The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858

I know of no writer who has so thoroughly understood the wonderful eloquence of Napoleon as Lord Brougham. He has pronounced the address to the Old Guard, at Fontainebleau, "a masterpiece of dignified and pathetic composition"; and the speech at the Champ de Mars, he says, "is to be placed amongst the most perfect pieces of simple and majestic eloquence." Napoleon certainly knew well the people with whom he had to deal, and his concise, nervous, comprehensive sentences told upon French feeling like shocks of a galvanic battery. What would have been absurd, if addressed to the soldiers of any other nation, was exactly the thing to fire his own with irresistible energy. At the battle of the Pyramids he said to them, "Forty centuries look upon your deeds," and they understood him. He pointed to "the sun of Austerlitz," at the dawn of many a decisive day, and they felt that it rose to look on their eagles victorious. If the criterion of eloquence be its power over the passions, that of Napoleon Bonaparte has been rarely equalled. It was always the right thing at the right time, and produced precisely the effect it aimed at. It was never more apparent than in the address in question. There were passages which thrilled the martial spirit of the land, and quickened into life the old associations connected with days of glory. Marshal Ney said, at his trial, that there was one sentence1 in it which no French soldier could resist, and which drew the whole of his army over to the Emperor.

Such was the paper, which was read amidst the mad demonstrations of my schoolfellows. Their extravagance knew no limits; studies were neglected; and the recitations, next morning, demonstrated to our discomforted teachers that the minds of their pupils had passed the night on the march from Cannes to Paris.

The court journals spoke lightly of the whole matter, pronounced the "usurper" crazy, and predicted that he would be brought to the capital in chains. There were sometimes rumors that he was defeated and slain, and again that he was a prisoner at the mercy of the king. The telegraphic despatches were not made public, and the utmost care was practised by the government to conceal the fact that his continually increasing columns were rapidly approaching. There appeared to be no alteration in the usual routine of the royal family, and there was no outward sign of the mortal consternation that was shaking them to the centre of their souls. The day before the entrance of the Emperor, I happened to be passing through the court-yard of the Tuileries, when an array of carriages indicated that the inmates of the palace were about to take their daily drive. As my position was favorable, I stopped to look at the display of fine equipages, and soon saw part of the family come down and go out, as I supposed, for their morning recreation. It was, however, no party of pleasure, and they did not stop to take breath until they had passed the frontiers of France. They had information which was unknown to the public, and they thought it advisable to quit the premises before the new lessee took possession.

The next afternoon, my father, who was at that time in Paris, called for me, told me that a change was evidently about to take place, and wished me to accompany him. As we passed through the streets, the noise of our carriage was the only sound heard. Most of the shops were closed; few persons were abroad, and we scarcely met or passed a single vehicle. As we drew near the Tuileries the evidences of life increased, and when we drove into the Place du Carrousel, the quadrangle formed by the palace and the Louvre, the whole immense area was filled with people; yet the stillness was awful. Men talked in an undertone, as they stood grouped together, apparently unwilling to communicate their thoughts beyond their particular circle. The sound of wheels and the appearance of the carriage caused many to rush towards us; but, seeing strangers, they let us pursue our way until we drew up near the Arch of Triumph.

It was a strange sight, that sea of heads all around us heaving in portentous silence at the slightest incident. They felt that something, they hardly knew what, was about to take place. They were ignorant of the exact state of things; and as the royal standard was still on the palace, they supposed the king might be there. Now and then, a few officers, having an air of authority, would walk firmly and quickly through the crowd, as though they knew their errand and were intent on executing it. Again, a band of Polytechnic scholars, always popular with the mob, would be cheered as they hurried onward. Occasionally, small bodies of soldiers passed, going to relieve guard; and as they bore the Bourbon badge, they were sometimes noticed by a feeble cry of allegiance. At last, a drum was heard at one of the passages, and a larger number of troops entered the square. They were veteran-looking warriors, and bore upon them the marks of dust-stained travel. Their bronzed faces were turned towards the flag that floated over the building, and, as they marched directly towards the entrance, the multitude crowded around them, and a few voices cried, "Vive le Roi!" The commanding officer cast a proud look about him, took off his cap, raised it on the point of his sword, showing the tricolored cockade, and shouted, "Vive l'Empereur!" The charm was broken; and such a scene as passed before me no man sees twice in this world. All around those armed men there burst a cry which, diverging from that centre, spread to the outer border, till every voice of that huge mass was shrieking in perfect frenzy. Those nearest to the soldiers rushed upon them, hugging them like long-lost friends; some danced, or embraced the man next to them; some laughed like maniacs, and some cried outright. The place, where a few minutes before there arose only a confused hum of suppressed whisperings, now roared like a rock-bound sea-coast in a tempest. As if by magic, men appeared decorated with tricolored ribbons, and all joined with the soldiers in moving directly toward the place where the white flag was flapping its misplaced triumph over eyes which glared at it in hatred and hands which quivered to rend it piecemeal. Their wishes were anticipated; for the foremost rank had scarcely reached the threshold of the palace, when down went the ensign of the Bourbons, and the much-loved tricolor streamed out amidst thunder shouts which seemed to shake the earth.

A revolution was accomplished. One dynasty had supplanted another; and an epoch, over which the statesman ponders and the historian philosophizes, appeared to be as much a matter-of-course sort of thing as the removal of one family from a mansion to make room for another. In this case, however, the good old custom of leaving the tenement in decent condition was neglected; the last occupants having been too precipitate in their departure to conform to the usages of good housekeeping by consulting the comfort and convenience of their successor. On the contrary, to solace themselves for the mortification of ejection, the retiring household pocketed some of the loose articles, denominated crown jewels, which were afterwards recovered, however, by a swap for one of the family, who was impeded in his retreat and flattered into the presumption that he was worth exchanging.

We alighted from our carriage and passed through the basement-passage of the palace into the garden. We walked to the further end, encountering people who had heard the shouting and were hurrying to ascertain its meaning. At a bend of the path we met Mr. Crawford, our Minister at Paris, with Mr. Erving, U.S. Minister to Spain, and they eagerly inquired, "What news?" My father turned, and, walking back with them a few steps to where the building was visible, pointed to the standard at its summit. Nothing more was necessary. It told the whole story.

I left them and hurried back to the institution to which I belonged. I was anxious to relate the events of the day, and, as I was the only one of the pupils who had witnessed them, I had a welcome which might well have excited the jealousy of the Emperor. As far as the school was concerned, I certainly divided honors with him that evening. It was, however, a limited copartnership, and expired at bedtime.

Napoleon entered the city about eight o'clock that night. We were nearly two miles from his line of progress, but we could distinctly trace it by the roar of voices, which sounded like a continuous roll of distant thunder.

I saw him, two days after, at a window of the Tuileries. I stopped directly under the building, where twenty or thirty persons had assembled, who were crying out for him with what seemed to me most presumptuous familiarity. They called him "Little Corporal,"—"Corporal of the Violet,"—said they wanted to see him, and that he must come to the window. He looked out twice during the half-hour I staid there, had on the little cocked hat which has become historical, smiled and nodded good-naturedly, and seemed to consider that something was due from him to the "many-headed" at that particular time. Such condescension was not expected or given in his palmy days, but he felt now his dependence on the people, and had been brought nearer to them by misfortune.

It was said, at the time, that he was much elated on his arrival, but that he grew reserved, if not depressed, as his awful responsibility became more and more apparent. He had hoped for a division in the Allied Councils, but they were firm and united, and governed only by the unalterable determination to overwhelm and destroy him. He saw that his sole reliance was on the chances of war; that he had to encounter enemies whose numbers were inexhaustible, and who, having once dethroned him, would no longer be impeded by the terror of his name. There was, besides, no time to recruit his diminished battalions, or to gather the munitions of war. The notes of preparation sounded over Europe, and already the legions of his foes were hastening to encircle France with a cordon of steel. The scattered relics of the "Grand Army" which had erected and sustained his empire were hastily collected, and, as they in turn reached Paris, were reviewed on the Carrousel and sent forward to concentre on the battle-ground that was to decide his fate. No branch of art was idle that could contribute to the approaching conflict. Cannon were cast with unprecedented rapidity, and the material of war was turned out to the extent of human ability. But he was deficient in everything that constitutes an army. Men, horses, arms, equipage, all were wanting. The long succession of dreadful wars which had decimated the country had also destroyed, beyond the possibility of immediate repair, that formidable arm which had decided so many battles, and which is peculiarly adapted to the impetuosity of the French character. The cavalry was feeble, and it was evident, even to an unpractised eye, as the columns marched through the streets, that the horses were unequal to their riders. The campaign of Moscow had been irretrievably disastrous to this branch of the service. Thirty thousand horses had perished in a single night, and the events which succeeded had almost entirely exhausted this indispensable auxiliary in the tactics of war.

The expedients to which the government was reduced were evident in the processions of unwashed citizens, which paraded the streets as a demonstration of the popular determination to "do or die." Whatever could be raked from the remote quarters of Paris was marshalled before the Emperor. Faubourgs, which in the worst days of the Revolution had produced its worst actors, now poured out their squalid and motley inhabitants, and astonished the more refined portions of the metropolis with this eruption of semi-civilization.

[To be continued.]

MY JOURNAL TO MY COUSIN MARY

[Concluded.]

IV

June.

I can no longer complain that I see no one but Kate, for she has an ardent admirer in one of our neighbors. He comes daily to watch her, in the Dumbiedikes style of courtship, and seriously interferes with our quiet pursuits. Besides this "braw wooer," we have another intruder upon our privacy.

Kate told me, a fortnight ago, that she expected a young friend of hers, a Miss Alice Wellspring, to pay her a visit of some weeks. I did not have the ingratitude to murmur aloud, but I was secretly devoured by chagrin.

How irksome, to have to entertain a young lady; to be obliged to talk when I did not feel inclined; to listen when I was impatient and weary; to have to thank her, perhaps fifty times a day, for meaningless expressions of condolence or affected pity; to tell her every morning how I was! Intolerable!

Ten chances to one, she was a giggling, flirting girl,—my utter abhorrence. I had seldom heard Lina speak of her. I only knew that she and her half-brother came over from Europe in the same vessel with my sister, and that, as he had sailed again, the young lady was left rather desolate, having no near relatives.

Miss Wellspring arrived a week ago, and I found that my fears had been groundless. She is an unaffected, pretty little creature,—a perfect child, with the curliest chestnut hair, deep blue eyes, and the brightest cheeks, lips, and teeth. She has a laugh that it is a pleasure to hear, and a quick blush which tempts to mischief. One wants continually to provoke it, it is so pretty, and the slightest word of compliment calls it up.

What the cherry is to the larger and more luscious fruits, or the lily of the valley to glowing and stately flowers, or what the Pleiades are among the grander constellations, my sister's protégée is among women;—it is ridiculous to call her Kate's friend. Many men would find their ideal of loveliness in her. She would surely excite a tender, protecting, cherishing affection. But where is there room in her for the wondering admiration, the loving reverence, which would make an attempt to win her an aspiration? And that is what my love must be, if it is to have dominion over me.

Ah, Mary! I forget continually that for me there is no such joy in the future.

"Hope springs eternal in the human breast,"

and no reasoning can quell it. I subdue my fancy to my fate sometimes, as a rational creature ought surely to do; but then I suffer acutely, and am wretched; while in a careless abandonment of myself to any and every dream of coming joy I find present contentment. I cannot help myself. I shall continue to dream, I am sure, until I have grown so old that I can resign all earthly hopes without sighing. I pray to be spared the sight of any object which, by rousing within me the desire of present possession, may renew the struggle with despair, to which I nearly succumbed when my profession was wrenched from me.

I was at first surprised to find that my sister cherished a more exceeding tenderness for her young friend than I had ever seen her manifest for any one; but my astonishment ceased when I found out that Alice's half-brother, who bears a different name, is the gentleman I saw with Kate in the box-tree arbor.

Since she has been here, Alice has been occupied in writing to different relatives about the arrangements for her future home,—a matter that is still unsettled. She brings almost all her letters to us, to be corrected; for she has a great dread of orthographic errors.

I was lying upon my couch, in the porch, yesterday, and through the low window I could see Alice as she sat at her writing-desk. Kate was sewing beside her, but just out of my sight. The young girl's hand flew over the paper, and a bright smile lighted up her face as she wrote.

"This is a different kind of letter from yesterday's, I fancy," said Kate,—"not a business, but a pleasure letter."

"Yes, so it is: for it is to Brother Walter, and all about you! When he wrote to tell me to love you and think much of your advice, and all that, he said something else, which requires a full answer, I can tell you!"

Kate was silent. The letter was finished, and Alice sprang up, tired of her long application. I heard her kiss my sister, who then said, with a lame attempt at unconcern,—

"I suppose I am to look over your letter while you run about to rest yourself."

Alice quickly answered, "No, thank you. I won't give you the trouble.

The subject will make Walter blind to faults."

"But do you suppose that I have no curiosity as to what you have said about me?"

"I have said nothing but good. A little boasting about your conquests is the worst. I mention your Dumbiedikes most flatteringly. I don't make fun of him. I only want to scare Walter a bit."

"But, Alice, you don't know the circumstances. Do let me see the letter; it may be important"–

"No, no! you shall never see it! Indeed, no!" cried the girl, running across the porch and down the garden. She did not want any fastidious caution to suppress the fine things she had said, or cause the trouble of writing another letter. So she ran out of hearing of the entreaties of her friend.

Ben came to the door to say that Old Soldier and the cabriolet were ready for my daily drive. While we were gone, the boy would call and take Alice's letter to the post. The writer of it was out of sight and hearing. Here was a dilemma!

Kate threw her thimble and scissors into her box without her usual care, and I heard her walking to and fro. She passed the window at every turn, and I could see that her cheek was very pale, her eyes fixed upon the floor, and her finger pressed to her lip. She was thinking intently, in perfect abstraction. I could see the desk with the open letter upon it. At every turn Kate drew nearer to it.

It was a moment of intense temptation to my sister. I knew it, and I watched her struggles with a beating heart. It was a weighty matter with her. A belief in a successful rival might give Mr. – pain,—might cause him to doubt her truth and affection,—might induce him to forget her, or cast her off in bitter indignation at her supposed fickleness. I could see in her face her alarm at these suppositions. Yes, it was a great temptation to do a very dishonorable action. A word from me would have ended the trial; for it is only in solitude that we are thus assailed. But then where would have been her merit? I should only cheat her out of the sweetest satisfaction in life,—a victory over a wicked suggestion. My presence would make the Evil One take to flight, and now she was wrestling with him. I felt sure she would not be conquered; for I could not have looked on to see her defeat. But who can estimate the power of a woman's curiosity, where the interests which are her very life are concerned?

She paused by the desk. The letter was upside down to her. Her hand was upon it to turn it, and she said boldly, aloud,—having forgotten me entirely,—

"I have a right to know what she says."

Then there was a hesitating pause, while she trembled on the brink of dishonor,—then a revulsion, and an indignant "Pshaw!"

It was a contemptuous denial of her own flimsy self-justification. She snatched away her hand, as she said it, with an angry frown. The blood rushed back to her face.

"I ought to be ashamed of myself!" she exclaimed, energetically. In a minute she was bustling about, putting away her things. In passing the window, now that she was freed from the thraldom of her intense thinking, she saw me lying where I might have been the witness to her inclination to wrong.

She started guiltily, and then began bunglingly to draw from me whether I had noticed anything of it. I took her hands, and looked her full in the face.

"I love you and honor you from the very bottom of my soul, Kate!"

"Not now! You can't! You must despise me!" she answered, turning away with a swelling bosom.

"I declare I never held you in so high estimation. Evil thoughts must come, even to the holiest saint; but only those who admit and welcome them are guilty,—not those who repel and conquer them. Surely not!"

"Thank you, Charlie. That is encouraging and comforting doctrine; and I think it is true. But what a lesson I have had to-day!"

"Yes, it has been a striking one. I will write about it to Mary."

"Oh, no! for mercy's sake don't expose me further!"

"Then you wish her to think you are too immaculate to be even tempted! stronger, purer even than our Saviour! for he knew temptation. You are above it,—are you? Come, Kate,—insincerity, pretension, and cowardice are not your failings, and I shall tell Mary of this incident, which has deeply moved me, and will, I know, really interest her. Here comes Alice."

The little lady presented herself before us all smiles, concealing one hand under her apron.

"Who's lost what I've found?" she cried.

"One of us, of course," said Kate.

"No, neither, so far as I know; but it nearly concerns you, Miss Lina, and I intend to drive a hard bargain."

"What are your terms?"

"Promise faithfully to tell me how it came where I found it, and I will show it to you,—yes, give it to you,—though, perhaps, I have the best claim to it, as nearest of kin to the owner."

Kate changed color, but would not betray too much eagerness.

"I cannot promise," she replied, trying for coolness,—"but if I can, I will tell you all you want to know about it."

Alice could hide it no longer. She held up a ring, with a motto on it in blue enamel. I had seen it upon Kate's finger, but not recently.

"Where did you find it?" asked my sister, with difficulty. She was very pale.

"In the box-tree arbor. How came it there? It was Watty's, for I was with him when he bought it in Venice. I can believe that it is yours; but how came it lost, and trampled into the earth? Didn't you care for it?"

She questioned with an arch smile. She knew better than that, and she was burning with curiosity to understand why finding it moved Kate so deeply. She had a young girl's curiosity about love-affairs. I came to the conclusion that Kate had offered to return the ring on the day they parted, and that it fell to the ground, disregarded by both, occupied, as they were, with great emotions.

"Come," continued Alice,—"did he, or you, throw it away? Speak, and you shall have it."

"I can tell you nothing about it, and I will not claim your treasure-trove. Keep it, Ally."

"Indeed, I won't keep other folks' love-tokens! There,—it belongs on that finger, I know! But do tell me about it!—do! I will tell you something, if you will. Yes, indeed, I have got a secret you would give anything to know! Walter told it to me, and it is about you. He spoke of it in his last letter, and said he meant to—Come, I'll tell you, though he said I mustn't, if you will only let me into the mystery of this ring. The secret is in my letter, and I will let you read it, if you will."

Lina looked at me with meaning eyes. The contents of the letter were doubled in value by this confession, and yet this was no temptation at all. She was not alone.

"You foolish little thing," she said, kissing the sweet, entreating face, "do you suppose I will tell you my secrets, when you are so easily bribed to betray your brother's?"

Alice's conscience was alarmed.

"Why!" she ejaculated. "How near I came to betraying confidence,—and without meaning to do it, either! Oh, how glad I am you did not let me go on so thoughtlessly! I should have been so sorry for it afterwards! I know Walter will tell you himself, some day,—but I have no business to do it, especially as he did not voluntarily make me his confidante; I found out the affair by accident, and he bound me to secresy. Oh, I thank you for stopping me when I was forgetting everything in my eager curiosity! And this letter, too, I offered to show you! How strangely indiscreet!"

"Perhaps I read it while you were gone," said Kate, in a low voice.

"No, you didn't, Kate! You can't make me believe that of you! I know you too well!"

"Indeed!" said Kate, blushing violently; "I can tell you, I came very near it."

"'A miss is as good as a mile,' Lina. And I know you were far enough from anything so mean."

"I was so near as to have my hand upon your letter, Alice dear. One feather's weight more stress of temptation, and I should have fallen."

"Pure nonsense! Isn't it, Charles?"

"Yes. Kate, you need not flatter yourself that you have universal ability, clever as you are. In anything dishonorable you are a perfect incapable, and that is all you have proved this morning."

V