoleon paused; then after a minute's silence—"See," said he, "what our life is! In the action at Arcis-sur-Aube I fought with desperation, and asked nothing but to die for my country. My clothes were torn to pieces by musket balls—but alas! not one could touch my person! A death which I should owe to an act of despair would be cowardly; suicide does not suit my principles nor the rank I have holden in the world. I am a man condemned to live." He sighed almost to sobbing;—then, after several minutes' silence, he said with a bitter smile—"After all they say, a living camp-boy is worth more than a dead emperor,"—and immediately retired into the palace. It was the last time De Bausset ever saw his master.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

APRIL FOOLS

This day, beyond all contradiction,This day is all thine own, Queen Fiction!And thou art building castles boundlessOf groundless joys, and griefs as groundless;Assuring beauties that the borderOf their new dress is out of order;And schoolboys that their shoes want tying;And babies that their dolls are dying.Lend me, lend me, some disguise;I will tell prodigious lies:All who care for what I sayShall be April fools to-day.First I relate how all the nationIs ruined by Emancipation:How honest men are sadly thwarted;How beads and faggots are imported;How every parish church looks thinner;How Peel has asked the Pope to dinner;And how the Duke, who fought the duel,Keeps good King George on water-gruel.Thus I waken doubts and fearsIn the Commons and the Peers;If they care for what I say,They are April fools to-day.Next I announce to hall and hovelLord Asterisk's unwritten novel.It's full of wit, and full of fashion,And full of taste, and full of passion;It tells some very curious histories,Elucidates some charming mysteries,And mingles sketches of societyWith precepts of the soundest piety.Thus I babble to the hostWho adore the "Morning Post;"If they care for what I say.They are April fools to-day.Then to the artist of my raimentI hint his bankers have stopped payment;And just suggest to Lady LocketThat somebody has picked her pocket—And scare Sir Thomas from the city,By murmuring, in a tone of pity,That I am sure I saw my LadyDrive through the Park with Captain Grady.Off my troubled victims go,Very pale and very low;If they care for what I say,They are April fools to-day.I've sent the learned Doctor TrepanTo feel Sir Hubert's broken kneepan;'Twill rout doctor's seven sensesTo find Sir Hubert charging fences!I've sent a sallow parchment scraperTo put Miss Trim's last will on paper;He'll see her, silent as a mummy,At whist with her two maids and dummy.Man of brief, and man of pill,They will take it very ill;If they care for what I say,They are April fools to-day.And then to her, whose smiles shed light onMy weary lot last year at Brighton,I talk of happiness and marriage,St. George's and a travelling carriage.I trifle with my rosy fetters,I rave about her 'witching letters,And swear my heart shall do no treasonBefore the closing of the season.Thus I whisper in the earOf Louisa Windermere—If she cares for what I say,She's an April fool to-day.And to the world I publish gailyThat all things are improving daily;That suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer,And faith more firm, and love sincerer—That children grow extremely clever—That sin is seldom known, or never—That gas, and steam, and education,Are, killing sorrow and starvation!Pleasant visions—but, alasHow those pleasant visions pass!If you care for what I say,You're an April fool to-day.Last, to myself, when night comes round me,And the soft chain of thought has bound me,I whisper, "Sir, your eyes are killing—You owe no mortal man a shilling—You never cringe for star or garter,You're much too wise to be a martyr—And since you must, be food for vermin,You don't feel much desire for ermine!"Wisdom is a mine, no doubt,If one can but find it out—But whate'er I think or say,I'm an April fool to-day,London Magazine.

"WATER BEWITCHED."

A widow of the name of Betty Falla kept an alehouse in one of the market-towns frequented by the Lammermuir ladies, (Dunse, we believe,) and a number of them used to lodge at her house during the fair. One year Betty's ale turned sour soon after the fair; there had been a thunder-storm in the interim, and Betty's ale was, as they say in that country, "strongest in the water." Betty did not understand the first of these causes, and she did not wish to understand the latter. The ale was not palatable; and Betty brewed again to the same strength of water. Again it thundered, and again the swipes became vinegar. Betty was at her wit's end,—no long journey; but she was breathless.

Having got to her own wit's end, Betty naturally wished to draw upon the stock of another; and where should she find it in such abundance as with the minister of the parish. Accordingly, Betty put on her best, got her nicest basket, laid a couple of bottles of her choicest brandy in the bottom, and over them a dozen or two of her freshest eggs; and thus freighted, she fidgetted off to the manse, offered her peace-offering, and hinted that she wished to speak with his reverence in "preevat."

"What is your will, Betty?" said the minister of Dunse. "An unco uncanny mishap," replied the tapster's wife.

"Has Mattie not been behaving?" said the minister. "Like an innocent lamb," quoth Betty Falla.

"Then—?" said the minister, lacking the rest of the query. "Anent the yill," said Betty.

"The ale!" said the minister; "has any body been drinking and refused to pay?"

"Na," said Betty, "they winna drink a drap."

"And would you have me to encourage the sin of drunkenness?" asked the minister.

"Na, na," said Betty, "far frae that; I only want your kin' han' to get in yill again as they can drink."

"I am no brewer, Betty," said the minister gravely.

"Gude forfend, Sir," said Betty, "that the like o' you should be evened to the gyle tub. I dinna wish for ony thing o' the kind."—"Then what is the matter?" asked the minister.

"It's witched, clean witched; as sure as I'm a born woman," said Betty.

"Naebody else will drink it, an' I canna drink it mysel'."

"You must not be superstitious, Betty," said the minister. "I'm no ony thing o' the kin'," said Betty, colouring, "an' ye ken it yoursel'; but twa brousts wadna be vinegar for naething." (She lowered her voice.) "Ye mun ken, Sir, that o' a' the leddies frae the Lammermuir, that hae been comin' and gaen, there was an auld rudas wife this fair, an' I'm certie she's witched the yill; and ye mun just look into ye'r buiks, an' tak off the withchin!"

"When do you brew, Betty?"—"This blessed day, gin it like you, Sir."

"Then, Betty, here is the thing you want, the same malt and water as usual?"

–"Nae difference, Sir?"

"Then when you have put the water to the malt, go three times round the vat with the sun, and in pli's name put in three shoolfu's of malt; and when you have done that, go three times round the vat, against the sun, and, in the devil's name, take out three bucketfuls of water; and take my word for it, the ale will be better."

"Thanks to your reverence; gude mornin."—Ibid.

THE GATHERER

"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."SHAKSPEARE.

SONG

By Mr. GayThe sun was sunk beneath the hills,The western clouds were lin'd with gold,The sky was clear, the winds were still,The flocks were pent within their fold:When from the silence of the grove,Poor Damon thus despair'd of love.Who seeks to pluck the fragrant roseFrom the bare rock, or oozy beach,Who from each barren weed that grows,Expects the grape, or blushing peach.With equal faith may hope to findThe truth of love in woman-kind.I have no herds, no fleecy care,No fields that wave with golden grain,No meadows green, or gardens fair,A damsel's venal heart to gain.Then all in vain my sighs must prove,For I, alas! have naught but love.How wretched is the faithful youth,Since women's hearts are bought andsold,They ask no vows of sacred truth,Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold.Gold can the frowns of scorn remove,But I, alas! have naught but love.To buy the gems of India's coast,What gold, what treasure will suffice,Not all their fire can ever boastThe living lustre of her eyes.For thee the world too cheap must prove,But I, alas! have naught but love.O Sylvia! since no gems, nor oreCan with thy brighter charms compare,Consider that I proffer moreMore seldom found, a heart sincere.Let treasure meaner beauty's move,Who pays thy worth, must pay in love.

MR. HOOD'S NEW SONGS

The following "announcement" is so characteristic and amusing, that we copy it verbatim et literatim:—The author of "Whims and Oddities" has the honour of informing the public, that, encouraged by the popularity of the Ballads in the first and second series of that work, he intends to communicate a succession of similar vocal crotchets, to run alone without the help of an octavo. Sally Brown, Faithless Nelly Gray, and Mary's Ghost, have been patronised by many public and private singers; but unfortunately they were adapted to as many airs—sometimes even to jigs; and the natural result was an occasional falling-out between the words and the melodies. Judging that it would be better for those verses to be regularly married to music, than that they should form temporary connexions with any rambling tunes about town, Mr. J. Blewitt has at last kindly provided them with airs that are airs of character, and made their alliance with music of the correct and permanent kind. The same gentleman has undertaken the same good office for the forthcoming Comic Ballads; and his well-known skill and talent will insure that all unhappy differences between Sound and Sense will be amicably composed. In fact, the words and the airs will be intended for each other from the cradle—like Paul and Virginia. It is intended that the new Ballads shall start in couples. Two to make a Number, and a number of Numbers may be bound to the library, as a volume, for a term of years. The work will be set with variations. Occasionally there will be a duet or trio, to accommodate those timid vocalists who do not choose to make themselves particular in a solo, or those other singers of sociable habits who prefer giving tongue in a pack. One word about the words. They will be "merry and wise." Not a jest will be admitted that might be liable to misconstruction by the Council of Nice. The Comic Muse has been too apt to mistake liberty for license, and has been proportionably licentious; the Comic Ballads will be as particular as Seneca or Aesop in their regard for good morals. Nothing, in short, will be inserted but what is cut out for the female ear. To conclude—the said Melodies will be issued by Messrs. Clementi and Co., of Cheapside. Be sure to ask for "Comic Melodies," as all others are counterfeits, and not benefits, to the proprietors. The first Number is expected to commence, like Blue Bonnets, with "March;" and the work will be continued regularly through every other month in the calendar.

The other day, a man of ninety-nine was buried at Père-la-chaise, at Paris, and was followed to his grave by twenty children, fifteen grand-children and great grand-children. Happily, such populators are not common! The deceased, it appears, had buried six wives, and married the seventh: he died in the full enjoyment of his senses, and assured his numerous progeny that he did not regret life, as he knew he was about to rejoin the six beloved partners of his days, who had gone before him. Few men, we fear, would be consoled by such an idea in their last moments, or at any moment of their existence!—Literary Gaz.

ABERNETHYANA

The following is the last and best that we have heard of the above-named gentleman. We should premise, that, the details of it are a little altered, with the view of adapting it to "ears polite;" for without some process of this kind, it would not have been presentable. A lady went to the doctor in great distress of mind, and stated to him, that, by a strange accident, she had swallowed a live spider. At first, his only reply was, "whew! whew! whew!" a sort of internal whistling sound, intended to be indicative of supreme contempt. But his anxious patient was not so easily to be repulsed. She became every moment more and more urgent for some means of relief from the dreaded effect of the strange accident she had consulted him about; when, at last, looking round upon the wall, he put up his hand and caught a fly. "There, ma'am," said he, "I've got a remedy for you. Open your mouth; and as soon as I've put this fly into it, shut it close again; and the moment the spider hears the fly buzzing about, up he'll come; and then you can spit them both out together."

LISTON PLAYING MOLL FLAGGON

An AcrosticLovesick people e'en will smile,In spite of cares, and for the whileSadness will not lag on:Tic dolereux will lose its powerOn facial nerves for half an hour,Now Listen plays Moll Flaggon.

J. S. C.

INTENSE COLD

At Astracan, Feb. 19, the cold was 28 deg. below the zero of Reaumur.

ROYAL POET

A volume of poems by the King of Bavaria has just been published at Munich, the profits of which are to be given to an institution devoted to the blind.

The late Mr. Henry Hase succeeded Abraham Newland, as cashier at the Bank of England. Newland is buried in St. Saviour's Church, Southwark. The lyrical celebrity of Abraham Newland will not be forgotten in our times.

ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

A fine white lion and the largest bear died here last week. This bear was the largest of the three in the pit, and was considered to have been the finest in England. He usually seized the largest share of cakes and fruit, and snorted and snarled whenever his companions secured any. He had latterly grown so fat that he could with difficulty ascend the pole; and after eating his usual breakfast, he expired suddenly. Like many other animals we could name, his greatness was his mortal foe—and as Hume grew too pursy to write, so our four-footed friend became too gross to climb. Toby, with all his ill-treatment and attachment to strong ale, is still alive and well.

LIFE

Man is a glass, life is the water,That's weakly walled about:Sin brings in death, death breaks the glass,So runs the water out.

GEO. F.

LINES WRITTEN ON A LADY'S WEEPING AT HER MARRIAGE

When on her love, with heart sincere,The maid bestowed her hand, she dropt a tear.Delightful omen of her life's employ,For they who sow in tears shall reap in joy.

J. R. R.

1

These translations are somewhat freely made.

2

Only the tower and the choir have yet been restored; but the fidelity with which these portions have been executed, heightens our anxiety for the renovation of the whole structure. The repairs of the south transept will, we believe, be shortly commenced, but the fate of the nave and aisles is not yet decided. These are in a dilapidated condition.

Mr. Gwilt has already expended much time and research into the history of this very interesting structure. On our last week-day visit to the church, we saw the fine arch of a Saxon door just uncovered after a concealment of many ages, in one of the surveys of this erudite artist, who is sedulously attached to the study of antiquities, and is an honour to his profession. We ought not to forget the altar-screen which has lately been restored under Mr. Gwilt's superintendence. Indeed, the inspection of this venerable fabric will repay a walk from the most remote corner of the metropolis.

3

Snowdon