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Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXIV, May 1852, Vol. IV

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Title: Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXIV, May 1852, Vol. IV

Author: Various


        
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, NO. XXIV, MAY 1852, VOL. IV ***

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NO. XXIV.--MAY, 1852.--VOL. IV.




RODOLPHUS.--A FRANCONIA STORY.

BY JACOB ABBOTT.


CHAPTER III.

I. ANTONIO.

The person who came in so suddenly to help the boys extinguish the fire
under the corn-barn, on the night of the robbery, was Antonio, or
Beechnut, as the boys more commonly called him. In order to explain how
he came to be there, we must go back a little in our narrative, and
change the scene of it to Mrs. Henry's house at Franconia, where Antonio
lived.

One morning about a week before the robbery, Phonny, Mrs. Henry's son,
and his cousin Malleville, who was at that time making a visit at his
mother's, were out upon the back platform at play, when they saw Antonio
walking toward the barn.

"Children," said Antonio, "we are going into the field to get a great
stone out of the ground. You may go with us if you like."

"Well;" said Phonny, "come, Malleville, let us go."

So the children followed Antonio to the barn. There was a man there, one
of Mrs. Henry's workmen, called James, who was getting out the oxen.
James drove the oxen into the shed, and there attached them to a certain
vehicle called a drag. This drag was formed of two planks placed side by
side, with small pieces nailed along the sides and at the ends. The drag
was shaped at the front so as to turn up a little, in order that it
might not catch in the ground when drawn along. There was a hole in the
front part of the drag for the end of a chain to be passed through, to
draw the drag by. The end of the chain was fastened by a wooden pin
called a _fid_, which was passed through the hook or one of the links,
and this prevented the chain from being drawn back through the hole
again.

While James was attaching the oxen to the drag, Antonio was putting such
tools and implements upon it as would be required for the work. He put
on an iron bar, an ax, a saw, a shovel, and two spare chains.

"Now, children," said he, "jump on."

So Phonny and Malleville jumped on, and Antonio with them. Antonio stood
in the middle of the drag, while Phonny and Malleville took their places
on each side of him, and held on by his arms. James then started the
oxen along, and thus they went into the field.

"And now, Beechnut," said Malleville, "I wish you would sing me the
little song that Agnes sung when she was dancing on the ice that summer
night."

Phonny laughed aloud at this. "Oh, Malleville!" said he; "there could
not be any ice on a summer night."

"Yes, there could," said Malleville, in a very positive tone, "and there
was. Beechnut told me so."

"Oh, that was only one of Beechnut's stories," said Phonny, "made up to
amuse you."

"Well, I don't care," said Malleville, "I want to hear the song again."

Beechnut had told Malleville a story about the fairy Agnes whom he found
dancing upon a fountain one summer night in the woods, having previously
frozen over the surface of the water with a little silver wand. He had
often sung this song to Malleville, and now she wished to hear it again.
The words of the song, as Beechnut sang them, were as follows:

      Peep! peep! chippeda dee.
    Playing in the moonlight, nobody to see.
        The boys and girls have gone away,
        They've had their playtime in the day
    And now the night is left for me:
      Peep! peep! chippeda dee.

The music was as follows:

[Music:

Peep! Peep! Chip-pe-da-dee!
Playing in the moonlight, no-bod-y to see.
The boys and girls have gone a-way; They've
had their play-time in the day, And now the night is
left to me. Peep! peep! Chip-pe-da-dee!]

When Beechnut had sung the song Malleville said, "Again." She was
accustomed to say "again," when she wished to hear Beechnut go on with
his singing, and as she usually liked to hear such songs a great many
times. Beechnut always continued to sing them, over and over, as long as
she said "again."

Thus Malleville kept him singing Agnes's song in this instance all the
way toward the field.

At length Malleville ceased to say "again," on account of her attention
being attracted to a bridge which she saw before them, and which it was
obvious they were going to cross. It had only logs on the sides of it
for railing. Beyond the bridge the road lay along the margin of a wood.
The stone which James and Antonio were going to get out, was just beyond
the bridge, and almost in the road. When the oxen got opposite to the
stone, James stopped them, and Antonio and the children got off the
drag.

[Illustration: THE DRAG RIDE.]

It was only a small part of the stone that appeared above the ground.
James took the shovel and began to dig around the place, so as to bring
the stone more fully to view, while Antonio went into the wood to cut a
small tree, in order to make a lever of the stem of it. Phonny took the
saw--first asking Antonio's permission to take it--and climbed up into a
large tree near the margin of the wood, where he began to saw off a dead
branch which was growing there, and which may be seen in the picture.
Malleville, in the mean time, sat down upon a square stone which was
lying by the road-side near the wood, and occupied herself sometimes in
watching the operation of digging out the stone, sometimes in looking up
at Phonny, and sometimes in singing the song which Antonio had sung to
her on the way.

Presently Antonio, having obtained his lever, came out into the road
with it, and laid it down by the drag. He looked at the drag in doing
this, and observed that one of the side-pieces had started up, and that
it ought to be nailed down again. He looked up into the tree where
Phonny was sawing, and said:

"Phonny!"

"What!" said Phonny.

"Look up over your head," said Antonio. Phonny looked up.

"Do you see that short branch just above you?"

"This?" said Phonny, putting his hand upon it.

"Yes," said Antonio.

"Yes," said Phonny, "I see it."

"Hang your saw on it," said Antonio.

Phonny did so.

"Now, come down from the tree," said Antonio.

Phonny climbed down as fast as he could, and came to Beechnut.

"Take all the things out of your pocket and put them down on the drag."

Phonny began to take the things out. First came a pocket handkerchief.
Then a knife handle without any blades. Then a fishing line. Then two
old coins and a dark red pebble stone. This exhausted one pocket.--From
the other came a small glass prism, three acorns, and at last two long
nails.

"Ah, that is what I want," said Antonio, taking up the nails. "I thought
you had two nails in your pocket, for I remembered that I gave you two
yesterday. Will you give them back to me again?"

"Yes," said Phonny.

"Now, put the things back in your pocket. I admire a boy that obeys
orders, without stopping to ask why. He waits till the end, and then he
_sees_ why. Now, you can go back to your saw."

But instead of going back to his saw, Phonny seemed just at that instant
to get a glimpse of something which attracted his attention along the
road beyond the bridge, for as soon as he had put his goods and chattels
back in his pockets, he paused a moment, looking in that direction, and
then he set out to run as fast as he could over the bridge. Antonio
looked, and saw that there was a girl coming along, and that Phonny was
running to meet her.

Antonio wondered who it could be.

It proved to be Ellen Linn. When Malleville saw that it was Ellen, she
ran to meet her. She asked her why she did not bring Annie with her.

"I did," said Ellen; "she is at the house. She was tired after walking
so far, and so I left her there."

"I am glad that she has come," said Malleville, "let us go and see her."

"Not just yet," said Ellen. "I will go with you pretty soon."

The fact was that Ellen had come to see Antonio about Rodolphus, and now
she did not know exactly how she should manage to have any conversation
with him alone; and she did not wish to talk before James and all the
rest about the misconduct of her brother. As soon as Antonio saw her, he
went to meet her, and walked with her up to the place where they were at
work, to show her the great stone that they were digging out. Ellen
looked at it a few minutes and asked some questions about it, but her
thoughts were after all upon her brother, and not upon the stone.
Presently she went to the place where Malleville had been sitting, and
sat down there. She thought, perhaps, that Antonio would come there, and
that then she could speak to him.

Phonny climbed up into the tree again, partly to finish his sawing, and
partly to let Ellen Linn see how well he could work in such a high
place. While he was there, Antonio went to the place where Ellen Linn
was sitting, and asked her if she had heard from Rodolphus lately.

"Yes," said Ellen, "and that is the very thing that I came to see you
about. I want to talk with you about Rodolphus."

Ellen said this in a low and desponding voice, and Antonio knew that she
wished to speak to him alone.

"We can not talk very well here," said Antonio, "will it do if I come
and see you about it to-night?"

"Yes," said Ellen, looking up joyfully. "Only I am sorry to put you to
that trouble."

"I will come," said Antonio. "I shall get there about half-past eight."

Pretty soon after this, Ellen Linn went back to the house, and after a
time she and Annie went home. About a quarter past eight that evening,
she went out into the yard and down to the gate to watch for Antonio. At
length she saw him coming. When he reached the house, Ellen walked with
him to the great tree in the middle of the yard, and they both sat down
on the bench by the side of it, while Annie was running about in the
great circular walk, drawing her cart. Here Antonio and Ellen had a long
conversation about Rodolphus. Ellen said that she had heard very
unfavorable accounts of him. She had learned that he had got into bad
company in the town where he now lived, as he had done at home, and that
she was afraid that he was fast going to ruin. She did not know what
could be done, but she thought that perhaps Antonio might go there and
see him, and find out how the case really was, and perhaps do something
to save her brother.

"I will go, at any rate," said Antonio, "and see if any thing can be
done. Perhaps," he continued, "Mr. Kerber has found that he is a
troublesome boy and may be willing to give him up, and then we can get
him another place. However, at all events, I will go and see."

"When can you go?" asked Ellen.

"I can go next Saturday, most conveniently," said Antonio. "Besides if I
go on Saturday I can stay till Monday, and that will give me all of
Sunday to see Rodolphus, when he will of course be at leisure."

So it was arranged that Antonio was to go on Saturday. Ellen requested
him to manage his expedition as privately as possible, for she did not
wish to have her brother's misconduct made known more than was
absolutely necessary. Antonio told her that nobody but Mrs. Henry should
know where he was going, and that he would not even tell her what he was
going for.

That evening Antonio obtained leave of Mrs. Henry to go to the town
where Mr. Kerber lived, on Saturday, and to be gone until Monday. He
told Mrs. Henry that the business on which he was going, was private,
and that it concerned other persons, and that on their account, if she
had confidence enough in him to trust him, he should like to be allowed
to go without explaining what the business was. Mrs. Henry said that she
had perfect confidence in him, and that she did not wish him to explain
the nature of the business. She surmised, however, that it was something
relating to Rodolphus, for she knew about his character and history, and
she recollected Ellen's calling at her house to inquire for Antonio that
morning.

When the Saturday arrived, Antonio began about ten o'clock to prepare
for his journey. He had decided to set out on foot. He thought that he
should get along very comfortably and well without a horse, as he
supposed it would be easy for him to make bargains with the teamsters
and travelers that would overtake him on the road, to carry him a
considerable part of the way. He could have taken a horse as well as not
from Mr. Henry's, but as he was to remain in the place where he was
going over Sunday, he concluded that the expense of keeping the horse
there, if he were to take one, would be more than he would have to pay
to the travelers and teamsters for carrying him along the road.

He told James that he was going away, and that he was not to be back
again until Monday. He did not, however, tell him where he was going.
When he was all ready to set out, he went to his chest and took some
money out of his till--as much as he thought that he should need--and
then went into the parlor to tell Mrs. Henry that he was going.

"Are you all ready, and have you got every thing that you want?" asked
Mrs. Henry.

Antonio said that he had every thing.

"Well, good-by then," said Mrs. Henry. "I wish you a pleasant journey;
and if you find that any thing occurs so that you think it best to stay
longer than Monday, you can do so."

Antonio thanked Mrs. Henry, bade her good-by, and went away.

Antonio stopped at Mrs. Linn's as he passed through the village. He had
promised Ellen that he would call there on his way, to get a letter
which she was going to send, and had told her at what time he should
probably come. He found Ellen waiting for him at the gate. She had a
small parcel in her hand. When Antonio came to the gate she showed him
the parcel, and asked him if he could carry such a large one.

"It is not large at all," said Antonio; "I can carry it just as well as
not."

"It is my little Bible," said she, "and the letter is inside. It is the
Bible that my aunt gave me; but I thought she would be willing that I
should give it to Rodolphus, if she knew--"

Here Ellen stopped, without finishing her sentence, and walked away
toward the house. Antonio looked after her a moment, and then went away
without saying another word.

It was twelve o'clock before he was fairly set out on his journey. He
walked on for about two hours, meeting with various objects of interest
in the way, but without finding any traveler going the same way, to help
him on his journey. At last he came to a place where there were two
girls standing by a well before a farm-house. Antonio, being tired and
thirsty, went up to the well to get a drink.

[Illustration: THE WELL.]

"How far is it from here to Franconia?" said Antonio to the girls.

They looked at him as if surprised, but at first they did not answer.

"Do you know?" said Antonio, speaking again.

"Haven't you just come from Franconia?" said one of the girls.

"Yes," said Antonio.

"Then I should think that you would know yourself," said she.

"No," said Antonio, "I don't know. I have been walking about two hours;
but I don't know how far it is."

"I believe it is about five miles," said the youngest girl.

"Then I have come two miles and a half an hour," said Antonio. "It is
twenty miles more that I have got to go."

Then he made a calculation in his mind, and found that if he should have
to walk all the way, he should not reach the end of his journey till
about eleven o'clock, allowing one hour to stop for supper and rest.

Antonio thanked the girls for his drink of water and then went on.

Pretty soon he saw a large wagon in the road before him. He walked on
fast until he overtook it. He made a bargain with the wagoner to carry
him as far as the wagon was going on his road, which was about ten
miles. This ride rested him very much, but it did not help him forward
at all in respect to time, for the wagon did not travel any faster than
he would have walked.

At length the wagon came to the place where it was to turn off from
Antonio's road; so Antonio paid the man the price which had been agreed
upon, and then took to the road again as a pedestrian.

He walked on about an hour, and then he began to be pretty tired. He
concluded that he would stop and rest and get some supper at the very
next tavern. It was now about half-past seven, and he was yet, as he
calculated, nearly eight miles from the end of his journey. Just then he
heard the sound of wheels behind him, and, on looking round, he saw a
light wagon coming, drawn by a single horse, and with but one man in the
wagon. The wagon was coming on pretty rapidly, but Antonio determined to
stop it as it passed; so he stood at one side of the road, and held up
his hand as a signal, when the wagon came near.

The man stopped. On inquiry Antonio found that he was going directly to
the town where Rodolphus lived. Antonio asked the man what he would ask
to carry him there.

"What may I call your name?" said the man.

"My name is Antonio."

"And my name is Antony," said the man. "Antony. It is a remarkable
coincidence that our names should be so near alike. Get in here with me
and ride on to the tavern, we will see if we can make a trade."

Antonio found Antony a very amusing and agreeable companion. In the end
it was agreed that they should stop at the tavern and have some supper,
and that Antonio should pay for the supper for both himself and Antony,
and in consideration of that, he was to be carried in the wagon to the
end of his journey.

During the supper and afterward, while riding along the road, Antony was
quite inquisitive to learn all about Antonio, and especially to
ascertain what was the cause of his taking that journey. But Antonio
resisted all these attempts, and would give no information whatever in
respect to his business.

They reached the end of their journey about half-past nine o'clock.
Antonio was set down at the tavern, which has already been spoken of as
situated at the head of the lane leading to the corn-barn, where
Rodolphus and the other boys had made their rendezvous. Immediately
after being shown to his room, which it happened was a chamber on the
side of the house which was toward the lane, Antonio came down stairs
and went out. His plan was to proceed directly to Mr. Kerber's house,
hoping to be able to see Rodolphus that evening. He was afraid before he
left the tavern that it might be too late, and that he should find they
had all gone to bed at Mr. Kerber's. He thought, however, that he could
tell whether the family were still up, by the light which he would in
that case see at the windows; and he concluded that if the house should
appear dark, he would not knock at the door, but go back to the tavern,
and wait till the next morning.

The house _was_ dark, and so Antonio, after standing and looking at it a
few moments with a disappointed air, went back to the tavern. He went in
at the door, and went up to his room. It happened that no one saw him go
into the tavern this time, for as there was a very bright moon, and it
shone directly into his chamber-window, he thought that he should not
need a lamp to go to bed by, so he went directly up stairs to his room.

It was now about ten o'clock. Antonio sat down by his window and looked
out. It was a beautiful evening, and he sat some time enjoying the
scene. At length he heard suppressed voices, and looking down he saw
three boys come stealing along round the corner of a fence and enter a
lane. He saw the light of a lantern, too, for he was up so high that he
could look down into it, as it were. He was convinced at once from these
indications that there was something going on that was wrong.

He listened attentively, and thought that he could recognize Rodolphus's
voice, and he was at once filled with apprehension and anxiety. He
immediately took his cap, and went softly down stairs, and out at the
door, and then going round into the lane, he followed the boys down
toward the corn-barn. When they had all got safely in, underneath the
building, he crept up softly to the place, and looking through a small
crack in the boards he saw and heard all that was going on; he overheard
the conversation between the boys about the box, saw them take away the
straw, dig the hole, and bury it, and then had just time to step round
the corner of the barn, and conceal himself, when the boys came out to
see if the way was clear for them to go home. The next moment the light
from the burning straw broke out, and Antonio, without stopping to
think, ran instinctively in among the boys to help them to put out the
fire.

Of course when the boys fled he was left there alone, and he soon found
that it would be impossible for him to extinguish the fire. It spread so
rapidly over the straw and among the boxes, that it was very plain all
his efforts to arrest the progress of it would be unavailing. In the
mean time he began to hear the cry of "fire." The people of the tavern
had been the first to see the light, and were running to the spot down
the lane. It suddenly occurred to Antonio that if he were found there
at the fire he should be obliged to explain how he came there, and by so
doing to expose Rodolphus as a thief and a burglar.[1] When Antonio
thought how broken-hearted Ellen would be to have her brother sent to
prison for such crimes, he could not endure the thought of being the
means of his detection. He immediately determined therefore to run away,
and leave the people to find out how the fire originated as they best
could.

   [Footnote 1: The crime of breaking into a building in such a way is
   called burglary, and it is punished very severely among all
   civilized nations.]

All these thoughts passed through Antonio's mind in an instant, and he
sprang out from under the corn-barn as soon as he heard the men coming,
and ran off toward the fields. The men saw him, and they concluded
immediately that he was an incendiary who had set the building on fire,
and accordingly the first two that came to the spot instead of stopping
to put out the fire, determined to pursue the fugitive. Antonio ran to a
place where there was a gap in a wall, and, leaping over, he crouched
down, and ran along on the outer side of the wall. The men followed him.
Antonio made for a haystack which was near, and after going round to the
further side of the haystack, he ran on toward a wood, keeping the
haystack between himself and the men, in hopes that he should thus be
concealed from their view. As soon as he got into the wood he ran into a
little thicket, and creeping into the darkest place that he could find,
he lay down there to await the result.

The men came up to the place out of breath with running. They looked
about in the wood for some time, and Antonio began to think that they
would not find him. But he was mistaken. One of the men at length found
him, and pulled him out roughly by the arms.

They took hold of him, one on one side and the other on the other, and
led him back toward the fire. The building was by this time all in
flames, and though many men had assembled they made no effort to
extinguish the fire. It was obvious, in fact, that all such efforts
would have been unavailing. Then, besides, as the building stood by
itself, there was no danger to any other property, in letting it burn.
The men gathered round Antonio, wondering who he could be, but he would
not answer any questions. He was there an utter stranger to them all--a
prisoner, seized almost in the very act of setting the building on fire,
and yet he stood before them with such an open, fearless, honest look,
that no one knew what to think or to say in respect to him.

In the mean time the flames rolled fearfully into the air, sending up
columns of sparks, and illuminating all the objects around in the most
brilliant manner. Groups of boys stood here and there, their faces
brightened with the reflection of the fire, and their arms held up
before their eyes to shield them from the dazzling light. A little
further back were companies of women and children, beaming out
beautifully from the surrounding darkness, and a gilded vane on the
village spire appeared relieved against the sky, as if it were a great
blazing meteor at rest among the stars. At length the fire went down.
The people gradually dispersed. The men who had charge of Antonio took
him to the tavern, locked him up in a room there, and stationed one of
their number to keep guard at the door till morning.

[Illustration: THE CONFLAGRATION.]


II. ANTONIO A PRISONER.

During the night, Antonio had time to reflect upon the situation in
which he was placed, and to consider what it was best for him to do. He
decided that the first thing to be done, was to write to Mrs. Henry, and
inform her what had happened. He determined also not to reveal any thing
against Rodolphus, unless he should find that he was required by law to
do so--at least until he could have time to consider whether something
could not yet be done to save him from the utter ruin which would follow
from his being convicted of burglary and sent to the state prison.

In the morning, an officer came with a regular warrant for arresting
Antonio, on the charge of setting the corn-barn on fire. A warrant is a
paper signed by a justice or judge, authorizing the officer to seize a
prisoner, and to bring him before a magistrate, for what is called an
examination. If, on the examination, the magistrate sees that the
prisoner is clearly innocent, he releases him, and that is the end of
the matter. If, however, he finds that there is reason to suspect that
he may be guilty, he orders the officer to keep him in the jail till the
time comes for the court to meet and try his case.

Sometimes, when the offense is not very serious, they release the
prisoner _on bail_, as it is called, during the time that intervenes
between his examination and his trial. That is, they give him up to his
friends, on condition that his friends agree that he shall certainly
appear at the time of trial--covenanting that if he does not appear they
will pay a large sum of money. The money that is to be forfeited, if he
fails to appear, varies in different cases, and is fixed by the judge in
each particular case. This money is called the _bail_. If the prisoner
has a bad character, and his friends generally believe that he is
guilty, he can not get bail, for his friends are afraid that if they
give bail for him, and so let him have his liberty, he will run away
before the time comes for his trial, and then they will lose the money.
When, for this or any other reason, a prisoner can not get bail, he has
to go to prison, and stay there till his trial comes on. On the other
hand, if the prisoner has a good character, and if his friends have
confidence in him, they give bail, and thus he is left at liberty until
his trial comes on.

At the examination of a prisoner, which takes place usually very soon
after he is first arrested, he is allowed to say any thing that he
pleases to say, in explanation of the suspicious circumstances under
which he was taken. He is, however, not required to say any thing unless
he chooses. The reason of this is, that no one is required to furnish
any proof against himself, when he is charged with crime. If he can say
any thing which will operate in his favor, he is allowed to do it, and
what he says is written down, and is produced on his trial, to be used
for or against him according to the circumstances of the case.

When the officer came in, in the morning, to arrest Antonio, he told him
he was to go at eleven o'clock the next morning before the magistrate to
be examined. Antonio asked the officer whether he could be allowed, in
the mean time, to write a letter to his friends in Franconia.

"Yes," said the officer, "only I must see what you write."

So they brought Antonio a sheet of paper, and a pen and ink. He sat down
to a table and wrote as follows:

                                               "HIBURGH, July 10.
     "To MRS. HENRY;

   "There was a fire here last night which burnt up an old corn-barn,
   and I have been taken up for it, by the officers. They think that I
   set the corn-barn on fire, but I did not do it. I suppose, though,
   that I shall have to be tried, and I expect that I must go to
   prison until the trial comes on, unless Mr. Keep could come down
   here and make some arrangement for me. You may depend that I did
   not set the corn-barn on fire.

                                  "Yours with much respect,
                                               "A. BIANCHINETTE."

The officer read this letter when it was finished, and then asked
Antonio whether it should be put into the post-office. Antonio inquired
how much it would cost to send a boy with it on purpose. The officer
told him what he thought it would cost, and then Antonio took out the
money that he had in his pocket to see if he had enough. He found that
he had more than enough, and so the officer sent a special messenger
with the letter.

"And now," said the officer, "you must go with me to my house. I am
going to keep you there until the examination to-morrow."

So Antonio took his cap and went down stairs with the officer. He found
quite a number of men and boys at the door, waiting to see him come.
These people followed him along through the street, as he walked toward
the officer's house, some running before, to look him in the face, and
some running behind, and calling him incendiary and other hard names.
Antonio took no notice of them, but walked quietly along, talking with
the officer.

When he got opposite to the lane, he looked down toward the place where
the corn-barn had stood. He found that it had been burnt to the ground.
The ruins were still smoking, and several men and boys were standing
around the place--some looking idly on, and some poking up the
smouldering fires.

There was something in Antonio's frank and honest air, and in the
intelligence and good sense which he manifested in his conversation,
which interested the officer in his favor. He told his wife when he got
home that Antonio was the most honest looking rogue that he ever had the
custody of. It shows, however, he added, how little we can trust to
appearances. I once had a man in my keeping, who looked as innocent and
simple-minded as Dorinda there, but he turned out to be one of the most
cunning counterfeiters in the state.

Dorinda was the officer's little girl.

There was a room in the officer's house, which was made very strong, and
used for the temporary keeping of prisoners. They put Antonio into this
room and locked him in.

The officer, however, told him when he went away, that he would bring
him some breakfast pretty soon; and this he did in about half an hour.
Antonio ate his breakfast with an excellent appetite.

After breakfast he moved his chair up to a small window, which had been
made in one side of the room. The window had a sash on the inside, and
great iron bars without. Antonio opened the sash and looked out through
the iron bars. He saw a pleasant green yard, and a little girl playing
there upon the grass.

"What is your name?" said Antonio.

The little girl started at hearing this voice, ran back a little way,
and then stood looking at Antonio with her hands behind her.

"Bring me that piece of paper," said Antonio, "that lies there on the
grass, and I will make you a picture."

The girl stood still a moment as if much astonished, and then advancing
timidly, she picked up the paper and brought it to Antonio's window,
which was very near the ground, and held it up. Antonio reached his arm
out between the bars of the grating and took the paper in.

[Illustration: THE BARRED WINDOW.]

Although the window was not high, it seemed to be with some difficulty
that Antonio could reach the paper as Dorinda held it up. But this was
partly because Dorinda was afraid, and did not dare to come too near.

Antonio took a pencil out of his pocket, and putting the paper down upon
the window sill, he began to draw. Dorinda stood still upon the ground
outside, watching him. Antonio made a picture of a very grave and
matronly-looking cat, lying upon a stone step and watching two kittens
that were playing upon the grass before her. There was a bare-headed boy
near, who seemed to be putting a mitten upon his hand. Underneath
Antonio wrote the words--

    "This is the picture of a cat,
    Looking at some kittens;
    Also a boy without a hat,
    Putting on his mittens."

[Illustration: ANTONIO'S PICTURE.]

When the work was finished, Antonio threw the paper out the window, and
Dorinda who had been all the time looking on with a very serious
expression of countenance, took it up, and began to look at the drawing.
She could not read, so she only looked at the picture. After examining
it for some minutes, without, however, at all relaxing the extreme
gravity of her countenance, she ran off to show the paper to her mother.

Presently she came back again. By this time Antonio had made another
drawing. It was the representation of his own window, as it would appear
on the outside, with iron bars forming a grating, and himself looking
through between them. Underneath he wrote,

"Pity the poor prisoner, and bring him some books to read."

Dorinda took this picture too, when Antonio threw it out to her, and ran
in with it to her mother. Presently she came out with two books in her
hand. She came under the window and held them up timidly to Antonio, and
Antonio took them in.

By the help of these books and some other indulgences that the officer
allowed him, Antonio got through the day very comfortably and well.

The next morning, at eleven o'clock, the officer came to take his
prisoner to the justice, for examination. The officer led Antonio along
the street till he came to a lawyer's office. There were several men and
boys about the door. These persons eyed Antonio very closely when he
went in. On entering the office, Antonio was brought up in front of a
table which stood in the middle of the room. A young man was sitting at
the table with paper, and pen, and ink before him. He was the clerk. The
justice himself sat in an arm-chair near the window.

The men and boys from the outside came in immediately after Antonio, and
stood in the office, near the door, to hear the examination.

When all was ready, the justice commenced by saying to Antonio,

"What is your name?" young man.

"Antonio Bianchinette," said Antonio.

"Where do you live?" asked the justice.

"In Franconia," said Antonio.

"You are aware, I suppose," said the justice, "that you are charged
with having set fire to the building which was burned night before last,
and you are brought here for a preliminary examination. You can do just
as you please about giving any explanation of the circumstances of the
case, or answering any questions that I put to you. If you make any
statements or answer any questions, what you say will be put down, and
will be used either for, or against you, as the case may be, on your
trial."

Antonio said in reply, that he did not wish to make any statements, or
to answer any questions in relation to the fire.

"There is one thing, however," he added, "that I wish to say, and that
is, that there is something buried in the ground, under the place where
the building stood, that ought to be dug up, and if you will take me to
the place I will show you where to dig."

"What is it that is buried there?" said the justice.

"I would rather not answer that question," said Antonio.

The justice paused a moment to consider what to do. He had heard of the
robbery that had been committed on Saturday night, for Mr. Kerber, on
going into his office on Monday morning, had found the back door
unhasped, and his desk broken open, and the news of the robbery had
spread all over the village. People wondered whether there could be any
connection between the robbery and the fire, though nothing had been
said to Antonio about it.

After thinking a moment about Antonio's proposal, the justice concluded
to accede to it. The officer accordingly sent a man to get a spade and
directed him to come with it to the ruins of the corn-barn. Another man
went to tell Mr. Kerber that the boy who had been taken up for setting
the barn on fire, had said that there was something buried there, and
that perhaps it might prove to be his money-box. So Mr. Kerber
determined to go and see.

In a short time quite a large party were assembled around the ruins.
Antonio directed them where to dig. The men pulled away the blackened
timbers and brands which were lying over the spot, and began to dig into
the ground. In a few minutes they struck something hard with the spade,
and setting the spade down beneath it so as to pry it out, they found
that it was indeed Mr. Kerber's box.

The men gathered eagerly around to examine the box. Mr. Kerber shook it
and found that the money was safe inside. He took out his key, but he
could not get it into the key-hole, for the key-hole had got filled with
earth. He turned the box down upon its side and knocked it upon
something hard, and so got the earth out, and then he found that the key
would go in. He unlocked the box, and to his great joy found that all
was safe.

Antonio would not make any explanation, except that he did not suppose
that any thing else was buried there, and that consequently it would do
no good to dig any more. He said, moreover, that he expected some of
his friends would come from Franconia before night to see about his
case, and so the justice gave him up to the care of the officer again,
until his friends should come. The officer accordingly took his prisoner
away again, and Mr. Kerber carried his money-box home.

Mr. Keep arrived that day about noon. He immediately had an interview
with Antonio. After some little general conversation, Antonio said that
he would rather not make any explanations of the circumstances under
which he was arrested at present, even to Mr. Keep, unless Mr. Keep
requested it.

"I tell you truly, sir," said he, "that I am entirely innocent: but I
can not state what I know, without breaking a poor girl's heart who once
saved my life, and I can not do it."

Mr. Keep was silent a few minutes when Antonio said this. He recollected
Rodolphus and Ellen his sister, and recalled to mind the story of Ellen
and the snow-shoes, which he had heard at the time. He immediately
understood the whole case.

"I am not surprised that you feel as you do," said he, "but when a crime
is committed and we are called upon to testify as a witness, we are
bound to state what we know, without regard to our private feelings."

"Yes, sir," said Antonio, "but I am not called upon as a witness. I am
charged with committing the crime myself, and the justice said that I
was at liberty to answer or not, as I chose."

Mr. Keep was silent for a moment. He seemed to be reflecting upon what
Rodolphus had said.

"By taking the course that you propose," he added, at length, "you run a
great risk of being condemned yourself for the crime."

"Why, no, sir," said Antonio; "I can't be condemned unless they _prove_
that I did it; and as I really did not do it, I don't think that they
can prove that I did."

Mr. Keep smiled.

"Well suppose that you do as you propose," said Mr. Keep, "and allow
yourself to take the place of the one who is really guilty, what good
will it do him? You will only leave him to commit more crimes."

"I hope not, sir," said Antonio "I should try to get him away from here
to some new place. I think that he has been led away. He has got into
bad company."

"Well," said Mr. Keep, after a short pause, "the plan may succeed, but
you run a great risk in taking such a course. I think that there is
great danger that you would be condemned and sent to the state prison."

"Well," said Beechnut, "I should not mind that very much. There is no
great harm in going to prison, if you are only innocent. I have been
shut up here one day already, and I had a good time."

Mr. Keep said finally that the subject required time for consideration,
and that in the mean time he would make arrangements for giving bail for
Antonio. This he did, and then he and Antonio went together back to
Franconia.


III. THE TRIAL.

The time arrived for Antonio's trial very soon. At the appointed day he
and Mr. Keep went together to the town where the court was to be held.

Mr. Keep delivered Antonio to the officer again, and the officer led him
into a little room adjoining the court room and left him there under the
custody of a subordinate officer. At length his case was called, and the
officer came forward and conducted him into the court room.

[Illustration: THE COURT ROOM.]

When Antonio entered the room he looked around to see how it was
arranged. At one end there was a platform, with a curtained window
behind it, and a long desk in front. Behind the desk there sat an
elderly gentleman whom Antonio supposed was the judge. He sat in a large
arm-chair. There was another arm-chair upon the platform, but there was
nobody sitting in it. Antonio thought that probably it was for another
judge, and that he would come in by-and-by, but he did not come.

In front of the judge's desk and a little lower down, there was another
desk, with a great many books and bundles of papers upon it. There was a
man seated at this desk with his back to the judge's desk. This man was
writing. He was the clerk of the court.

In front of the clerk's desk, and toward the middle of the room was a
pretty large table with lawyers sitting around it. The lawyers had
green bags with papers in them.

On each side of the room there were two long seats facing toward the
middle of the room. These seats were for the juries. Each seat was long
enough for six men, making twelve in all on each side. Between the
juries' seats and the judge's platform, there was, on each side, a stand
for the witnesses. The witnesses' stands were placed in this position,
so that all could hear the testimony which the witnesses should give.

On the back side of the room there were several seats for spectators. In
front of the spectator's seats there were two chairs. The officer led
Antonio to one of these chairs and gave him a seat there. The officer
himself took his seat in the other chair. He had a long slender pole in
his hand, which was his badge of office.

The first thing to be done was for the clerk to read the accusation. The
accusation to be made against a prisoner is always written out in full,
and is called an indictment. The indictment against Antonio was handed
to the clerk and he read it. It charged Antonio with breaking into and
robbing Mr. Kerber's office, and then setting fire to the barn.

After the indictment had been read, the judge, looking to Antonio, asked
him whether he was guilty or not guilty.

"Not guilty," said Antonio.

The arrangements were then made for the trial. The jury were appointed,
and they took their places in the jury seats which were on the right
hand side of the court room. Some jury-men belonging to another jury
were sitting in the seats on the left hand, but they had now nothing to
do but to listen, like the other spectators.

There is a sort of public lawyer in every county, appointed for the
purpose, whose business it is to attend to the trial of any person
accused of crime in his county. He is called the county attorney. It is
his duty to collect the evidence against the prisoner, and to see that
it is properly presented to the court and jury, and to prove that the
prisoner is guilty, if he can. The prisoner, on the other hand has
another lawyer, whose duty it is to collect all the evidence in his
favor, and to try to prove him innocent. The trial is always commenced
by adducing first the evidences of the prisoner's guilt.

Accordingly, when the jury were ready, the judge called upon the county
attorney to proceed.

He rose, and spoke as follows:

"May it please your Honor."

Here the county attorney bowed to the judge.

"And you, gentlemen of the jury."

Here he bowed to the jury.

"I am very sorry to have to appear against so young, and, I may add, so
innocent-looking a person as the prisoner before you, on a charge of so
serious a nature as burglary. But I have no choice. However much we may
regret that a person so young should become so depraved as to commit
such crimes, our duty to the community requires that we should proceed
firmly and decidedly to the exposure and punishment of them. I shall
proceed to lay before you the evidence that the prisoner at the bar is
guilty of the crime charged against him. It will be the duty of his
counsel, on the other hand, to prove his innocence, if he can. I shall
be very glad, and I have no doubt that you will be, to find that he can
succeed in doing this. I fear, however, that it will be out of his
power.

"I shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury, by the witnesses that I
shall bring forward, that the prisoner left his home in a very
mysterious manner on the Saturday when the robbery was committed. That
he came to Hiburgh, and arrived here about nine o'clock. That he then
went to his room, as if to go to bed, and immediately afterward went out
in a secret manner. About half-past ten the corn-barn was found to be on
fire; and on the people repairing to the spot, found the prisoner there
alone. He fled, and was pursued. He was taken, and at length finding
that he was detected, and terrified, perhaps, at the consequences of
what he had done, he gave information of the place where the money which
had been taken was concealed.

"These circumstances all point to the prisoner as the guilty party, or
at least as one of the guilty parties concerned in the robbery. As to
the fire, we lay no particular stress upon that, for it may have been
accidental. We think it probable that it was so. The charge which we
make against the prisoner is the robbery, and we are willing to consider
the fire as an accident, providentially occurring as a means of bringing
the iniquity to light."

       *       *       *       *       *

The county attorney then began to call in his witnesses. The first
witness was James.

James said that Antonio was well known to him; that he came originally
from Canada; that he had lived for some time at Mrs. Henry's; and that
on the Saturday in question he said that he was going to Hiburgh; but
would not give him, James, any explanation of the business that called
him there.

The next witness was Antony, the man who had brought Antonio in his
wagon the last part of his journey.

Antony testified that he overtook the prisoner on the road, and that he
brought him forward in his wagon. The prisoner, he said, seemed very
anxious to get into town before nine o'clock; but he was very careful
not to say any thing about the business which called him there. There
was something very mysterious about him, Antony said, and he thought so
at the time.

The next witness was the tavern keeper.

The tavern-keeper testified that Antonio came to his house a little past
nine; that he seemed in a hurry to go to his room, that the
tavern-keeper showed him the room and left him there; but that on going
up a few minutes afterward to ask him what time he would have breakfast,
he found that he was not there. That about an hour afterward he saw a
light, and running out he found that the corn-barn was on fire. He cried
"fire," and with another man ran to the corn-barn, and there saw some
one running away. He and the other man pursued the fugitive, and finally
caught him, and found that it was the prisoner--the same young man that
had come to his house as a traveler an hour before.

The next witness was Mr. Kerber.

Mr. Kerber testified that he left his office safe, with his money in the
money-box, in the desk, on Saturday night, about half-past eight. That
on the Monday morning following he found that the office had been broken
into, the desk opened, and the money-box carried away. That he was
present at the prisoner's examination before the justice, and that the
prisoner then and there said that there was something buried under where
the corn-barn had stood, and that the company all proceeded to the
place, and dug into the ground where the prisoner directed them to dig,
and that there they found the money-box.

The minutes of Antonio's examination before the justice were also read,
in which he declined to give any explanation of the case.

The county attorney then said that his evidence was closed.

The judge then called upon Mr. Keep to bring forward whatever evidence
he had to offer in the prisoner's favor. Mr. Keep had only two
witnesses, and they could only testify to Antonio's general good
character. They were Franconia men, who said that they had known Antonio
a long time, that he had always borne an irreproachable character, and
that they did not believe him capable of committing such a crime.

After the evidence was thus all in, Mr. Keep made a speech in defense of
his client. He admitted, he said, that the case was a very extraordinary
one. There was a mystery about it which was not explained. Still he said
it was not really _proved_, either that Antonio stole the money or that
he set fire to the barn. Many suppositions might be made to account for
the facts, without implicating Antonio as really guilty.

The county attorney then made his speech. It was, of course, against
Antonio. He said that the appearances were all against the prisoner, and
that if he were really innocent, it would be easy for him to explain the
case. His refusal to do this, and his showing where the money was hid,
ought to be considered as completing the proofs of guilt, furnished by
the other circumstances of the affair.

The judge then told the jury that it was their duty to decide whether it
had been _proved_ that Antonio was guilty.

"You have heard all the evidence," said he, "and you must decide. If you
are perfectly satisfied that the prisoner is guilty, then you must
condemn him. If you are satisfied that he is innocent, then of course
you must acquit him. And if you are uncertain whether he is innocent or
guilty, then you must acquit him too; for no one is to be condemned,
unless it is proved positively that he is guilty."

The jury were then conducted out by an officer of the court, to a small
room adjoining, where they were to deliberate on the case. In about
fifteen minutes they returned. The judge then called upon the prisoner
to rise. Antonio rose and looked toward the judge. The jury were
standing in their places, looking toward the judge, too.

"Gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, "are you agreed upon the
verdict?"

The foreman of the jury said,

"We are agreed."

"Gentlemen of the jury," said the judge again, "what say you? is the
prisoner guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," said the foreman.

There was general smile of satisfaction about the room at hearing this
decision. The clerk wrote down the verdict in the record. The judge
directed the prisoner to be discharged, and then called for the case
which came next on the docket.[2]

   [Footnote 2: The docket is the list of cases.]

Antonio went out with Mr. Keep and got into a wagon which Mr. Keep had
provided all ready for him at the door. They set out, counsel and
client, on their return to Franconia.

Mr. Keep was of course very much relieved at the result of the trial;
for though he was himself perfectly satisfied of his client's innocence,
still the circumstances were very strong against him, and there was, in
fact, nothing but his good character in his favor. He had been very much
afraid, therefore, that Antonio would be condemned, for the jury are
bound to decide according to the evidence that is placed before them.

"You have got off very well, so far," said Mr. Keep. "Having been
accused as an accomplice in the crime, it was your privilege to be
silent. Should you, however, hereafter be called upon as a witness, you
will have to give your testimony."

"Why must I?" asked Antonio.

"Your duty to your country requires it," said Mr. Keep.

"Then," said Antonio, "I suppose I must, and I will."


IV. ANOTHER TRIAL.

Rodolphus and his two confederates in crime were in a state of great
anxiety and apprehension, during the period which intervened between the
committing of the crime and the trial of Antonio. Antonio did not
attempt to hold any communication with Rodolphus during this interval,
for fear that by so doing he might awaken in people's minds some
suspicion of the truth. He had, however, a secret plan of doing
something to save Rodolphus from ruin, so soon as the excitement, which
had been occasioned by the robbery and the fire, should have passed by.
All his plans however were defeated by an unexpected train of
occurrences, which took place a day or two after his acquittal, and
which changed suddenly the whole aspect of the affair.

One night very soon after Antonio's trial, Rodolphus, after he had gone
to bed and was just falling asleep, was awakened by a loud knocking at
his door.

"Rodolphus!" said a harsh voice, outside, "Rodolphus! get up and let us
in."

[Illustration: THE ARREST]

Rodolphus was dreadfully terrified. He was always terrified by any
unexpected sight or sound, as the guilty usually are. He got up and
opened the door. Mr. Kerber and another man came in.

"You are my prisoner," said the stranger. "You must put on your clothes
and come with me."

Rodolphus was in great distress and trepidation. He however put on his
clothes. He did not dare to ask what he was arrested for. He knew too
well. The officer informed him that he was arrested on a charge of being
concerned in the robbery of Mr. Kerber, but that he need not say any
thing about it unless he chose to do so. Rodolphus was so terrified and
distressed that he did not know what to say or do. So the officer led
him away, pale and trembling, to his house, and locked him up in the
same room where Antonio had been confined. There was a little bed in one
corner of the room. Rodolphus went and sat down upon it, and sobbed and
wept in anguish and despair.

In a day or two his friends in Franconia heard of his arrest, and Mr.
Keep went down to see him. Mr. Keep came as Rodolphus's counsel and
friend--in order to confer with him and to defend him on his trial; but
Rodolphus considered him as banded with all the rest of the world
against him, and either could not, or would not answer any of the
friendly questions which Mr. Keep proposed to him; but sat crying all
the time while Mr. Keep was there, and making himself very miserable.
Mr. Keep saw at once that he was guilty, and despaired of being able to
do any thing to save him.

There was nobody to give bail for Rodolphus, and so it was necessary to
keep him in close confinement until the time for his trial arrived. In
consideration, however, of his tender years, it was decided not to take
him to the jail, but to keep him at the house of the officer, in the
strong room where he was put when he was first arrested.

The room itself was a very comfortable one, but Rodolphus spent his time
in it very unhappily. The people treated him very kindly, but nothing
gave him any peace or comfort. They brought him books, but he could not
read well enough to take any pleasure in them. Sometimes he would go to
the window and look out upon the green yard, but it only made him more
miserable to see the grass and the flowers, and the trees waving in the
wind, and the birds flying about at liberty. Sometimes he saw Dorinda
there playing with her kitten, and singing little songs; but this sight
made him more unhappy than all the rest.

Rodolphus's mother came down to to see him once, with Antonio. Antonio
drove down with her in a wagon. The visit, however, did not give either
Rodolphus or his mother any pleasure. They spoke scarcely a word to each
other, while she staid. When she got into the wagon to go home, Antonio,
seeing how much she was distressed, tried to comfort her by saying, that
she must not be so troubled; he hoped, he said, that Rodolphus would yet
turn out to be a good boy. There had been a great many cases, where boys
had been led away when young, by bad company, to do what was very wrong,
who were afterward sorry for it, and changed their courses and behaved
well. This conversation seemed to make Mrs. Linn feel somewhat more
composed, but she was still very unhappy.

At length the time for the trial drew near. Rodolphus felt great
solicitude and anxiety as the time approached. He did not know what
evidence there was against him, for no one had been allowed to talk with
him on the subject of the crime. Even Mr. Keep, his lawyer, did not know
what the evidence was, for it is always customary in such cases, for
each party to keep the evidence which they have to offer, as much as
possible concealed. Antonio had, however, received a summons to appear
as a witness, and Mr. Keep told him that if they insisted on examining
him, he would be bound to answer all the questions which they put to
him, honestly and truly, whatever his private feelings might be.

When the day arrived, Rodolphus was taken by the officer to the court
room, and placed in the same chair where Antonio had sat. Antonio had
looked around upon the proceedings with so frank and honest an
expression of countenance, and with such an unconcerned air, that every
one had been impressed with a belief of his innocence. Rodolphus, on the
other hand, sat still, pale, and trembling, and he manifested in his
whole air and demeanor every indication of conscious guilt.

The preliminary proceedings were all much the same as they had been in
the case of Antonio. When these had been gone through, the judge called
upon the county attorney to proceed. After a short opening speech he
said, that his first witness was Mr. Kerber. Mr. Kerber was called, and
took his place upon the stand.

Mr. Kerber first gave an account of the robbery, describing the
situation of his office and of the two doors leading to it, and of the
desk in the corner, and narrating all the circumstances relating to the
appearance of his office on the Monday morning, and the discovery of the
strong box under the ruins of the corn-barn. He then proceeded as
follows:

"For a time I considered it certain that Antonio, the one who was first
suspected, was the one really guilty, and made no effort or inquiry in
any other direction until he was tried. I was convinced then that he was
innocent, and immediately began to consider what I should do to find out
the robber. I examined the hole again which had been bored into the
door, and the marks of the tools by which the desk had been broken open.
I thought that I might, perhaps, possibly find the tools that fitted
these places somewhere about town, and that if I should, I might,
possibly, in that way, get some clew to the robbers. So I borrowed the
bits and the chisels of several of my neighbors, but I could not find
any that would fit.

"At last I happened to think of some old tools that I had in a back
room, and on comparing them I found two that fitted exactly. There was a
bit which just fitted the hole, and there were some fibres of the wood
which had been caught upon the edge of the bit, where it was dull, that
looked fresh and compared well with the color of the wood of the door.
There was a large chisel, too, that fitted exactly to the impressions
made upon the wood of the desk, in prying it open.

"I could see, too, that some of these tools had recently been moved, by
the dust having been disturbed around them. There were marks and tracks,
too, in the dust, upon a bench, where some boy had evidently climbed up
to get the tools. I tried one of Rodolphus's shoes to these tracks, and
found that it fitted exactly."

While Mr. Kerber was making these statements, Rodolphus hung his head,
and looked utterly confounded.

"Just about the time," continued Mr. Kerber, "that I made these
discoveries, a person came to me and informed me--"

"Stop," interrupted Mr. Keep. "You are not to state what any other
person informed you. You are only to state what you know personally,
yourself."

Mr. Kerber was silent.

The county attorney, who knew well that this was the rule in all trials,
said that he had nothing more to ask that witness then, but that he
would withdraw him for a time. He then called Antonio. Antonio took his
place upon the stand.

After the oath was administered as usual, the county attorney began to
question Antonio as follows:

"Were you in Hiburgh on the night of this robbery?"

"I was," said Antonio.

"At what time did you arrive there?" asked the attorney.

"I believe it was a little past nine," said Antonio.

"Were you at the corn-barn when it took fire?"

"I was," said Antonio.

"State now to the jury what it was that led you to go there."

Antonio recollected that what first attracted his attention and led him
to go out, was seeing Rodolphus and the other boys going by with their
lantern, and hearing their suppressed voices; and he perceived that if
he went any further in his testimony he should prove Rodolphus to be
guilty; so he stopped, and after a moment's pause, he turned to the
judge, and asked whether he could not be excused from giving any more
testimony.

"On what ground do you wish to be excused?" said the judge.

"Why, what I should say," said Antonio, "might go against the boy, and I
don't wish to say any thing against him."

"You can not be excused," said the judge, shaking his head. "It is very
often painful to give testimony against persons accused of crime, but it
is a duty which must be performed."

"But there is a special reason," said Antonio, "in this case."

"What is the reason?" said the judge.

Antonio hesitated. At length he said timidly,

"His sister saved my life."

Here there was a pause. The preferring such a request, to be excused
from testifying, and for such a reason, is a very uncommon occurrence in
a court. The judge, the jury, the lawyers, and all the spectators looked
at Antonio, who stood upon the witness's stand all the time, turning his
face toward the judge, awaiting his decision.

After a pause the judge said,

"Your unwillingness to do any thing to injure the brother of a girl who
saved your life, does you honor, and I would gladly excuse you if I
could, but it is not in my power. The ends of justice require that you
should give your testimony, whatever the consequences may be."

"What would be done," asked Antonio, "if I should refuse to do so?"

"Then you would be sent to prison yourself," said the judge, "for
contempt of court."

"And suppose I am willing to go to prison," said Antonio, "rather than
testify against Ellen's brother; can I do so?"

The judge looked a little perplexed. What answer he would have given to
this question we do not know, for he was prevented from answering it, by
the county attorney, who here rose and said,

"May it please your honor, I will withdraw this witness for the present.
I shall be glad to get along without his testimony, if possible, and
perhaps I can."

Antonio then left the stand, very much relieved. Rodolphus wondered who
would be called next. His heart sank within him, when he saw an officer
who had gone out a moment before, come in and lead _Gilpin_ to the
witness-stand.

It is customary in almost all countries, whenever a crime is committed,
and it is not possible to ascertain who committed it by any ordinary
proofs, to allow any one of the accomplices who is disposed to do so, to
come forward and inform against the rest, and then to exempt him from
punishment in consideration of his so doing. It seems very base for one
person to lead another into sin, or even to join him in it, and then to
assist in bringing his accomplice to punishment, in order to escape it
himself. But they who combine to commit crimes, must be expected to be
base. Gilpin was so. There seemed to be nothing noble or generous in his
nature. As soon as he found out that Rodolphus was suspected, he feared
that Rodolphus would confess, and then that he should himself be seized.
Accordingly, he went immediately to Mr. Kerber, and told him that he
knew all about the robbery, and that he would tell all about it, if they
would agree that he should not come to any harm.

This arrangement was finally made. They, however, seized Gilpin, and
shut him up, so as to secure him for a witness, and he had been in
prison ever since Rodolphus's arrest, though Rodolphus knew nothing
about it. Christopher had run away the moment he heard of Rodolphus's
arrest, and nothing had since been heard of him. Gilpin was now brought
forward to give his testimony.

There was a great contrast in his appearance, as he came upon the stand,
from that of Antonio. He looked guilty and ashamed, and he did not dare
to turn his eyes toward Rodolphus at all. He could not go forward
himself and tell a connected story, but he made all his statements in
answer to questions put to him by the county attorney. He, however, in
the end, told all. He explained how Rodolphus had first cut a hole in
the partition, and then he narrated the conversation which the boys had
held together behind the wall. He told about the tools, and the dark
lantern, and the breaking in; also about going to the corn-barn, burying
the box, and then of the accidental setting of the straw on fire, and of
Antonio's suddenly coming in among them. In a word, the whole affair was
brought completely to light. Mr. Keep questioned Gilpin afterward very
closely, to see if he would contradict himself, and so prove that the
story which he was telling, was not true; but he did not contradict
himself, and finally he went away.

There were no witnesses to be offered in favor of Rodolphus, and very
little to be said in his defense. When, at length, the trial was
concluded, the jury conferred together a little in their seats, and then
brought in a verdict of guilty.

The next day Rodolphus was sentenced to ten days' solitary confinement
in the jail, and after that, to one year of hard labor in the state
prison.


V. THE FLIGHT.

Two or three days after Rodolphus's trial, Ellen, who had done every
thing she could to cheer and comfort her mother in her sorrow, told her
one morning that she desired to go and see her uncle Randon that day.

"Is it about Rodolphus?" asked her mother.

"Yes, mother," said Ellen.

"Well, you may go," said her mother; "but I don't think that any thing
will do any good now."

After all her morning duties had been performed, about the house, Ellen
put on her bonnet, and taking Annie by the hand, in order that she might
lead her to school, she set out on the way to her uncle's. She left
Annie at school as she passed through the village, and she arrived at
her uncle's about ten o'clock.

Her uncle had been married again. His present wife was a very strong and
healthy woman, who was almost all the time busily engaged about the farm
work, but she was very fond of Ellen, and always glad to see her at the
farm. When Ellen arrived at the farm, on this occasion, she went in at
the porch door as usual. There was no one in the great room. She passed
through into the back entry. From the back entry she went into the back
room--the room where in old times she used to shut up her kitten.

This room was now used as a dairy. There was a long row of milk-pans in
it, upon a bench. Mrs. Randon was there. She seemed very glad to see
Ellen, and asked her to walk into the house.

Ellen said that she came to see her uncle. So her aunt went with her out
into the yard where her uncle was at work; he was mending a harrow.

"Well, Ellen," said her uncle, "I am very glad to see you. But I am
sorry to hear about poor Rodolphus."

"Yes," said Ellen, "but I have thought of one more plan. It's of no use
to keep him from going to the state prison, even if we could, unless we
can get a good place for him. Now what I wish is, that if we can get him
free, you would let him come and live here with you. Perhaps you could
make him a good boy."

Mr. Randon leaned upon the handle of his broad ax, and seemed to be at a
loss what to say. He looked toward his wife.

"Yes," said she, "let him come. I should like to have him come very
much. _We_ can make him a good boy."

"Well," said Mr. Randon.

"Well!" said Ellen. Her eyes brightened up as she said this, and she
turned to go away. Mr. and Mrs. Randon attempted to stop her, but she
said that she could not stay then, and so she went away.

"She can not _get_ him free," said Mr. Randon.

"I don't know," said his wife. "Perhaps she may. Such a girl as she can
do a great deal when she tries."

Ellen went then as fast as she could go, to Mrs Henry's. She found
Antonio in the garden.

"Antonio," said she, "my uncle Randon says that he will take Rodolphus
and let him live there with him, on the farm, if we can only get him out
of prison."

"But we can't get him out of prison," said Antonio. "It is too late
now, he has been condemned and sentenced."

"But the governor can pardon him," said Ellen.

"Can he?" said Antonio.

"Yes," said Ellen.

"Can he?" repeated Antonio. "Then I'll go and see if he _will_."

Two days after this Antonio was on his way to the town where the
governor lived. He met with various adventures on his way, and he felt
great solicitude and doubt about the result of the journey. At last he
arrived at the place.

He was directed to a large and handsome house, which stood in the centre
of the principal street of the village, enveloped in trees and
shrubbery. There was a beautiful yard, with a great gate leading to it,
on one side of the house.

Antonio looked up this yard and saw an elderly gentleman there, just
getting into a chaise. A person who seemed to be his hired man was
holding the horse. The gentlemen stopped, with his foot upon the step of
the chaise, when he saw Antonio coming, and looked toward him.

[Illustration: THE GOVERNOR.]

"Is this Governor Dummer?" said Antonio, as he came up.

"Yes," said the gentleman, "that is what they call me."

"I wanted to see you about some business," said Antonio, "but you are
going away."

The governor looked at Antonio a moment, and, being pleased with his
appearance, he said,

"Yes, I am going away, but not far. Get into the chaise with me, and we
can talk as we ride."

So the governor got into the chaise.

Antonio followed him; the hired man let go of the horse's head, and
Antonio and the governor rode together out of the yard.

Antonio was quite afraid at first, to find himself suddenly shut up so
closely with a governor. He, however, soon recovered his
self-possession, and began to give an account of Rodolphus' case. The
governor listened very attentively to all he had to say. Then he asked
Antonio a great many questions, some about Rodolphus' mother and sister,
and also about Antonio himself. Finally he asked what it was proposed to
do with Rodolphus, in case he should be pardoned and set at liberty.
Antonio said that he was to go to his uncle's, which was an excellent
place, and where he hoped that he would learn to be a good boy.

The governor seemed very much interested in the whole story. He,
however, said that he could not, at that time, come to any conclusion in
respect to the affair; he must make some further inquiries. He must see
the record of the trial, and the other documentary evidence connected
with the case. He would attend to it immediately, he said, and write to
Mr. Keep in respect to the result.

About a week after this, Mr. Keep sent for Antonio to come and see him.
Antonio went.

"Well, Antonio," said Mr. Keep, as Antonio entered his office,
"Rodolphus is pardoned. I I should like to have you ask Mrs. Henry if
she will let you go to-morrow, and bring him home. If she says that you
may go, call here on your way, and I will give you some money to pay the
expenses of the journey."

Early the next morning, Antonio called at Mr. Keep's office, on his way
after Rodolphus. Mr. Keep gave him some money. Antonio received it, for
he thought it would not be proper to decline it. He had, however, plenty
of his own. He had already put in his pocket six half dollars which he
had taken from his chest that morning. Mr. Keep gave him a bank bill. He
put this bill into his waistcoat pocket and pinned it in.

He then proceeded on his journey. In due time he arrived at the place
where Rodolphus was imprisoned. The pardon had already arrived, and the
jailer was ready to deliver up Rodolphus to his friends. He told Antonio
that he was very glad that he had come to take the boy away. He did not
like, he said, to lock up children.

Antonio took Rodolphus in his wagon, and they drove away. It was late in
the afternoon when they set out, but though Antonio did not expect to
get to Franconia that night, he was anxious to proceed as far as he
could. He intended to stop that night at a tavern in a large town, and
get home, if possible, the next day. They arrived at the tavern safely.
They took supper; and after supper, being tired, they went to bed.
Antonio had done all that he could to make Rodolphus feel at his ease
and happy, during the day, having said nothing at all to him about his
bad conduct. He had talked to him about his uncle, and about his going
there to live, and other pleasant subjects. Still Rodolphus seemed
silent and sober, and after supper he seemed glad to go to bed.

The two boys slept in two rooms which opened into each other. Antonio
proposed to have the door open, between these rooms, but Rodolphus
seemed to wish to have it shut. Antonio made no objection to this, but
at last, when he was ready to go to bed, he opened the door a little to
say good-night to Rodolphus. Rodolphus, he saw, when he opened the door,
was sitting at a little table, writing upon a piece of paper, with a
pencil. Antonio bade him good-night and shut the door again.

"I hope he is writing to his mother," said Antonio to himself, "to
confess his faults and promise to be a good boy."

The next morning Antonio rose pretty early, but he moved softly about
the room, so as not to disturb Rodolphus, who he supposed was asleep, as
his room was still. Antonio went down and ordered breakfast, and
attended to his horses, and by-and-by he came up again to see if
Rodolphus had got up. He listened at the door, and all was still. He
then opened the door gently and looked in. There was nobody there, and
to Antonio's great surprise, the bed was smooth and full, as if had not
been disturbed.

Antonio went in. He saw a paper lying on the table with his own name on
the outside of it. He took this paper up, and found that it was in
Rodolphus's handwriting. It was half in written, and half in printed
characters, and very badly spelled. The substance of it was this.

    "ANTONIO,

   "I am sorry to go off and leave you, but I must. I should be glad
   to go and live at my uncle's, but I can't. Don't try to find out
   where I have gone. Give my love to my mother and to Ellen. I had
   not any money, and so I had to take your half dollars out of your
   pocket. If I ever can, I shall pay you.

                                                      "RODOLPHUS.

   "P.S. It's no use in me trying to be a good boy."

Antonio made diligent inquiry for Rodolphus, in the town where he
disappeared, and in all the surrounding region, but no trace of the
fugitive could be found. He finally gave up the search and went
mournfully home.




NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S.C. ABBOTT.


THE CONSULAR THRONE.

France had tried republicanism, and the experiment had failed. There was
neither intelligence nor virtue among the people, sufficient to enable
them to govern themselves. During long ages of oppression they had sunk
into an abyss, from whence they could not rise, in a day, to the dignity
of freemen. Not one in thirty of the population of France could either
read or write. Religion and all its restraints, were scouted as
fanaticism. Few had any idea of the sacredness of a vote, of the duty of
the minority good-naturedly to yield to the majority. It is this
sentiment which is the political salvation of the United States. Not
unfrequently, when hundreds of thousands of ballots have been cast, has
a governor of a State been chosen by the majority of a single vote. And
the minority, in such circumstances, have yielded just as cordially as
they would have done to a majority of tens of thousands. After our most
exciting presidential elections, the announcement of the result is the
harbinger of immediate peace and good-natured acquiescence all over the
land. The defeated voter politely congratulates his opponent upon his
success. The French seemed to have attained no conception of the
sanctity of the decisions of the ballot-box. Government was but a series
of revolutions. Physical power alone was recognized. The strongest
grasped the helm, and, with the guillotine, confiscation, and exile,
endeavored hopelessly to cripple their adversaries. Ten years of such
anarchy had wearied the nation. It was in vain to protract the
experiment. France longed for repose. Napoleon was the only one capable
of giving her repose. The nation called upon him, in the loudest tones
which could be uttered, to assume the reins of government, and to
restore the dominion of security and order. We can hardly call that man
an usurper who does but assume the post which the nation with unanimity
entreats him to take. We may say that he was ambitious, that he loved
power, that glory was his idol. But if his ambition led him to exalt his
country; if the power he loved was the power of elevating the multitude
to intelligence, to self-respect, and to comfort; if the glory he sought
was the glory of being the most illustrious benefactor earth has ever
known, let us not catalogue his name with the sensualists and the
despots, who have reared thrones of self-aggrandizement and
self-indulgence upon the degradation of the people. We must compare
Napoleon with the leaders of armies, the founders of dynasties, and with
those who, in the midst of popular commotions, have ascended thrones.
When we institute such a comparison, Napoleon stands without a rival,
always excepting, in moral worth, our own Washington.

The next morning after the overthrow of the Directory, the three
consuls, Napoleon, Sieyes, and Ducos, met in the palace of the
Luxembourg. Sieyes was a veteran diplomatist, whose gray hairs entitled
him, as he supposed, to the moral supremacy over his colleagues. He
thought that Napoleon would be satisfied with the command of the armies,
while he would be left to manage the affairs of state. There was one
arm-chair in the room. Napoleon very coolly assumed it. Sieyes, much
annoyed, rather petulantly exclaimed, "Gentlemen, who shall take the
chair?" "Bonaparte surely," said Ducos; "he already has it. He is the
only man who can save us." "Very well, gentlemen," said Napoleon,
promptly, "let us proceed to business." Sieyes was staggered. But
resistance to a will so imperious, and an arm so strong, was useless.

[Illustration: THE CONSULS AND THE GOLD.]

Sieyes loved gold. Napoleon loved only glory. "Do you see," inquired
Sieyes, pointing to a sort of cabinet in the room, "that pretty piece of
furniture?" Napoleon, whose poetic sensibilities were easily aroused,
looked at it with interest, fancying it to be some relic of the
disenthroned monarchs of France. Sieyes continued: "I will reveal to you
a little secret. We Directors, reflecting that we might go out of office
in poverty, which would be a very unbecoming thing, laid aside, from the
treasury, a sum to meet that exigence. There are nearly two hundred
thousand dollars in that chest. As there are no more Directors, the
money belongs to us." Napoleon now began to understand matters. It was
not difficult for one who had proudly rejected millions, to look with
contempt upon thousands. "Gentlemen," said he, very coolly, "should this
transaction come to my knowledge, I shall insist that the whole sum be
refunded to the public treasury. But should I not hear of it, and I know
nothing of it as yet, you, being two old Directors, can divide the money
between you. But you must make haste. Tomorrow it may be too late." They
took the hint, and divided the spoil; Sieyes taking the lion's share.
Ducos complained to Napoleon of the extortion of his colleague. "Settle
the business between yourselves," said Napoleon, "and be quiet. Should
the matter come to my ears, you will inevitably lose the whole."

This transaction, of course, gave Napoleon a supremacy which neither of
his colleagues could ever again question. The law which decreed the
provisional consulship, conferred upon them the power, in connection
with the two legislative bodies, of twenty-five members each, of
preparing a new Constitution to be submitted to the people. The genius
of Napoleon, his energy, his boundless information, and his instinctive
insight into the complexities of all subjects were so conspicuous in
this first interview, that his colleagues were overwhelmed. That evening
Sieyes went to sup with some stern republicans, his intimate friends.
"Gentlemen," said he, "the republic is no more. It died to-day. I have
this day conversed with a man who is not only a great general, but who
is himself capable of every thing, and who knows every thing. He wants
no counselors, no assistance. Politics, laws, the art of governing, are
as familiar to him as the manner of commanding an army. He is young and
determined. The republic is finished." "But," one replied, "if he
becomes a tyrant, we must call to our aid the dagger of Brutus." "Alas!
my friends," Sieyes rejoined, "we should then fall into the hands of the
Bourbons, which would be still worse."

Napoleon now devoted himself, with Herculean energies, to the
re-organization of the government, and to the general administration of
the affairs of the empire. He worked day and night. He appeared
insensible to exhaustion or weariness. Every subject was apparently
alike familiar to his mind; banking, police regulations, diplomacy, the
army, the navy, every thing which could pertain to the welfare of France
was, grasped by his all-comprehensive intellect.

The Directory had tyrannically seized, as hostages, any relatives of the
emigrants upon whom they could lay their hands. Wives, mothers, sisters,
brothers, fathers, children, were imprisoned and held responsible, with
their lives, for the conduct of their emigrant relatives. Napoleon
immediately abolished this iniquitous edict, and released the prisoners.
Couriers, without delay, were dispatched all over France to throw open
the prison doors to these unfortunate captives.

Napoleon even went himself to the Temple, where many of these innocent
victims were imprisoned, that he might, with his own hand break their
fetters. On Napoleon's return from this visit to the prison he
exclaimed, "What fools these Directors were! To what a state have they
brought our public institutions. The prisoners are in a shocking
condition. I questioned them, as well as the jailers, for nothing is to
be learned from the superiors. When in the prison I could not help
thinking of the unfortunate Louis XVI. He was an excellent man, but too
amiable to deal with mankind. And Sir Sydney Smith, I made them show me
his apartments. If he had not escaped I should have taken Acre. There
are too many painful associations connected with that prison. I shall
have it pulled down one day or other. I ordered the jailer's books to be
brought, and finding the list of the hostages, immediately liberated
them. I told them that an unjust law had placed them under restraint,
and that it was my first duty to restore them to liberty."

[Illustration: NAPOLEON IN THE TEMPLE.]

The priests had been mercilessly persecuted. They could only escape
imprisonment by taking an oath which many considered hostile to their
religious vows. Large numbers of them were immured in dungeons. Others,
in dismay and poverty, had fled, and were wandering fugitives in other
lands. Napoleon redressed their wrongs, and spread over them the shield
of his powerful protection. The captives were liberated, and the exiles
invited to return. The principle was immediately established that the
rights of conscience were to be respected. By this one act, twenty
thousand grief-stricken exiles were restored to France, proclaiming
through city and village the clemency of the First Consul. In the rural
districts of France, where the sentiment of veneration for Christianity
still lingered, the priests were received with the warmest welcome. And
in the hut of the peasant the name of Napoleon was breathed with prayers
and tears of gratitude.

Some French emigrants, furnished with arms by England, were returning to
France, to join the royalists in La Vendee, in extending the ravages of
civil war. The ship was wrecked on the coast of Calais, and they were
all made prisoners. As they were taken with arms in their hands, to
fight against their country, rigorous laws doomed them, as traitors, to
the guillotine. Napoleon interposed to save them. Magnanimously he
asserted--"No matter what their intentions were. They were driven on our
soil by the tempest. They are shipwrecked men. As such they are entitled
to the laws of hospitality. Their persons must be held inviolable."
Unharmed they were all permitted to re-embark and leave France. Among
these emigrants were many men of illustrious name. These acts of
generosity on the part of Napoleon did much to disarm their hostility,
and many of them became subsequently firm supporters of his power.

The Revolutionary tribunals had closed the churches, and prohibited the
observance of the Sabbath. To efface, if possible, all traces of that
sacred day, they had appointed every tenth day, for cessation from labor
and festivity. A heavy fine was inflicted upon any one who should close
his shop on the Sabbath, or manifest any reverence for the discarded
institution. Napoleon, who had already resolved to reinstate
Christianity in paganized France, but who found it necessary to move
with the utmost caution, ordered that no man should be molested for his
religious principles or practices. This step excited hostility. Paris
was filled with unbelief. Generals, statesmen, philosophers, scouted the
idea of religion. They remonstrated. Napoleon was firm. The mass of the
common people were with him, and he triumphed over aristocratic
infidelity.

With singular tact he selected the most skillful and efficient men to
fill all the infinitely varied departments of state. "I want more head,"
said he, "and less tongue." Every one was kept busy. Every one was
under the constant vigilance of his eagle eye. He appeared to have an
instinctive acquaintance with every branch of legislation, and with the
whole science of government. Three times a week the minister of finance
appeared before him, and past corruption was dragged to light and
abolished. The treasury was bankrupt. Napoleon immediately replenished
it. The army was starving, and almost in a state of mutiny. Napoleon
addressed to them a few of his glowing words of encouragement and
sympathy, and the emaciate soldiers in their rags, enthusiastically
rallied again around their colors, and in a few days, from all parts of
France, baggage wagons were trundling toward them, laden with clothing
and provisions. The navy was dilapidated and blockaded. At the voice of
Napoleon in every port of France the sound of the ship hammer was heard,
and a large armament was prepared to convey succor to his comrades in
Egypt. Such vigor mortal man never exhibited before. All France felt an
immediate impulse. At the same time in which Napoleon was accomplishing
all these duties, and innumerable others, any one of which would have
engrossed the whole energies of any common man, he was almost daily
meeting his colleagues and the two committees to discuss the new
Constitution.

Sieyes was greatly alarmed at the generosity of some of Napoleon's acts.
"The emigrants," said he, "will return in crowds. The royalists will
again raise their heads, and the republicans will be massacred." His
imagination was so excited with apprehensions of conspiracies and
assassinations, that he once awoke Napoleon at three o'clock in the
morning, to inform him of a fearful conspiracy, which had just been
discovered by the police. Napoleon quietly listened to his story, and
then, raising his head from his pillow, inquired, "Have they corrupted
our guard?" "No!" Sieyes replied. "Then go to bed," said Napoleon, "and
let them alone. It will be time enough to be alarmed, when our six
hundred men are attacked." Napoleon was so powerful, that he could
afford to be generous. His magnanimity was his most effectual safeguard.

In less than six weeks, the new Constitution was ready to be presented
to the nation for their acceptance. In the original draft, drawn up by
Sieyes, the supreme power was to be vested in a Grand Elector, to be
chosen for life, to possess a revenue of one million of dollars, and to
reside in the utmost possible magnificence in the palaces of Versailles.
He was to be a mock king, with all the pomp and pageantry of royalty,
but without its power. This was the office which Sieyes hoped would
satisfy the ambition of Napoleon. Napoleon exploded it as with a
bomb-shell. "Can you conceive," he exclaimed, "that a man of the least
talent or honor, would humble himself to accept an office, the duties of
which are merely to fatten like a pig on so many millions a year?" The
Grand Elector was annihilated. The following was the Constitution
adopted. The sovereign power was to be invested in Napoleon as First
Consul. Two subordinate consuls, Cambaceres and Lebrun, were to be his
counselors, with deliberative voices only. The Consuls proposed laws to
a body called the Tribunate, who thoroughly discussed them, and either
rejected, or, if they approved, recommended the law to a third body,
called the Legislature. The Legislature heard the report in silence,
having no deliberative voice. Three were appointed from the Tribunate to
present the arguments in favor of the law, and three those against it.
Without further debate, the Legislature, as judges, voted. The Senate
also was a silent body. It received the law from the Legislature, and
approved or condemned. Here were the forms of an ample supply of checks
and balances. Every act proposed by Napoleon, must be sanctioned by the
Tribunate, the Legislature, and the Senate before it could become a law.

"The Constitution," said Sieyes, "is a pyramid of which the people is
the base." Every male in France 21 years of age, paying a tax, was a
voter. They amounted to about 5,000,000. In their primary assemblies,
they chose 500,000 delegates. These delegates, from their own number,
chose 50,000. These latter, from themselves, chose 5000. These 5000 were
the Notables, or the eligible to office. From them, thus elected by the
people, all the offices were to be filled. The Constitution declared
Napoleon to be First Consul for ten years, with an annual salary of
$100,000. Cambaceres and Lebrun were his associate Consuls, with a
salary of $60,000. These three, with Sieyes and Ducos, were to choose,
from the Notables, the Senate, to consist of eighty members. They were
elected for life, and received a salary of $5000. The Senate chose three
hundred members, from the Notables, to compose the Legislature, with a
salary of $2000, and one hundred members to compose the Tribunate, with
an annual salary of $3000 each.

Such, in brief, was the Constitution under which Napoleon commenced his
reign. Under a man of ordinary vigor this would have been a popular and
a free government. With Napoleon it was in effect an unlimited monarchy.
The energy of his mind was so tremendous that he acquired immediately
the control of all these bodies. The plans he proposed were either so
plainly conducive to the public welfare, or he had such an extraordinary
faculty of convincing Tribunes, Legislators, and Senators that they were
so, that these bodies almost invariably voted in perfect accordance with
his will. It was Napoleon's unquestioned aim to aggrandize France. For
the accomplishment of that purpose he was ready to make any conceivable
personal sacrifice. In that accomplishment was to consist all his glory.
No money could bribe him. No enticements of sensual indulgence could
divert his energies from that single aim. His capacious intellect seemed
to grasp intuitively every thing which could affect the welfare of
France. He gathered around him, as agents for the execution of his
plans, the most brilliant intellects of Europe, and yet they all took
the attitude of children in his presence. With a body which seemed
incapable of fatigue, and a mind whose energies never were exhausted,
he consecrated himself to the majestic enterprise, by day and by night,
and with an untiring energy which amazed and bewildered his
contemporaries, and which still excites the wonder of the world. No one
thought of resisting his will. His subordinates sought only to
anticipate his wishes. Hence no machinery of government, which human
ingenuity could devise, could seriously embarrass the free scope of his
energies. His associates often expressed themselves as entirely overawed
by the majesty of his intellect. They came from his presence giving
utterance to the most profound admiration of the justice and the
rapidity of his perceptions. "We are pressed," said they, "into a very
whirlwind of urgency; but it is all for the good of France."

The Constitution was now presented to the whole people, for their
acceptance or rejection. A more free and unbiased expression of public
opinion could not possibly have been obtained. The result is
unparalleled in the annals of the ballot-box. There were 3,011,007 votes
cast in favor of the Constitution, and but 1562 in the negative. By such
unanimity, unprecedented in the history of the world, was Napoleon
elected First Consul of France. Those who reject the dogma of the divine
right of kings, who believe in the sacred authority of the voice of the
people, will, in this act, surely recognize the legitimacy of Napoleon's
elevation. A better title to the supreme power no ruler upon earth could
ever show. With Americans it can not be a serious question who had the
best title to the throne, Louis Capet, from the accident of birth, or
Napoleon Bonaparte, from the unanimous vote of the people. Napoleon may
have abused the power which was thus placed in his hands. Whether he did
so or not, the impartial history of his career will record. But it is
singularly disingenuous to call this an usurpation. It was a nation's
voice. "I did not usurp the crown," said Napoleon, proudly and justly.
"It was lying in the mire. I picked it up. The people placed it on my
head." It is not strange that the French people should have decided as
they did. Where is the man now, in either hemisphere, who would not have
preferred the government of Napoleon to any other dominion which was
then possible in France?

From the comparatively modest palace of the Luxembourg, Napoleon and
Josephine now removed to take up their residence in the more magnificent
apartments of the Tuileries. Those saloons of royalty which had been
sacked and denied by the mob of Paris, were thoroughly repaired. The red
cap of Jacobinism had been daubed upon the walls of the apartments of
state, and a tri-colored cockade had been painted upon the military hat
of Louis XIV. "Wash those out," said Napoleon. "I will have no such
abominations." The palace was furnished with more than its former
splendor. Statues of illustrious men of all lands embellished the vacant
niches. Those gorgeous saloons, where kings and queens for so many ages
had reveled, were now adorned, with outvying splendor, for the residence
of the people's chosen ruler.

Louis was the king of the nobles, placed by the nobles upon the throne.
He consulted for their interests. All the avenues of wealth and honor
were open for them alone. The people were merely slaves, living in
ignorance, poverty, obscurity, that the king and the nobles might dwell
in voluptuousness. Napoleon was the ruler of the _people_. He was one of
their own number. He was elevated to power by their choice. He spread
out an unobstructed arena for the play of their energies. He opened
before them the highways to fame and fortune. The only aristocracy which
he favored was the aristocracy of intellect and industry. No privileged
classes were tolerated. Every man was equal in the eye of the law. All
appealed to the same tribunals, and received impartial justice. The
taxes were proportioned to property. The feudal claims of the landed
proprietors were abolished. And there was no situation in the state, to
which the humblest citizen might not aspire. They called Napoleon First
Consul. They cared not much what he was called, so long as he was the
supreme ruler of their own choice. They were proud of having their ruler
more exalted, more magnificent, more powerful than the kings of the
nobles. Hence the secret of their readiness to acquiesce in any plans
which might minister to the grandeur of their own Napoleon. His glory
was their glory. And never were they better pleased than when they saw
him eclipse in splendor the proudest sovereigns upon the surrounding
thrones.

One evening Napoleon, with his gray surtout buttoned up closely around
him, went out with Bourrienne, incognito, and sauntered along the Rue
St. Honoré, making small purchases in the shops, and conversing freely
with the people about the First Consul and his acts. "Well, citizen,"
said Napoleon, in one of the shops, "what do they say of Bonaparte?" The
shop-keeper spoke of him in terms of the most enthusiastic admiration.
"Nevertheless," said Napoleon, "we must watch him. I hope that it will
not be found that we have merely changed one tyrant for another--the
Directory for Bonaparte." The shop-keeper was so indignant at this
irreverent intimation, that he showered upon Napoleon such a volley of
abuse, as to compel him to escape precipitately into the street, greatly
amused and delighted with the adventure.

It was on the morning of the 19th of February, 1800, when all Paris was
in commotion to witness the most gratifying spectacle of the people's
sovereign taking possession of the palace of the ancient kings. The
brilliance of Napoleon's character and renown had already thrown his
colleagues into the shade. They were powerless. No one thought of them.
Sieyes foresaw this inevitable result, and, with very commendable
self-respect, refused to accept the office of Second Consul. A few
interviews with Napoleon had taught him that no one could share power
with a will so lofty and commanding. Napoleon says, "Sieyes had fallen
into a mistake respecting the nature of these Consuls. He was fearful of
mortification and of having the First Consul to contend with at every
step. This would have been the case had all the Consuls been equal. We
should then have all been enemies. But the Constitution having made them
subordinate, there was no room for the struggles of obstinacy." Indeed
there was no room for such a conflict. Utter powerlessness can not
contend with omnipotence. The subordinate Consuls could only _give
advice when Napoleon asked it_. He was not likely to trouble them.

The royal apartments in the Tuileries were prepared for the First
Consul. The more modest saloons in the Pavilion of Flora were assigned
to the two other Consuls. Cambaceres, however, was so fully conscious of
the real position which he occupied, that he declined entering the
palace of the kings. He said to his colleague, Lebrun, "It is an error
that we should be lodged in the Tuileries. It suits neither you nor me.
For my part, I will not go. General Bonaparte will soon want to lodge
there by himself. Then we shall be suffered to retire. It is better not
to go at all."

The morning of Napoleon's removal to the Tuileries, he slept later than
usual. When Bourrienne entered his chamber at seven o'clock, Napoleon
was soundly asleep. On awaking he said, "Well, Bourrienne, we shall at
length sleep at the Tuileries. You are very fortunate; you are not
obliged to make a show of yourself. You may go in your own way. But as
for me, I must go in a procession. This I dislike. But we must have a
display. It gratifies the people. The Directory was too simple; it
therefore enjoyed no consideration. With the army, simplicity is in its
place. But in a great city, in a palace, it is necessary that the chief
of a state should draw attention upon himself by all possible means. But
we must move with caution. Josephine will see the review from the
apartments of Consul Lebrun."

Napoleon entered a magnificent carriage, seated between his two
colleagues, who appeared but as his attendants or body-guard. The
carriage was drawn by six beautiful white horses, a present to Napoleon
from the Emperor of Austria, immediately after the treaty of Campo
Formio. A gorgeous train of officers, accompanied by six thousand picked
troops, in the richest splendor of military display, composed the
cortège. Twenty thousand soldiers, with all the concomitants of martial
pomp, in double files, lined the streets through which the procession
was to pass. A throng which could not be numbered, from the city and
from the country, filled the garden, the streets, the avenues, the
balconies, the house-tops, and ebbed and flowed in surging billows far
back into the Elysian Fields. They had collected to exult in introducing
the idol of the army and of the nation--the people's king--into the
palace from which they had expelled the ancient monarchs of France. The
moment the state carriage appeared, the heavens seemed rent with the
unanimous shout, "Long live the First Consul." As soon as Napoleon
arrived at the foot of the great stair, ascending to the palace, he left
the other Consuls, and, mounting his horse, passed in review the
magnificent array of troops drawn up before him. Murat was on his right;
Lannes on his left. He was surrounded by a brilliant staff of war-worn
veterans, whose scarred and sun-burnt visages told of many a toilsome
and bloody campaign. There were three brigades, which appeared with the
banners which had passed through the terrific conflicts of Lodi, Rivoli,
and Arcola. They were black with powder, and torn into shreds by shot.
Napoleon instantly uncovered his head, and, with profound reverence,
saluted these monuments of military valor. An universal burst of
enthusiasm greeted the well-timed and graceful act. Napoleon then
returned to the Tuileries, ascended to the audience-chamber, and took
his station in the centre of the room. All eyes were fixed upon him. The
two associate Consuls were entirely forgotten, or, rather, they were
reduced to the rank of pages, following in his train, and gracing his
triumph.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON'S ENTRANCE INTO THE TUILERIES.]

The suite of rooms appropriated to Josephine, consisted of two
magnificent saloons, with private apartments adjoining. In the evening a
vast assemblage of brilliant guests were gathered in those regal halls.
When Josephine entered the gorgeously illumined apartments, leaning upon
the arm of Talleyrand, and dressed with that admirable taste which she
ever displayed, a murmur of admiration rose from the whole assembly. The
festivities of the evening were protracted until nearly the dawn of the
ensuing morning. When the guests had all retired, Napoleon, with his
hands folded behind him, paced to and fro through the spacious halls,
apparently absorbed in profound and melancholy thought; and then, as if
half soliloquizing, said to his secretary, Bourrienne, "Here we are in
the Tuileries. We must take good care to remain here. Who has not
inhabited this palace? It has been the abode of robbers; of members of
the Convention. There is your brother's house, from which, eight years
ago, we saw the good Louis XVI. besieged in the Tuileries and carried
off into captivity. But you need not fear a repetition of that scene.
Let them attempt it with me if they dare."

The next morning Napoleon said to Bourrienne, "See what it is to have
the mind set upon a thing. It is not two years since we resolved to take
possession of the Tuileries. Do you think that we have managed affairs
badly since that time. In fact, I am well satisfied. Yesterday's affair
went off well. Do you imagine that all those people who came to pay
their court to me were sincere? Most certainly they were not. But the
joy of the _people_ was real. The people know what is right. Besides,
consult the great thermometer of public opinion, the public funds. On
the 17th Brumaire they were at 11--the 20th, 16--to-day, 21. In this
state of things, I can allow the Jacobins to chatter. But they must not
talk too loud."

With consummate tact, Napoleon selected the ablest men of the empire to
occupy the most important departments in the state. Talleyrand, the wily
diplomatist, having received his appointment, said to Napoleon, "You
have confided to me the administration of foreign affairs. I will
justify your confidence. But I deem it my duty at once to declare, that
I will consult with you alone. That France may be well governed, there
must be unity of action. The First Consul must retain the direction of
every thing, the home, foreign, and police departments, and those of war
and the marine. The Second Consul is an able lawyer. I would advise that
he have the direction of legal affairs. Let the Third Consul govern the
finances. This will occupy and amuse them. Thus you, having at your
disposal the vital powers of government, will be enabled to attain the
noble object of your aims, the regeneration of France." Napoleon
listened in silence. Having taken leave of his minister, he said to his
secretary, "Talleyrand has detected my views. He is a man of excellent
sense. He advises just what I intend to do. They walk with speed who
walk alone." Some one had objected to the appointment of Talleyrand,
saying, "He is a weathercock." "Be it so," said Napoleon, "he is the
ablest Minister for Foreign Affairs in our choice. It shall be my care
that he exerts his abilities."

"Carnot," objected another, "is a republican." "Republican or not,"
Napoleon replied, "he is the last Frenchman who will wish to see France
dismembered. Let us avail ourselves of his unrivaled talents in the war
department, while he is willing to place them at our command."

"Fouché," objected one, "is a compound of falsehood and duplicity."
"Fouché alone," Napoleon rejoined, "is able to conduct the ministry of
the police. He alone has a knowledge of all the factions and intrigues
which have been spreading misery through France. We can not create men.
We must take such as we find. It is easier to modify, by circumstances,
the feelings and conduct of an able servant than to supply his place."

M. Abriel, a peer of France, was recommended as Minister of Justice. "I
do not know you, citizen Abriel," said Napoleon, as he presented him his
diploma of office, "but I am informed that you are the most upright man
in the magistracy. It is on that account that I have named you Minister
of Justice."

One of Napoleon's first acts was to abolish the annual festival
celebrating the bloody death of Louis XVI. He declared it to be a
barbarous ceremony, and unworthy of a humane people. "Louis was a
tyrant," said Sieyes. "Nay, nay," Napoleon promptly replied, "Louis was
no tyrant. Had he been a tyrant, I should this day have been a captain
of engineers, and you, Monsieur L'Abbé, would have been saying mass."

The Directory had resorted to the iniquitous procedure of forced loans
to replenish the bankrupt treasury. Napoleon immediately rejected the
tyrannical system. He assembled seventy of the most wealthy capitalists
of Paris, in his closet at the Tuileries. Frankly he laid before them
the principles of the new government, and the claims it had on the
confidence of the public. The appeal was irresistible. The merchants and
bankers, overjoyed at the prospect of just and stable laws, by
acclamation voted an immediate loan of two millions of dollars. Though
this made provision but for a few days, it was very timely aid. He then
established an equitable tax upon property, sufficient to meet the
exigencies of the state. The people paid the tax without a murmur.

Napoleon entertained profound aversion for the men who had been engaged
in the sanguinary scenes of the revolution, particularly for the
regicides. He always spoke with horror of those men of blood, whom he
called the assassins of Louis. He deplored the necessity of employing
any of them. Cambaceres was a member of the Convention which had
condemned the king to the guillotine. Though he voted against the
sentence of death, he had advocated his arrest. "Remember," said
Napoleon one day to Cambaceres, at the same time playfully pinching his
ear, "that I had nothing to do with that atrocious business. But your
case, my dear Cambaceres, is clear. If the Bourbons ever return, you
must be hanged." Cambaceres did not enjoy such pleasantry. His smile was
ghastly. Upon the reorganization of the Supreme Court of France,
Napoleon said to Bourrienne, "I do not take any decided steps against
the regicides. But I will show what I think of them. Target, the
president of this court, refused to defend Louis XVI. I will replace him
by Tronchet, who so nobly discharged that perilous duty. They may say
what they choose. My mind is made up."

The enthusiasm of the army was immediately revived by the attention
which the First Consul devoted to its interests. He presented beautiful
sabres to those soldiers who had highly distinguished themselves. One
hundred were thus conferred. A sergeant of grenadiers had obtained
permission to write to the First Consul, expressing his thanks.
Napoleon, with his own hand, replied, "I have received your letter, my
brave comrade. You had no occasion to remind me of your gallant
behavior. You are the most courageous grenadier in the army since the
death of the brave Benezeti. You have received one of the hundred sabres
which I have distributed, and all agree that none deserve it better. I
wish much to see you again. The Minister of War sends you an order to
come to Paris." This letter was widely circulated in the army, and
roused the enthusiasm of the soldiers to the highest pitch. The First
Consul, the most illustrious general of France, the great Napoleon,
calls a sergeant of grenadiers "my brave comrade." This sympathy for the
people was ever a prominent trait in Napoleon's character.

The following anecdote will illustrate his views upon this subject; or,
rather, a part of his views. All men have varying moods of mind, which
seem to be antagonistic to each other. Napoleon was conversing with
O'Meara respecting the English naval service.

"During the winter," said O'Meara, "the seamen are better off at sea
than the officers."

"Why so?" inquired Napoleon.

"Because," was the reply, "they have the advantage of the galley-fire,
where they can warm and dry themselves."

"And why can not the officers do the same?"

"It would not be exactly decorous," O'Meara replied, "for the officers
to mix in that familiar way with the men."

"Ah, this aristocratic pride!" exclaimed Napoleon "Why, in my campaigns,
I used to go to the lines in the bivouacs; sit down with the humblest
soldier, and converse freely with him. You are the most aristocratic
nation in the world. I always prided myself on being the man of the
people. I sprung from the populace myself. Whenever a man had merit I
elevated him, without asking how many degrees of nobility he had. To the
aristocracy you pay every kind of attention. Nothing can be too good for
them. The people you treat precisely as if they were slaves. Can any
thing be more horrible than your pressing of seamen? You send your boats
on shore to seize upon every male that can be found, who, if they have
the misfortune to belong to the populace, if they can not prove
themselves _gentlemen_, are hurried on board your ships. And yet you
have the impudence to cry out against the conscription in France. It
wounds your pride, because it fell _upon all ranks_. You are shocked
that a gentleman's son should be obliged to defend his country, just as
if he were one of the common people--that he should be compelled to
expose his body like a vile plebeian. Yet God made all men alike. One
day the people will avenge themselves. That conscription, which so
offended your aristocratic pride, was conducted scrupulously according
to the principles of equal rights. Every native of a country is bound to
defend it. The conscription did not, like your press-gang, crush a
particular class, because they were poor. It was the most just, because
the most equal, mode of raising troops. It rendered the French army the
best composed in the world."

When a prisoner on board the Northumberland, in his passage to St.
Helena, all the common sailors, though English, became most
enthusiastically attached to Napoleon. Some one alluded to this fact.
"Yes," said Napoleon, "I believe that they were my friends. I used to go
among them; speak to them kindly, and ask familiar questions. My freedom
in this respect quite astonished them, as it was so different from that
which they had been accustomed to receive from their own officers. You
English are great aristocrats. You keep a wide distance between
yourselves and the people."

It was observed in reply, "On board a man-of-war it is necessary to keep
the seamen at a great distance, in order to maintain a proper respect
for the officers."

"I do not think," Napoleon rejoined, "that it is necessary to keep up so
much reserve as you practice. When the officers do not eat or drink, or
make too many freedoms with the seamen, I see no necessity for any
greater distinctions. Nature formed all men equal. It was always my
custom to go freely among the soldiers and the common people, to
converse with them, ask them little histories, and speak kindly to them.
This I found to be of the greatest benefit to me. On the contrary, the
generals and officers I kept at a great distance."

Notwithstanding these protestations of freedom from aristocratic pride,
which were unquestionably sincere, and in their intended application
strictly true, it is also evident that Napoleon was by no means
insensible to the mysterious fascination of illustrious rank. It is a
sentiment implanted in the human heart, which never has been, and never
can be eradicated. Just at this time Murat sought Napoleon's sister
Caroline for his bride. "Murat! Murat!" said Napoleon, thoughtfully and
hesitatingly. "_He is the son of an innkeeper. In the elevated rank to
which I have attained I can not mix my blood with his._" For a moment he
seemed lost in thought, and then continued, "Besides, there is no hurry.
I shall see by-and-by." A friend of the young cavalry officer urged the
strong attachment of the two for each other. He also plead Murat's
devotion to Napoleon, his brilliant courage, and the signal service he
had rendered at the battle of Aboukir. "Yes," Napoleon replied, with
animation, "Murat was superb at Aboukir. Well, for my part, all things
considered, I am satisfied. Murat suits my sister. And, then, they can
not say that I am aristocratic, that I seek grand alliances. Had I given
my sister to a noble, all you Jacobins would have cried out for a
counter-revolution. Since that matter is settled we must hasten the
business. We have no time to lose. If I go to Italy I wish to take Murat
with me. We must strike a decisive blow, there. Come to-morrow."
Notwithstanding Napoleon's vast power, and the millions which had been
at his disposal, his private purse was still so empty, that he could
present his sister Caroline with but six thousand dollars as her
marriage portion. Feeling the necessity of making some present in
accordance with his exalted rank, he took a magnificent diamond
necklace, belonging to Josephine, as the bridal gift. Josephine most
gracefully submitted to this spoliation of her jewelry.

As Napoleon became more familiar with the heights of power to which he
had attained, all these plebeian scruples vanished. He sought to ally
his family with the proudest thrones of Europe; and, repelling from his
bosom the faithful wife of his early years, he was proud of commingling
his own blood with that of a daughter of the Cæsars.

In the midst of these events, the news arrived in France of the death of
Washington. Napoleon immediately issued the following order of the day
to the army:--"Washington is dead! That great man fought against
tyranny. He established the liberty of his country. His memory will be
ever dear to the free men of both hemispheres; and especially to the
French soldiers, who, like him and the American troops, have fought for
liberty and equality. As a mark of respect, the First Consul orders
that, for ten days, black crape be suspended from all the standards and
banners of the Republic."

In reference to the course he pursued at this time, Napoleon
subsequently remarked, "Only those who wish to deceive the people, and
rule them for their own personal advantage, would desire to keep them in
ignorance. The more they are enlightened, the more will they feel
convinced of the utility of laws, and of the necessity of defending
them; and the more steady, happy, and prosperous will society become. If
knowledge should ever be dangerous to the multitude, it can can only be
when the government, in opposition to the interests of the people,
drives them into an unnatural situation, or dooms the lower classes to
perish for want. In such a case, knowledge will inspire them with the
spirit to defend themselves. My code alone, from its simplicity, has
been more beneficial to France than the whole mass of laws which
preceded it. My schools and my system of mutual instruction, are to
elevate generations yet unborn. Thus, during my reign, crimes were
constantly diminishing. On the contrary, with our neighbors in England,
they have been increasing to a frightful degree. This alone is
sufficient to enable any one to form a decisive judgment of the
respective governments."[3]

   [Footnote 3: This fact is corroborated by authentic documents.
   France in 1801, the second year of Napoleon's consulship, with
   34,000,000 of inhabitants, condemned to death 882. England, with
   but sixteen millions, executed the same year 3,400. In the year
   1811, after Napoleon had reigned ten years, France, with a
   population of 42,000,000, condemned but 392. England, with
   17,000,000, condemned 4,400.--_See Situation of England, by M.
   Montveran._]

"Look at the United States," he continued, "where, without any apparent
force or effort, every thing goes on prosperously. Every one is happy
and contented. And this is because the public wishes and interests are
in fact the ruling power. Place the same government at variance with the
will and interest of its inhabitants, and you would soon see what
disturbance, trouble, and confusion--above all, what increase of crime,
would ensue. When I acquired the supreme direction of affairs, it was
wished that I might become a Washington. Words cost nothing; and no
doubt those who were so ready to express the wish, did so without any
knowledge of times, places, persons, or things. Had I been in America, I
would willingly have been a Washington. I should have had little merit
in so being. I do not see how I could reasonably have acted otherwise.
But had Washington been in France, exposed to discord within and
invasion from without, he could by no possibility have been what he was
in America. Indeed it would have been folly to have attempted it. It
would only have prolonged the existence of evil. For my part, I could
only have been a _crowned Washington_. It was only in a congress of
kings, and in the midst of kings, yielding or subdued, that I could take
my place. Then, and then only, could I successfully display Washington's
moderation, disinterestedness and wisdom."

"I think," said La Fayette, at the time of the revolution which placed
Louis Phillipe upon the throne of France, "that the Constitution of the
United States is the best which has ever existed. But France is not
prepared for such a government. We need a throne surrounded by
republican institutions."

Napoleon was indefatigable in his endeavors to reorganize in the
Tuileries the splendors of a court. The French people were like children
who needed to be amused, and Napoleon took good care to provide
amusement for them. His ante-chambers were filled with chamberlains,
pages, and esquires. Servants, in brilliant liveries, loitered in the
halls and on the staircases. Magnificent entertainments were provided,
at which Josephine presided with surpassing grace and elegance. Balls,
operas, and theatres, began to be crowded with splendor and fashion, and
the gay Parisians were delighted. Napoleon personally took no interest
whatever in these things. All his energies were engrossed in the
accomplishment of magnificent enterprises for the elevation of France.
"While they are discussing these changes," said he, "they will cease to
talk nonsense about my politics, and that is what I want. Let them amuse
themselves. Let them dance. But let them not thrust their heads into the
councils of government. Commerce will revive under the increasing
expenditure of the capital. I am not afraid of the Jacobins. I never was
so much applauded as at the last parade. It is ridiculous to say that
nothing is right but what is new. We have had enough of such novelties.
I would rather have the balls of the opera than the saturnalia of the
Goddess of Reason."[4]

   [Footnote 4: During the revolution, a beautiful opera girl, of
   licentious character, was conveyed in most imposing ceremonial to
   the church of Notre Dame. There she was elevated upon an altar, and
   presented to the thronged assemblage as the Goddess of Reason.
   "Mortals!" said Chaumette, "cease to tremble before the powerless
   thunders of a God whom your fears have created. There is no God.
   Henceforth worship none but Reason. Here I offer you its noblest
   and purest image. Worship only such divinities as this." The whole
   assemblage bowed in adoration, and then retired to indulge in
   scenes which the pen refuses to record.]

While Napoleon was thus engaged in reconstructing society in France,
organizing the army, strengthening the navy, and conducting the
diplomacy of Europe, he was maturing and executing the most magnificent
plans of internal improvements. In early life he had conceived a passion
for architectural grandeur, which had been strengthened and chastened by
his residence among the time-honored monuments of Italy and Egypt. With
inconceivable activity of mind, he planned those vast works of utility
and of beauty in Paris, and all over the empire, which will forever
remain the memorials of his well-directed energies, and which will throw
a lustre over his reign which never can be sullied. He erected the
beautiful quay on the banks of the Seine, in front of the Tuileries. He
swept away the buildings which deformed the Place Carrousel, and united
the Louvre and the Tuileries, forming a magnificent square between those
splendid edifices. He commenced the construction of a fourth side for
the great square opposite the picture gallery. It was a vast and a noble
undertaking; but it was interrupted by those fierce wars, which the
allied kings of Europe waged against him. The Bridge of Arts was
commenced. The convents of the Feuillans and Capucines, which had been
filled with victims during the revolution, were torn down, and the
magnificent Rue de Rivoli, now one of the chief ornaments of Paris, was
thrown open. Canals, bridges, turnpike-roads, all over the empire, were
springing into existence. One single mind inspired the nation.

The most inveterate opponents of Napoleon are constrained to the
admission that it is impossible to refuse the praise of consummate
prudence and skill to these, and indeed to all the arrangements he
adopted in this great crisis of his history. "We are creating a new
era," said he. "Of the past we must forget the bad, and remember only
the good."

In one of the largest and most populous provinces of France, that of La
Vendee, many thousand royalists had collected, and were carrying on a
most desperate civil war. England, with her ships, was continually
sending to them money, ammunition, and arms, and landing among them
regiments of emigrant troops formed in London. They had raised an army
of sixty thousand men. All the efforts of the Directory to quell the
insurrection had been unavailing. The most awful atrocities had
disgraced this civil conflict. As soon as Napoleon was firmly seated in
his consular chair, he sent an invitation for the chiefs of these
royalist forces in La Vendee to visit him in Paris, assuring them of a
safe return. They all accepted the invitation. Napoleon met them in his
audience-chamber with the utmost kindness and frankness. He assured them
that it was his only object to rescue France from the ruin into which it
had fallen; to bring peace and happiness to his distracted country. With
that laconic logic which he had ever at command, he said, "Are you
fighting in self-defense? You have no longer cause to fight. I will not
molest you. I will protect you in all your rights. Have you taken arms
to revive the reign of the ancient kings? You see the all but unanimous
decision of the nation. Is it honorable for so decided a minority to
attempt, by force of arms, to dictate laws to the majority?"

Napoleon's arguments were as influential as his battalions. They yielded
at once, not merely their swords but their hearts' homage. One alone,
George Cadoudal, a sullen, gigantic savage, who preferred banditti
marauding above the blessings of peace, refused to yield. Napoleon had a
private interview with him. The guard at the door were extremely alarmed
lest the semi-barbarian should assassinate the First Consul. Napoleon
appealed to his patriotism, his humanity, but all in vain. Cadoudal
demanded his passports and left Paris. "Why did I not," he afterward
often said, as he looked at his brawny, hairy, Samson-like arms,
"strangle that man when I had him in my power?" He went to London, where
he engaged in many conspiracies for the assassination of Napoleon, and
was finally taken in France, and shot.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND THE VENDEEAN CHIEF.]

Civil war was now at an end, and with most singular unanimity all France
was rejoicing in the reign of the First Consul. Napoleon loved not war.
He wished to build up, not to tear down. He desired the glory of being
the benefactor and not the scourge of his fellow-men. Every conflict in
which he had thus far been engaged was strictly a war of self-defense.
The expedition to Egypt can not be considered an exception, for that
enterprise was undertaken as the only means of repelling the assaults of
the most determined and powerful enemy France has ever known. Napoleon
was now strong. All France was united in him. With unobstructed power he
could wield all her resources, and guide all her armies. Under these
circumstances most signally did he show his love of peace, by adopting
the very characteristic measure of writing directly to the King of
England and to the Emperor of Austria, proposing reconciliation. It was
noble in the highest degree for him to do so. Pride would have said,
"They commenced the conflict; they shall be the first to ask for peace."
To the King of England he wrote,

"Called, Sire, by the wishes of the French nation, to occupy the first
magistracy of the Republic, I judge it well, on entering my office, to
address myself directly to your Majesty. Must the war, which for the
four last years has devastated the world, be eternal? Are there no means
of coming to an understanding? How can the two most enlightened nations
of Europe, stronger already and more powerful than their safety or their
independence requires, sacrifice to ideas of vain-glory the well-being
of commerce, internal prosperity, and the repose of families! How is it
that they do not feel peace to be the first of necessities as the first
of glories? These sentiments can not be strangers to the heart of your
Majesty, who governs a free people with the sole aim of rendering it
happy.

"Your Majesty will perceive only, in this overture, the sincerity of my
desire to contribute efficaciously, for a second time, to the general
pacification, by this prompt advance, perfectly confidential and
disembarrassed of those forms, which, perhaps necessary to disguise the
dependence of weak states, reveal, when adopted by strong states, only
the wish of mutual deception. France and England by the misuse of their
powers, may yet, for a long period, retard, to the misery of all
nations, their exhaustion. But I venture to say that the fate of the
civilized world is connected with the termination of a war, which has
set the whole world in flames."

To this magnanimous application for peace, the King of England did not
judge it proper to return any personal answer. Lord Grenville replied in
a letter full of most bitter recriminations. And all France was
exasperated by the insulting declaration that if France really desired
peace, "_The best and most natural pledge of its reality and permanence,
would be the restoration of that line of princes which, for so many
centuries maintained the French nation in prosperity at home, and
consideration and respect abroad. Such an event would at once remove,
and will at any time remove all obstacles in the way of negotiation or
peace._"

This was, indeed, an irritating response to Napoleon's pacific appeal.
He, however, with great dignity and moderation, replied through his
minister, M. Talleyrand, in the following terms:

"So far from having provoked the war, France, from the commencement of
the revolution, solemnly proclaimed her love of peace, her
disinclination for conquests, and her respect for the independence of
all governments. And it is not to be doubted, that occupied at that time
entirely with her own internal affairs, she would have avoided taking
any part in those of Europe, and would have remained faithful to her
declarations.

"But from an opposite disposition, as soon as the French revolution had
broken out, almost all Europe entered into a league for its destruction.
The aggression was real long before it was public. Internal resistance
was excited; the enemies of the revolution were favorably received,
their extravagant declamations were supported, the French nation was
insulted in the person of its agents, and England particularly set this
example, by the dismissal of the minister of the Republic. Finally,
France was attacked in her independence, her honor, and her safety, long
before war was declared.

"It is to these projects of dismemberment, subjection, and dissolution,
that France has a right to impute the evils which she has suffered, and
those which have afflicted Europe. Assailed on all sides, the Republic
could not but equally extend the efforts of her defense. And it is only
for the maintenance of her own independence, that she has called into
requisition her own strength and the courage of her citizens. If in the
midst of the critical circumstances which the revolution and the war
have brought on, France has not always shown as much moderation as the
nation has shown courage, it must be imputed to the fatal and
persevering animosity with which the resources of England have been
lavished to accomplish the ruin of France.

"But if the wishes of his Britannic majesty are in unison with those of
the French Republic, for the re-establishment of peace, why, instead of
attempting apologies for the war, should not attention be directed to
the means of terminating it. It can not be doubted that his Britannic
Majesty must recognize the right of nations to choose their form of
government, since it is from this right that he holds his crown. But the
First Consul can not comprehend how, after admitting this fundamental
principle, upon which rests the existence of political societies, his
Majesty could annex insinuations, which tend to an interference with the
internal affairs of the Republic. Such interference is no less injurious
to the French nation and its government, than it would be to England and
his Majesty, if an invitation were held out, in form of a return to that
republican form of government which England adopted about the middle of
the last century, or an exhortation to recall to the throne that family
whom their birth had placed there, and whom a revolution had compelled
to descend from it."

There was no possibility of parrying these home thrusts. Lord Grenville
consequently entirely lost his temper. Replying in a note even more
angry and bitter than the first, he declared that England was fighting
for the security of all governments against French Jacobinism, and that
hostilities would be immediately urged on anew without any relaxation.
Napoleon was not at all disappointed or disheartened at the result of
this correspondence. He earnestly desired peace. But he was not afraid
of war. Conscious of the principle, "thrice is he armed who hath his
quarrel just," he was happy in the conviction that the sympathies of
impartial men in all nations would be with him. He knew that the
arrogant tone assumed by England, would unite France as one man, in
determined and undying resistance. "The answer," said he, "filled me
with satisfaction. It could not have been more favorable. England wants
war. She shall have it. Yes! yes! war to the death."

The throne of the King of England, the opulence of her bishops, and the
enormous estates of her nobles were perhaps dependent upon the issue of
this conflict. The demolition of all exclusive privileges, and the
establishment of perfect equality of rights among all classes of men in
France, must have shaken the throne, the aristocracy, and the hierarchy
of England, with earthquake power. The government of England was mainly
in the hands of the king, the bishops, and the lords. Their all was at
stake. In a temptation so sore, frail human nature must not be too
severely censured. For nearly ten years, the princes of France had been
wandering houseless fugitives over Europe. The nobles of France, ejected
from their castles, with their estates confiscated, were beggars in all
lands. Bishops who had been wrapped in ermine, and who had rolled in
chariots of splendor, were glad to warm their shivering limbs by the
fire of the peasant, and to satiate their hunger with his black bread.
To king, and bishop, and noble, in England, this was a fearful warning.
It seemed to be necessary for their salvation to prevent all friendly
intercourse between England and France, to hold up the principles of the
French Revolution to execration, and above all, to excite, if possible,
the detestation of the people of England, against Napoleon, the child
and the champion of popular rights. Napoleon was the great foe to be
feared, for with his resplendent genius he was enthroning himself in the
hearts of the _people_ of all lands.

But no impartial man, in either hemisphere, can question that the
_right_ was with Napoleon. It was not the duty of the thirty millions of
France to ask permission of the fifteen millions of England to modify
their government. The kings of Europe, led by England, had combined to
force with the bayonet, upon France, a rejected and an execrated
dynasty. The inexperienced Republic, distracted and impoverished by
these terrific blows, was fast falling to ruin. The people invested
Napoleon with almost dictatorial powers for their rescue. It was their
only hope. Napoleon, though conscious of strength, in the name of
bleeding humanity, pleaded for peace. His advances were met with contumely
and scorn, and the trumpet notes of defiant hosts rang from the Thames
to the Danube. The ports of France were blockaded by England's
invincible fleet, demolishing the feeble navy of the Republic, and
bombarding her cities. An army of three hundred thousand men pressed
upon the frontiers of France, threatening a triumphant march to her
capital, there to compel, by bayonet and bomb-shell, the French people
to receive a Bourbon for their king. There was no alternative left to
Napoleon but to defend his country. Most nobly he did it.

The correspondence with the British government, which redounds so much
to the honor of Napoleon, vastly multiplied his friends among the masses
of the people in England, and roused in parliament, a very formidable
opposition to the measures of government. This opposition was headed by
Fox, Sheridan, Lord Erskine, the Duke of Bedford, and Lord Holland. They
did not adopt the atrocious maxim, "Our country--right or wrong," but
rather the ennobling principle "Our country--when in the wrong, we will
try to put her right." Never, in the history of the world, has there
been a more spirited or a more eloquent opposition than this question
elicited. Fox, the rival of Pitt, and the profound admirer of Napoleon,
was the most prominent leader of this opposition. Napoleon, with his
laconic and graphic eloquence, thus describes the antagonistic English
statesmen. "In Fox, the heart warmed the genius. In Pitt the genius
withered the heart."

"You ask," the opposition exclaimed, "who was the aggressor? What
matters that? You say it was France. France says it was England. The
party you accuse of being the aggressor is the first to offer to lay
down arms. Shall interminable war continue merely to settle a question
of history? You say it is useless to treat with France. Yet you treated
with the Directory. Prussia and Spain have treated with the Republic,
and have found no cause for complaint. You speak of the crimes of
France. And yet your ally, Naples, commits crimes more atrocious,
without the excuse of popular excitement. You speak of ambition. But
Russia, Prussia, and Austria, have divided Poland. Austria grasps the
provinces of Italy. You yourself take possession of India, of part of
the Spanish, and of all the Dutch colonies. Who shall say that one is
more guilty than another in this strife of avarice. If you ever intend
to treat with the French Republic, there can be no more favorable moment
than the present."

By way of commentary upon the suggestion that France must re-enthrone
the Bourbons, a letter was published, either real or pretended, from the
heir of the exiled house of Stuart, demanding from George the Third, the
throne of his ancestors. There was no possible way of parrying this home
thrust. George the Third, by his own admission, was an usurper, seated
upon the throne of the exiled Stuarts. The opposition enjoyed
exceedingly the confusion produced, in the enemies' ranks, by this
well-directed shot.

The government replied, "Peace with Republican France endangers all the
monarchies of Europe. The First Consul is but carrying out, with
tremendous energy, the principles of the revolution--the supremacy of
the people. Peace with France is but a cessation of resistance to wrong.
France still retains the sentiments which characterized the dawn of her
revolution. She was democratic. She is democratic. She declares war
against kings. She continues to seek their destruction."

There was much force in these declarations. It is true that Napoleon was
not, in the strict sense of the word, a democrat. He was not in favor of
placing the government in the hands of the great mass of the people. He
made no disguise of his conviction that in France the people had neither
the intelligence nor the virtue essential to the support of a wise and
stable republic. Distinctly he avowed that in his judgment the
experiment of a republic had utterly failed, that France must return to
monarchy. The great mass of the people were also satisfied of this
necessity. "The French generally," said Napoleon, "do not ask for
_liberty_. They only seek _equality_."

But France no longer wished for an aristocratic king, who would confer
wealth, splendor, and power exclusively upon his nobles. The old feudal
throne was still hated with implacable hatred. France demanded a popular
throne; a king for the people, one who would consult the interests of
the masses, who would throw open to all alike the avenues of influence
and honor and opulence. Such a monarch was Napoleon. The people adored
him. He is _our_ emperor, they shouted with enthusiasm. We will make him
greater than all the kings of all the nobles. His palaces shall be more
sumptuous, his retinue more magnificent, his glory more dazzling; for
our daughters may enter his court as maids of honor, and our sons may go
in and out at the Tuileries, Versailles, and St. Cloud, the marshals of
France. Lord Grenville was right in saying that Napoleon was but
carrying out the principles of the revolution--equality of
privileges--the supremacy of popular rights. But the despots of Europe
were as hostile to such a king as to a republic.

On the same day in which Napoleon's pacific letter was sent to the King
of England, another, of the same character, was dispatched to the
Emperor of Austria. It was conceived in the following terms:

"Having returned to Europe, after an absence of eighteen months, I find
a war kindled between the French Republic and your Majesty. The French
nation has called me to the occupation of the First Magistracy. A
stranger to every feeling of vain-glory, the first of my wishes is to
stop the effusion of blood which is about to flow. Every thing leads me
to foresee that, in the next campaign, numerous armies, ably conducted,
will treble the number of the victims, who have already fallen since the
resumption of hostilities. The well-known character of your Majesty,
leaves me no doubt as to the secret wishes of your heart. If those
wishes only are listened to, I perceive the possibility of reconciling
the interests of the two nations.

"In the relations which I have formerly entertained with your Majesty,
you have shown me some personal regard. I beg you, therefore, to see in
this overture, which I have made to you, the desire to respond to that
regard, and to convince your Majesty, more and more, of the very
distinguished consideration which I feel toward you."

Austria replied, in courteous terms, that she could take no steps in
favor of peace without consulting her ally England. Thus all Napoleon's
efforts to arrest the desolations of war failed. The result had been
anticipated. He was well aware of the unrelenting hostility with which
the banded kings of Europe contemplated the overthrow of a feudal
throne, and of the mortal antipathy with which they regarded the thought
of receiving a democratic king into their aristocratic brotherhood.
Nothing now remained for Napoleon but to prepare to meet his foes. The
allies, conscious of the genius of that great captain who had filled the
world with the renown of his victories, exerted themselves to the utmost
to raise such forces, and to assail Napoleon with numbers so
overwhelming, and in quarters so varied as to insure his bewilderment
and ruin. The Archduke Charles, of Austria, who was practically
acquainted with the energy of Napoleon, urged peace. But England and
Austria were both confident that France, exhausted in men and money,
could not hold out for another campaign.

The Bourbons now made an attempt to bribe Napoleon to replace them upon
their lost throne. The Count of Provence, subsequently Louis XVIII.,
wrote to him from London, "For a long time, general, you must have known
the esteem in which I hold you. If you doubt my gratitude, mark your own
place. Point out the situation you wish for your friends. The victor of
Lodi, Castiglione, and Arcola, can never prefer a vain celebrity to true
glory. But you are losing the most precious moments. We could secure the
happiness of France. I say we, for I require Bonaparte for such an
attempt, and he could not achieve it without me. Europe observes you.
Glory awaits you. I am impatient to restore peace to my people."

Napoleon did not imitate the example of the King of England and pass
this letter over to his minister. Courteously and kindly, with his own
hand he replied. "I have received your letter. I thank you for the
obliging expressions it contains respecting myself. You should renounce
all hopes of returning to France. You could not return but over the
corpses of 100,000 Frenchmen. Sacrifice your interest to the happiness
and repose of your country. History will duly appreciate your conduct,
in so doing. I am not insensible to the misfortunes of your family, and
shall learn with pleasure that you are surrounded with every thing which
can restore the tranquillity of your retreat."

Benedict Arnold attempted to bring the American Revolution to a close by
surrendering the United States to their rejected king. It was not in
Napoleon's line of ambition to imitate his example. The Bourbons,
finding the direct proffer of reward unavailing, then tried the effect
of female blandishments. The fascinating Duchess of Guiche, a lady of
great beauty and talent, was dispatched a secret emissary to the court
of the First Consul, to employ all the arts of eloquence, address, and
the most voluptuous loveliness, in gaining an influence over Napoleon.
Josephine, who had suffered so much during the Revolution, and whose
associations had been with the aristocracy of France, was a royalist.
She trembled for the safety of her husband, and was very anxious that he
should do whatever in honor might be done, to restore the Bourbons. In
every possible way she befriended the royalists, and had secured, all
over Europe, their cordial esteem. The Duchess of Guiche easily got
access to Josephine. Artfully she said, one morning at the
breakfast-table, "A few days ago I was with the Count of Provence in
London. Some one asked him what he intended to do for Napoleon, in the
event of his restoring the Bourbons. He replied, 'I would immediately
make him Constable of France, and every thing else which he might
choose. And we would raise on the Carrousel, a magnificent column,
surmounted with a statue of Bonaparte crowning the Bourbons.'" Soon
after breakfast Napoleon entered. Josephine most eagerly repeated the
words to him. "And did you not reply," said Napoleon, "that the corpse
of the First Consul would be made the pedestal of the column." The
fascinating duchess was still present. She immediately assailed Napoleon
with all her artillery of beauty, smiles, and flattery. The voluptuous
freedom of her manners, and the charms of the bewitching emissary,
alarmed the jealousy of Josephine. Napoleon, however, was impervious to
the assault. That night the duchess received orders to quit Paris; and
in the morning, in the charge of the police, she was on her way toward
the frontier.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND THE DUCHESS OF GUICHE.]

It has often been said that Napoleon made overtures to the Bourbons for
the cession of their rights to the throne. In reference to this
assertion Napoleon says, "How was such a thing possible? I, who could
only reign by the very principle which excluded them, that of the
sovereignty of the people; how could I have sought to possess, through
them, rights which were proscribed in their persons? That would have
been to proscribe myself. The absurdity would have been too palpable,
too ridiculous. It would have ruined me forever in public opinion. The
fact is that neither directly nor indirectly, at home or abroad, did I
ever do any thing of the kind."

The report probably originated in the following facts. Friendly
relations were at one time existing between Prussia and France. The
Prussian government inquired if Napoleon would take umbrage if the
Bourbon princes were allowed to remain in the Prussian territory.
Napoleon replied that he had no objections to that arrangement.
Emboldened by the prompt consent, it was then asked if the French
government would be willing to furnish them with an annual allowance for
their support. Napoleon replied that it should be done most cheerfully,
provided Prussia would be responsible for the princes remaining quiet,
and abstaining from all intrigues to disturb the peace of France.

A few evenings after this last attempt of Louis XVIII. to regain the
throne, Napoleon was one evening walking with Bourrienne in the gardens
of his favorite retreat at Malmaison. He was in fine spirits, for all
things were moving on very prosperously.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND BOURRIENNE.]

"Has my wife," said he to Bourrienne, "been speaking to you of the
Bourbons?"

"No, general!" Bourrienne replied.

"But, when you converse with her," Napoleon added, "you lean a little to
her opinions. Tell me now, why do you desire the return of the Bourbons?
You have no interest in their return; nothing to expect from them. You
can never be any thing with them. You have no chance but to remain all
your life in an inferior situation. Have you ever seen a man rise under
kings by merit alone?"

"General," replied Bourrienne, "I am quite of your opinion on one point.
I have never received any favor under the Bourbons; neither have I the
vanity to suppose I should ever rise, under them, to any conspicuous
station. But I look at the interests of France. I believe that you will
hold your power as long as you live. But you have no children, and it is
pretty certain that you will never have any by Josephine. What are we to
do when you are gone? What is to become of France? You have often said
that your brothers were not--"

Here Napoleon interrupted him, exclaiming: "Ah! as to that you are
right. If I do not live thirty years to finish my work, you will, when I
am dead, have long civil wars. My brothers do not suit France. You will
then have a violent contest among the most distinguished generals, each
of whom will think that he has a right to take my place."

"Well, general," said Bourrienne, "why do you not endeavor to remedy
those evils which you foresee?"

"Do you suppose," Napoleon replied, "that I have never thought of that?
But weigh well the difficulties which are in my way. In case of a
restoration, what is to become of the men who were conspicuous in the
revolution? What is to become of the confiscated estates and the
national domain, which have been sold and sold again? What is to become
of all the changes which have been effected in the last twelve years?"

"But, general," said Bourrienne, "need I recall to your attention, that
Louis XVIII. in his letter to you guarantees the contrary of all which
you apprehend? Are you not in a situation to impose any conditions you
may think fit?"

"Depend upon it," Napoleon replied, "the Bourbons will think that they
have reconquered their inheritance, and will dispose of it as they
please. Engagements the most sacred, promises the most positive, will
disappear before force. No sensible man will trust them. My mind is made
up. Let us say no more upon the subject. But I know how these women
torment you. Let them mind their knitting, and leave me to mind my
affairs."

Pithily Bourrienne adds, "The women knitted. I wrote at my desk.
Napoleon made himself Emperor. The empire has fallen to pieces. Napoleon
is dead at St. Helena. The Bourbons have been restored."

The boundless popularity which Napoleon acquired, was that which follows
great achievements, not that which is ingloriously sought for by
pampering to the vices and yielding to the prejudices of the populace.
Napoleon was never a demagogue. His administration was in accordance
with his avowed principles. "A sovereign," said he, "must serve his
people with dignity, and not make it his chief study to please them. The
best mode of winning their love is to secure their welfare. Nothing is
more dangerous than for a sovereign to flatter his subjects. If they do
not afterward obtain every thing which they want, they become irritated,
and fancy that promises have been broken. If they are then resisted,
their hatred increases in proportion as they consider themselves
deceived. A sovereign's first duty is unquestionably to conform with the
wishes of his people. But what the people say is scarcely ever what
they wish. Their desires and their wants can not be learned from their
own mouths, so well as they are to be read in the heart of their
prince."

Again he said in memorable words, which must not be forgotten in forming
a just estimate of his character, "The system of government must be
adapted to the spirit of the nation. France required a strong
government. France was in the same state as Rome when a dictator was
declared necessary for the salvation of the republic. Successions of
coalitions against the existence of the Republic, had been formed by
English gold among all the most powerful nations of Europe. To resist
successfully it was essential that all the energies of the country
should be at the disposal of the chief. I never conquered unless in my
own defense. Europe never ceased to make war against France and her
principles. It was necessary for us to conquer, that we might not be
conquered. Between the parties which agitated France I was like a rider
seated on an unruly horse, who always wants to swerve either to the
right or the left. To lead him to keep a straight course, he is obliged
to make him feel the bridle. The government of a country, just emerging
from revolution, menaced by foreign enemies and agitated by the
intrigues of domestic traitors, must necessarily be energetic. In
quieter times my dictatorship would have terminated, and I should have
commenced my constitutional reign. Even, as it was, with a coalition
always existing against me, either secret or public, there was more
equality in France, than in any other country in Europe. One of my grand
objects was to render education accessible to every body. I caused every
institution to be formed upon a plan which offered instruction to the
public either gratis, or at a rate so moderate as not to be beyond the
means of the peasant. The museums were thrown open to the whole people.
The French populace would have become the best educated in the world.
All my efforts were directed to illuminate the mass of the nation,
instead of brutifying them by ignorance and superstition. The English
people, who are lovers of liberty, will one day lament, with tears,
having gained the battle of Waterloo. It was as fatal to the liberties
of Europe as that of Philippi was to those of Rome. It has precipitated
Europe into the hands of despots, banded together for the oppression of
mankind."

Though Napoleon felt deeply the sanctity of law, and the necessity of
securing the inflexible enforcement of its penalties, he was never more
highly gratified than when he was enabled, by the exercise of the
pardoning power, to rescue the condemned. Says Bourrienne, whose
testimony will not be questioned, "When the imperious necessities of his
political situation, to which, in fact, he sacrificed every thing, did
not interpose, the saving of life afforded him the highest satisfaction.
He would even have thanked those, to whom he rendered such a service,
for the gratification they had thus afforded him." A French emigrant, M.
Defeu, had been taken, with arms in his hands, fighting against France.
The crime was treason; the penalty death. He was connected with some of
the most honorable families in France. A very earnest petition was
presented to Napoleon for his pardon. "There is no room for mercy here,"
Napoleon sternly replied. "A man who fights against his country is a
child who would kill his mother." The affecting condition of his family
was urged, and the beneficial effects upon the community of such an act
of clemency. Napoleon paused for a moment, and then said, "Write, 'The
First Consul orders the judgment on M. Defeu to be suspended.'" The
laconic reprieve was instantly written, signed by Napoleon, and
dispatched to Sens, where the unfortunate man was imprisoned. The next
morning, the moment Bourrienne entered the First Consul's apartment,
Napoleon said to him, "I do not like to do my work by halves. Write to
Sens, 'The First Consul desires that M. Defeu be immediately liberated.'
He may repay the deed with ingratitude. But we can not help that--so
much the worse for him. In all such cases, Bourrienne, never hesitate to
speak to me. When I refuse it will only be because I can not do
otherwise."

In Napoleon's disposition firmness and gentleness were singularly and
beautifully blended. The following anecdote illustrates the
inflexibility of his sense of justice. A wealthy nobleman, thirty years
of age, had married a young girl of sixteen. It was a mercenary
marriage. The friends of the young lady, without any regard to her
feelings, dragged her to the altar. She cherished no affection for her
husband. He became jealous of her, and, without the slightest proof of
her criminality, murdered her. He was arrested, tried, and condemned to
death. Connected by birth with the first families in France, and
rallying around him the interest of the most influential of friends,
great exertions were made to obtain from the First Consul a pardon. To
the petitioners, pleading in his behalf, Napoleon replied:

"Why should I pardon this man? He availed himself of his fortune for the
vile purpose of bribing the affections of a girl. He did not succeed in
winning them, and he became jealous. His jealousy was not the result of
love but of vanity. He has committed the crime of murder. What urged him
to it? Not his honor, for his wife had not injured it. No! he was
instigated by brutality, vanity, and self-love. He has no claim to
mercy. The rich are too prone to consider themselves elevated above the
reach of the law. They imagine that wealth is a sacred shield to them.
This man has committed a crime for which there are no extenuating
circumstances. He must suffer the punishment to which he is justly
doomed. If I were to pardon him, that act of misplaced indulgence would
put in jeopardy the life of every married woman. As the law positively
protects the outraged husband, so it must protect the wife against the
consequences of dislike, interest, caprice, or a new passion, which may
impel a husband to obtain a divorce, by a more prompt and less
expensive course than a legal process."

[Illustration: UNAVAILING INTERCESSION OF JOSEPHINE.]

Josephine whose tender feelings at times controlled her judgment was
urgent in her intercession. Many of the relatives of the wretched man
were among her most intimate friends. "This," said she, "is the first
favor I have asked since your attainment of the supreme power. Surely
you will not deny me?"

"I can not," said Napoleon, "grant your request. And when it is known,
Josephine, that even your persuasions could not induce me to commit an
act of injustice, no one else will henceforth dare to petition me for
such a purpose."

England, Austria, and Russia, together with many other of the minor
powers of monarchical Europe, were now combined against France. The
Emperor Paul of Russia had furnished a large army to co-operate with the
allies in their assault upon the Republic. Ten thousand of the Russians
had been taken prisoners. But in the recent disasters which had
overwhelmed the arms of France, many thousand French prisoners were in
the hands of the allies. Napoleon proposed an exchange. The Austrian
government refused, because it selfishly wished to exchange for
Austrians only. The English government also refused, assigning the
reason that it was contrary to their principles to exchange for
prisoners taken from other nations. "What," exclaimed Napoleon to the
Court of St. James, "do you refuse to liberate the Russians, who were
your allies, who were fighting in your ranks, and under your own
commander, the Duke of York?" With Vienna he also expostulated, in tones
of generous warmth, "Do you refuse to restore to their country those men
to whom you are indebted for your victories and conquests in Italy, and
who have left in your hands a multitude of French prisoners, whom they
have taken? Such injustice excites my indignation." Then yielding to
those impulses, so characteristic of his generous nature, he exclaimed,
"I will restore them to the Czar without exchange. He shall see how I
esteem brave men." Whatever Napoleon undertook he performed
magnificently. The Russian officers immediately received their swords.
The captive troops, ten thousand in number, were assembled at
Aix-la-Chapelle. They were all furnished with a complete suit of new
clothing in the uniform of their own regiments, and thoroughly armed
with weapons of the very best of French manufacture. The officers were
authorized to organize them into battalions and regiments. And thus
triumphantly these battalions of armed men were returned into the bosom
of the ranks of the multitudinous hosts, rushing down upon France. It is
gratifying to record that magnanimity so extraordinary passed not away
unappreciated.

The Emperor Paul was so disgusted with the selfishness of Austria and
England, and was so struck with admiration in view of this unparalleled
generosity of Napoleon, that he immediately abandoned the alliance. He
attached himself to Napoleon with that enthusiasm of constitutional
ardor which characterized the eccentric monarch. In a letter to the
First Consul, written with his own hand, he said, "Citizen First
Consul!--I do not write to you to discuss the rights of men or citizens.
Every country governs itself as it pleases. Wherever I see at the head
of a nation a man who knows how to rule and how to fight, my heart is
attracted toward him. I write to acquaint you with my dissatisfaction
with England, who violates every article of the law of nations, and has
no guide but her egotism and her interest. I wish to unite with you to
put an end to the unjust proceedings of that government."

Russia was thus detached from the alliance, and sending a minister to
Paris, recognized the new government. Napoleon now sent an embassador to
Prussia to establish, if possible, friendly relations with that power.
Duroc, the only one whom Napoleon ever admitted to his ultimate
friendship, was selected for this mission, in consequence of his
graceful address, his polished education, and his varied
accomplishments.--Frederick William was a great admirer of military
genius. Duroc, who had been in the campaigns of Italy and of Egypt,
could interest him with the recital of many heroic enterprises. The
first interview of Duroc with the Prussian monarch was entirely private,
and lasted two hours. The next day Duroc was invited to dine with the
king, and the Prussian court immediately recognized the consular
government.

Notwithstanding Napoleon's vast exaltation, he preserved personally the
same simple tastes and habits, the same untiring devotion to the details
of business, and the same friendships as when he was merely a general of
the Republic. He rose at seven o'clock, dressed with scrupulous
neatness, during which time the morning journals were read to him. He
then entered his cabinet, where he read letters, and wrote or dictated
answers until ten. He then breakfasted with Josephine and Hortense,
usually some of his aids and one or two literary or scientific friends
being invited. At the close of this frugal meal, he attended the
meetings of the Council, or paid visits of ceremony or business to some
of the public offices. At five o'clock he returned to dinner, on
ordinary occasions not allowing himself more than fifteen minutes at the
table. He then retired to the apartments of Josephine, where he received
the visits of ministers, and of the most distinguished persons of the
metropolis.

In the organization of his court Napoleon was unalterably determined to
suppress that licentiousness of manners, which for ages had disgraced
the palaces of the French monarchs, and which, since the overthrow of
Christianity, had swept like a flood of pollution over all France. He
was very severe upon those females, often of the highest rank, who
endeavored to attract attention by freedom of dress or behavior. It was
expected that men and their wives should appear in society together--a
thing hitherto unprecedented, and contrary to all ideas of fashionable
life. The court had hitherto taken the lead in profligacy, and the
nation had followed. Napoleon thought that by enforcing purity of morals
in the palace, he could draw back the nation to more decorum of manners.
"Immorality," said he, "is, beyond a doubt, the worst of all faults in a
sovereign; because he introduces it as a fashion among his subjects, by
whom it is practiced for the sake of pleasing him. It strengthens every
vice, blights every virtue, and infects all society like a pestilence.
In short, it is a nation's scourge."

On one occasion a courtier, very high in rank and office, one of the
imperial chamberlains, requested permission to present his
daughter-in-law at court. She was extremely beautiful, and though
distinguished by a captivating air of simplicity, was one of the most
artful of the daughters of Eve. She joined the imperial parties on all
occasions, and wherever she went threw herself in the way of Napoleon.
Her soft and languishing eyes were riveted upon him. She sighed,
blushed, and affected bashfulness, while, at the same time, she
constantly placed herself in situations to attract his notice. Sometimes
she would stand, for a long time, apparently lost in reverie, gazing and
sighing before the portraits of Napoleon. Her father-in-law affected
displeasure at her conduct, and complained of the unfortunate but
resistless passion which she had imbibed. Her husband, who was
infamously in the intrigue, regarded the matter with the most
philosophic indifference. The mother-in-law also made herself busy to
help the matter along, saying that, after all, it was hard to blame her
for loving Napoleon. For some time Napoleon paid no attention to the
intrigue, and appeared not to notice it. At length the affair became a
subject of court gossip, and it was necessary that it should be noticed.

One evening, at the close of a sitting of the Council of State, at which
Napoleon had presided, conducting Cambaceres into the recess of one of
the windows, he said, "Madame B---- is rendering herself quite
intolerable to me. The conduct of her relations is still more odious.
The father-in-law is an infamous man, her husband a mean-spirited
wretch, and her mother a vile intriguing woman, by whose arts, however,
I am not to be duped. The abandoned female, who unreservedly puts up her
virtue to sale, is preferable to the hypocrite who, for motives equally
mercenary, affects a sentimental attachment. I wish you to call on my
chamberlain, and inform him that I dispense with his services for the
space of a year. Inform his wife that I forbid her appearance at court
for six years. And make known to the affectionate married couple, that,
to afford them an opportunity of duly appreciating each other's
excellent qualities, I give them leave to spend six months in Naples,
six months in Vienna, and six months in any other part of Germany."

On another occasion a lieutenant-colonel sent a petition to Napoleon,
soliciting promotion. In accordance with the corruptions of those
paganized times, he added, "I have two _beautiful daughters_, who will
be too happy to throw themselves at the feet of the good Emperor, and
thank him for the benefit conferred on their father." Napoleon was
indignant at this atrocious proposal. He said, "I know not what
withholds me from having this infamous letter inserted in the order of
the day of the writer's regiment." Napoleon made inquiries respecting
this officer, and found that he had been one of the assassins during the
reign of terror, and an intimate friend of Robespierre. He immediately
dismissed him from service. He found that the daughters were amiable and
interesting young ladies, totally unconscious of the infamous project
entertained by their father. That they might not suffer the penalty of
their father's baseness, he settled a small pension on each of them, on
condition of their leaving Paris, and retiring to their native city.

Napoleon effectually enthroned himself in the hearts of the common
people of France. They believed him to be their friend and advocate.
They still cherish the same belief. At this hour there is no ruler,
enthroned or entombed, who is regarded with the enthusiastic veneration
with which the people of France now cherish the memory of their emperor.
Napoleon stands alone in that glory. He has no rival.




THE BEDOUEEN, MOHAMMAD ALEE, AND THE BAZAARS.[5]

   [Footnote 5: From "The Howadji in Syria," by GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS,
   Author of "Nile Notes." Just published by Harper and Brothers.]


AMONG THE BEDOUEEN.

The pleasant tales of Sultans' pilgrimages are only the mirage of
memory.

The poor and pious Muslim, which is not the title of Caliphs, when he
undertakes a long desert journey, does not carry nine hundred camels for
his wardrobe, but he carries his grave-linen with him. Stricken by
fatigue, or privation, or disease, when his companions can not tarry for
his recovery or death, he performs the ablution with sand, and digging a
trench in the ground, wraps himself in his grave-clothes, and covering
his body with sand, lies alone in the desert to die, trusting that the
wind will complete his burial.

In the Arabs around you, you will mark a kindred sobriety. Their eyes
are luminous and lambent, but it is a melancholy light. They do not
laugh. They move with easy dignity, and their habitual expression is
musing and introverted, as that of men whose minds are stored with the
solemn imagery of the desert.

You will understand that your own party of Arabs is not of the genuine
desert breed. They are dwellers in cities, not dwellers in tents. They
are mongrel, like the population of a sea-port. They pass from Palestine
to Egypt with caravans of produce, like coast-traders, and are not pure
Bedoueen. But they do not dishonor their ancestry. When a true Bedoueen
passes upon his solitary camel, and with a low-spoken salaam, looks
abstractedly and incuriously upon the procession of great American
Moguls, it is easy to see that his expression is the same as that of the
men around you, but intensified by the desert.

Burckhardt says that all Orientals, and especially the Arabs, are little
sensible of the beauty of nature. But the Bedoueen is mild and
peaceable. He seems to you a dreamy savage. There is a softness and
languor, almost an effeminacy of impression, the seal of the sun's
child. He does not eat flesh--or rarely. He loves the white camel with a
passion. He fights for defense, or for necessity; and the children of
the Shereefs, or descendants of the Prophet, are sent into the desert to
be made heroes. They remain there eight or ten years, rarely visiting
their families.

The simple landscape of the desert is the symbol of the Bedoueen's
character; and he has little knowledge of more than his eye beholds. In
some of the interior provinces of China, there is no name for the ocean,
and when in the time of Shekh Daheir, a party of Bedoueen came to Acre
upon the sea, they asked what was that desert of water.

A Bedoueen after a foray upon a caravan, discovered among his booty
several bags of fine pearls. He thought them dourra, a kind of grain.
But as they did not soften in boiling, he was about throwing them
disdainfully away, when a Gaza trader offered him a red tarboosh in
exchange, which he delightedly accepted.

Without love of natural scenery, he listens forever to the fascinating
romances of the poets, for beautiful expressions naturally clothe the
simple and beautiful images he every where beholds. The palms, the
fountains, the gazelles, the stars, and sun, and moon, the horse, and
camel--these are the large illustration and suggestion of his poetry.

Sitting around the evening fire and watching its flickering with
moveless melancholy, his heart thrills at the prowess of El-Gundubah,
although he shall never be a hero, and he rejoices when
Kattalet-esh-Shugan says to Gundubah, "Come let us marry forthwith,"
although he shall never behold her beauty, nor tread the stately
palaces.

He loves the moon which shows him the way over the desert that the sun
would not let him take by day, and the moon looking into his eyes, sees
her own melancholy there. In the pauses of the story by the fire, while
the sympathetic spirits of the desert sigh in the rustling wind, he says
to his fellow, "Also in all true poems there should be palm-trees and
running water."

For him in the lonely desert the best genius of Arabia has carefully
recorded upon parchment its romantic visions, for him Haroun El Rashid
lived his romantic life, for him the angel spoke to Mohammad in the
cave, and God received the Prophet into the seventh heaven.

Some early morning a cry rings through the group of black square tents.
He springs from his dreams of green gardens and flowing waters, and
stands sternly against the hostile tribe which has surprised his own.
The remorseless morning secretes in desert silence the clash of swords,
the ring of musketry, the battle-cry. At sunset the black square tents
are gone, the desolation of silence fills the air that was musical with
the recited loves of Zul-Himmeh, and the light sand drifts in the
evening wind over the corpse of a Bedoueen.

--So the grim Genius of the desert touches every stop of romance and of
life in you as you traverse his realm and meditate his children. Yet
warm and fascinating as is his breath, it does not warp your loyalty to
your native West, and to the time in which you were born. Springing from
your hard bed upon the desert, and with wild morning enthusiasm pushing
aside the door of your tent, and stepping out to stand among the stars,
you hail the desert and hate the city, and glancing toward the tent of
the Armenian Khadra, you shout aloud to astonished MacWhirter,

    "I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race."

But as the day draws forward, and you see the same forms and the same
life that Abraham saw, and know that Joseph leading Mary into Egypt
might pass you to-day, nor be aware of more than a single sunset since
he passed before, then you feel that this germ, changeless at home, is
only developed elsewhere--that the boundless desert freedom is only a
resultless romance.

The sun sets and the camp is pitched. The shadows are grateful to your
eye, as the dry air to your lungs. But as you sit quietly in the
tent-door, watching the Armenian camp and the camels, your cheeks pales
suddenly as you remember Abraham, and that "he sat in the tent-door in
the heat of the day." Saving yourself, what of the scene is changed
since then? The desert, the camels, the tents, the turbaned Arabs, they
were what Abraham saw when "he lifted up his eyes and looked, and, lo!
three men stood by him."

You are contemporary with the eldest history. Your companions are the
dusky figures of vaguest tradition. The "long result of Time," is not
for you. In that moment you have lost your birthright. You are Ishmael's
brother. You have your morning's wish. A child of the desert, not for
you are Art, and Poetry, and Science, and the glowing roll of History
shrivels away.

The dream passes as the day dies, and to the same stars which heard your
morning shout of desert praise, you whisper as you close the tent-door
at evening,

    "Better fifty years of Europe, than a cycle of Cathay."


MOHAMMAD ALEE.

I do not wonder that Mohammad Alee burned to be master of Syria, and
struck so bravely for it.

His career was necessarily but a brilliant bubble, and his success
purely personal. That career was passed before the West fairly
understood it. It was easier for the Jews to believe good from Nazareth
than for us to credit genius in Egypt, and we should as soon have
dreamed of old mummied Cheops throned upon the great pyramid and ruling
the Pharaohs' realm anew, as of a modern king there, of kingliness
unsurpassed in the century, except by Napoleon, working at every
disadvantage, yet achieving incredible results.

He was the son of a fisherman--made his way by military
skill--recognized the inherent instability of the Mameluke government
then absolute in Egypt, and which was only a witless tyranny, sure to
fall before ambitious sense and skill. He propitiated the Sublime Porte,
whose Viceroy in Egypt was only a puppet of state, practically
imprisoned by the Mamelukes in the citadel--and he gained brilliant
victories in the Hedjaz, over the Wahabys, infidel and schismatic
Muslim.

In 1811, he accomplished the famous massacre of the Mamelukes in the
court of the citadel, of which Horace Vernet has painted so
characteristic a picture, and for which Mohammad Alee has been much
execrated.

But in Turkish politics, humanity is only a question of degree. With
Mohammad Alee and the Mamelukes it was diamond cut diamond. They were a
congregation of pestilent vapors, a nest of hoary-headed tyrants, whom
it was a satisfaction to Humanity and Decency to smoke out and
suffocate in any way. Mohammad Alee had doubtless little enough
rose-water in his policy to satisfy the grimmest Carlyle. The leader of
sanguinary Albanians and imbruted Egyptians against wild Arab hordes is
not likely to be of a delicate stomach.

But he was clear-eyed and large-minded. He had the genius of a statesman
rather than the shrewdness of a general, although as a soldier he was
singularly brave and successful. Of all his acts the massacre of the
Mamelukes was perhaps the least bloody, because, by crushing the few
heads he had won the victory. A sudden and well-advised bloodshed is
often sure to issue in a peace which saves greater misery. It was
Cromwell's rule and it was Napoleon's--it was also Mohammad Alee's, and
the results usually proved its wisdom.

Moreover, in the matter of this massacre, the balance of sympathy is
restored by the fact that only a short time previous to the Mamelukes'
Banquet of Death in the citadel, they had arranged Mohammad Alee's
assassination upon his leaving Suez. By superior cunning he ascertained
the details of this pleasant plan, and publicly ordered his departure
for the following morning, but privately departed upon a swift-trotting
dromedary in the evening. There was great consequent frustration of plan
and confusion of soul among the Mamelukes, who had thought, in this
ingenious manner, to cut the knot of difficulty, and they were only too
glad to hurry with smooth faces to the Pacha's festival--too much in a
hurry, indeed, to reflect upon his superior cunning and to be afraid of
it. They lost the game. They were the diamond cut, and evidently deserve
no melodious tear.

Mohammad Alee thus sat as securely in his seat as a Turkish Pacha can
ever hope to sit. He assisted the Porte in the Greek troubles,
perpetrating other massacres there; and afterward, when Abdallah, Pacha
of Acre, rebelled against "the Shadow," Mohammad Alee was sent to subdue
him. He did so, and then interceded with the Porte for Abdallah's
safety.

Meanwhile, Mohammad Alee had ascertained his force, and was already sure
of the genius to direct it. He had turned the streams of French and
English skill into the agriculture, manufactures, and military
discipline of Egypt. His great aim for years had been to make Egypt
independent--to revive the ancient richness of the Nile valley, and to
take a place for Egypt among the markets of the world. He accomplished
this so far, that, restoring to the plain of Thebes the indigo which was
once famous there, he poured into the European market so much and so
good indigo that the market was sensibly affected. His internal policy
was wrong, but we can not here consider it.

Watching and waiting, in the midst of this internal prosperity and
foreign success and amazement, while Egyptian youth were thronging to
the Parisian Universities, and the Parisian youth looked to Egypt as the
career of fame and fortune--as the young Spaniards of a certain period
looked to the diamond-dusted Americas--in the midst of all the web
Mohammad Alee sat nursing his ambition and biding his time.

Across the intervening desert, Syria wooed him to take her for his
slave. Who was there to make him afraid? Leaning on Lebanon, and laving
her beautiful feet in the sea, she fascinated him with love. He should
taste boundless sway. Eastward lay Bagdad and Persia, thrones of Caliphs
who once sat in his seat--why should not he sit in theirs? Then with
softer whispers she pointed to the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus, and
looked what she dared not speak.

I do not wonder that he was enchanted. I do not wonder that he burned to
be master of the superb slave that lay so lovely and fair in the sun,
dreaming, as now we see her dream, under the vines and olives. His peer,
Napoleon Bonaparte, against whom, in Egypt, his maiden sword was
fleshed, whom he loved to name and to hear that they were born in the
same year, had thus seen from Elba the gorgeous Fata-Morgana of European
empire. How could Mohammad Alee reflect that sallying forth to grasp it,
that peer had bitten the dust? That fate deterred the Pacha, as the
experience of others always deters ourselves--as a blade of grass stays
the wind. Shall not you and I, my reader, swim to our Heros, though a
thousand Leanders never came to shore?

It was this Syria through which we plod, this brilliant morning, that
seduced Mohammad Alee.

A land of glorious resources and without a population. Here grow wheat,
rye, barley, beans and the cotton plant. Oats are rare; but Palestine
produces sesame and dourra, a kind of pulse like lentils. Baalbec grows
maize. Sugar and rice are not unknown at Beyrout. Lebanon is wreathed
with vines. Indigo flourishes without cultivation on the banks of the
Jordan. The Druses cultivate the white mulberry. Gaza has dates like
those of Mecca, and pomegranates as fine as those of Algiers. Figs and
bananas make the gardens of Antioch tropical. From Aleppo come
pistachio-nuts. The almond, the olive and the orange thrive in the
kindly air; and Damascus revels in twenty kinds of apricot, with all the
best fruits of France.

Many of the inhabitants pass us, and we can see what they are. They are
repulsive in appearance, the dregs of refuse races. They look mean and
treacherous, and would offer small resistance to determination and
skill. Mohammad Alee had little fear of the Syrians.

He could not resist the song of the Siren; and suddenly "the Eastern
Question" agitated political Europe, and the diplomatic genius of the
three greatest states--England, France and Russia--was abruptly
challenged by the alarming aspect of the Syrian war, which threatened,
with a leader despising the political stagnation and military imbecility
of the vast realm of "the Shadow of God on Earth," to issue in a new
empire.

Mohammad Alee having subdued Abdallah, Pacha of Acre, and saved his
life and throne by intercession with the Porte, was surprised that
Abdallah harbored all fugitives from Egypt. He observed that, following
his own example, Abdallah was introducing the European discipline into
his army, and was enticing into his service many young officers who had
been Europeanly instructed at his own expense. He expostulated with
Abdallah, and appealed to the Porte. The Sublime Porte, like other
political Sublimities, hesitated, meditated--

    "Then idly twirled his golden chain,
    And smiling, put the question by."

Mohammad Alee, with expectant eyes fixed upon Syria, sat silent, his
hand trembling with eagerness and ready to grasp the splendid prize.
"The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces" of a new oriental empire
rose, possible in the light of hope.

His army was carefully disciplined. The fame of its tried officers had
been won upon the battle-fields of the Empire. He had a fleet and all
the resources of the latest military and marine science. Over all, he
had his son Ibrahim, already proved in Arabia and Greece, of a military
genius peculiarly Oriental, swift and stern, rude in thought, but
irresistible in action--the slave of his father's ambition, the iron
right-hand of his will. Internal prosperity and external prestige sealed
Mohammad Alee's hope and determination.

Against him was arrayed the worldly magnificence of the Ottoman Porte.
But the bannered Muslim lance that had thundered at the gates of
Constantinople, and entering, had planted itself upon the earliest
Christian church, and flapped barbaric defiance at civilization, was
rusty and worm-eaten. Its crimson drapery fluttering, rent, upon an idle
wind, would be inevitably shivered by the first rough blow of modern
steel.

And the great Powers?--

Their action was, of course, doubtful. There was a chance of opposition,
a probability of interference. But the grandeur of the stroke was its
safety. From the universal chaos what new combinations might not be
educed!

No sooner, therefore, had the Porte "put the question by," than Mohammad
Alee proceeded to answer it. The Egyptian army, headed by Ibrahim Pacha,
advanced into Syria, and sat down before Acre. Cherishing the old grudge
against Abdallah, the Porte, now that a decided part had been taken,
smiled faintly in approval. But the conduct of the war betrayed
resources of ability and means which kindled terrible suspicions. The
firman came from Stamboul, commanding the Pacha of Egypt to withdraw
into his own province. He declined, and was declared a rebel.

The bridge thus fell behind him, and only victory or death lay before.

For six months Ibrahim Pacha lay before Acre, and on the 27th May, 1832,
he entered by bloody assault the city which Richard Coeur de Lion and
Philip Augustus had conquered before him, and from which Napoleon
Bonaparte had retired foiled. The Syrian war began.

The victorious army advanced, triumphing. The Syrian cities fell before
it. The stream of conquest swept northward, overflowing Damascus as it
passed. The war was no longer a quarrel of two Pachas, it was a question
of life or death for the Turkish Empire. Vainly the Sultan's choicest
generals struggled to stem the torrent. The proud walls along the Golden
Horn trembled, lest their pride should be for the third time humbled,
and this time, as the last, from the Asian shore.

Northern and Western Europe stared amazed at the wonderful spectacle,
listening across the hushed Mediterranean to the clang of arms
resounding in the effete East, as the appalled Romans heard the gusty
roar of the battle of the Huns high over them, and invisible in the air.

Surely it was only the interference of the three Powers that saved the
Sultan's throne. That alone deprived us of the pageant of another
oriental military romance, so rapid in inception, so entire in
execution, that we should have better comprehended those sudden,
barbaric descents of the middle ages, which changed in a moment the
political aspect of the invaded land:--in a moment, because the mighty
appearance of life and power was but a mummy, which a blow would
pulverize.

One man, however strong and skillful, could not withstand the force of
Europe, and Mohammad Alee retired, baffled, before the leaders of the
political Trinity that a few years before had dethroned Napoleon.

The crisis of his life was passed, and unfavorably for his hopes and
aims. At the age of sixty-five he relinquished the struggle with Fate,
and still one of the great men of a century, rich in great men, with no
hope before him, and none behind--for since kingly genius is not
hereditary, your divine right is a disastrous fiction--he sank slowly
away into dotage.

Before the end, however, both he and his son Ibrahim showed themselves
to the Europeans who had watched with such astonished interest the
culmination and decay of their power. Ibrahim Pacha, with his fangs
removed, shook his harmless rattle, for the last time in the world's
hearing, at a dinner given him by young Englishmen, at the Reform Club
in Pall Mall, and the wreck of Mohammad Alee, driveling and dozing, took
a hand at whist with young Americans in a hotel at Naples.

Father and son returned to Egypt and died there. A vast mosque of
alabaster, commenced by Mohammad Alee, and now finished, crowns Cairo,
"the delight of the imagination." He wished to be 'buried there; but he
lies without the city walls, in that suburb of tombs, upon the cracked
sides of one of which a Persian poet has written--"Each crevice of this
ancient edifice is a half-opened mouth, that laughs at the fleeting pomp
of royal abodes."

All the winds that blow upon Cairo, laugh that mocking laughter, and in
any thoughtful mood, as you listen to them and look over the city, you
will mark the two alabaster minarets of Mohammad Alee's mosque, shafts
of snow in the rich blue air, if you will, but yet pointing upward.

Leaning on Lebanon, and laving her beautiful feet in the sea, the superb
slave he burned to possess, still dreams in the sun. We look from the
tent door and see her sleeping, and the remembrance of this last,
momentary interest which disturbed the slumber, reminds us that it will
one day be broken. So fair is the prize, that, knowing all others desire
her as ardently, no single hand feels strong enough to grasp it, and the
conflict of many ambitions secures her peace.

Yet it is clear that nerve and skill could do what they have done, and
so spare is the population, so imbecile the government, and so rich the
soil, that a few thousand determined men could march unresisted through
Syria, and possess the fair and fertile land.


BAZAARS.

Christians and Saracens agree in reprobating the black hat. But the
Damascenes declare open war against it. In 1432, Bertrandon de la
Brocquière entered the city with a "broad beaver hat," which was
incontinently knocked off his head. Naturally his first movement was "to
lift my fist," but wisdom held his hand, and he desisted, content to
revenge himself by the questionable inference that it was "a wicked
race."

But if it be "wicked" to malign the black hat, who shall be justified?

This was only a gentle illustration of the bitter hatred of Christians
and all infidels, cherished by the Damascenes, who are the most orthodox
of Muslim. Indeed, it is only within twenty years that an accredited
English representative could reside in Damascus, and he maintains an
imposing state. At present, some hundred European tourists visit the
city yearly, and the devout faithful find reasons for toleration in
infidel gold, which they never found in argument.

Here, too, as every where in Syria, Ibrahim Pacha has been our ally. He
permitted infidels to ride horses through the streets. "O, Allah!"
exclaimed the religious Damascenes, who are termed by the Turks
_Shami-Shoumi_, cursed rascals. "Your Highness suffers Christians to sit
as high as the faithful."

"No, my friends," responded Ibrahim, "you shall ride dromedaries, which
will put you much above them."

We went into the bazaars to encounter these enemies of the black hat,
and _ex-officio_ riders of dromedaries. We had a glimpse of their beauty
as we entered the city. But Eastern life is delightful in detail. It is
a mosaic to be closely studied.

You enter, and the murmurous silence blends pleasantly with the luminous
dimness of the place. The matting overhead, torn and hanging in strips
along which, gilding them in passing, the sun slides into the interior,
is a heavy tapestry. The scene is a perpetual fair, not precisely like
Greenwich Fair, or that of the American Institute, but such as you
frequent in Arabian stories.

Bedoueen glide spectrally along, with wild, roving eyes, like startled
deer. Insane Dervishes and Santons meditate the propriety of braining
the infidel Howadji. Shekhs from distant Asia, pompous Effendi from
Constantinople, Bagdad traders, cunning-eyed Armenian merchants meet and
mingle, and many of our old friends, the grizzly-bearded, red-eyed
fire-worshipers, somnolently curled among their goods, eye us, through
the smoke they emit, as perfect specimens of the proper sacrifice they
owe their Deity. All strange forms jostle and crowd in passing, except
those which are familiar; and children more beautiful than any in the
East, play in the living mazes of the crowd.

Shopping goes actively on. The merchant without uncrossing his legs,
exhibits his silks and coarse cottons to the long draped and vailed
figures that group picturesquely about his niche. Your eye seizes the
bright effect of all the gay goods as you saunter on. Here a merchant
lays by his chibouque and drinks, from a carved glass, sweet liquorice
water, cooled with snow from Lebanon. Here one closes his niche and
shuffles off to the mosque, followed by his boy-slave with the
chibouque. Here another rises, and bows, and falls, kissing the floor,
and muttering the noon prayer. Every where there is intense but languid
life.

The bazaars are separated into kinds. That of the jewelers is inclosed,
and you see the Jews, swarthy and keen-eyed servants of Mammon, busily
at work. Precious stones miserably set, and handfuls of pearls, opals,
and turquoises are quietly presented to your inspection. There is no
eagerness of traffic. A boy tranquilly hands you a ring, and another,
when you have looked at the first. You say "_la_," no, and he retires.

Or you pause over a clumsy silver ring, with an Arabic inscription upon
the flint set in it. Golden Sleeve ascertains that it is the cipher of
Hafiz. You reflect that it is silver, which is the orthodox metal, the
Prophet having forbidden gold. You place it upon your finger, with the
stone upon the inside, for so the Prophet wore his upon the fore-finger,
that he might avoid ostentation. It is a quaint, characteristic,
oriental signet-ring. Hafiz is a common name, it is probably that of the
jeweler who owns the ring. But you have other associations with the
name, and as you remember the Persian poet, you suffer it to remain upon
your finger, and pay the jeweler a few piastres. You do not dream that
it is enchanted. You do not know that you have bought Ala-ed-deen's
lamp, and as a rub of that evoked omnipotent spirits, so a glance at
your ring, when Damascus has become a dream, will restore you again to
the dim bazaar, and the soft eyes of the children that watch you
curiously as you hesitate, and to the sweet inspiration of Syria.

You pass on into the quarter where the pattens are made, inlaid with
pearl, such as you remarked upon the feet of the kohl-eyebrowed houris.
Into the shoemakers, where the brilliant leathers justify better poetry
than Hans Sach's interminable rhymes, though here is only their music,
not their moral. You climb crumbling steps, and emerge from darkness
upon the top of the bazaar, on a ledge of a Roman ruin, and look down
into the sunny greenness of the great mosque, which you can not more
nearly approach. Then down, and by all the beautiful fabrics of the
land, hung with the tin-foiled letters that surround pieces of English
prints, and which the color-loving eye of the Oriental seizes as an
ornament for his own wares, you pass into the region of drugs and
apothecaries, and feel that you are about visiting that Persian Doctor
in Mecca who dealt in nothing but miraculous balsams and infallible
elixirs, whose potions were all sweet and agreeable, and the musk and
aloe wood which he burned, diffused a delicious odor through the shop.
Surely he was court-physician to Zobeide.

Golden Sleeve pauses before an old figure curled among the bottles and
lost in reverie, saturated, it seems, with opium, and dreaming its
dreams. This is Zobeide's doctor. He had evidently the elixir of life
among those sweet potions, and has deeply drunk. Life he has preserved;
but little else that is human remains, except the love that is stronger
than life. For as he opens his vague eyes and beholds us, they kindle
with an inward fire, as if they looked upon the Philosopher's Stone.
That stone is in our purses; the old magician knows it, and he knows the
charm to educe it. He opens a jar, and a dreamy odor penetrates our
brains. It is distilled of flowers culled from the gardens of the
Ganges: or is this delicate perfume preferable--this zatta, loved of
poets and houris, which came to the doctor's grandfather from Bagdad?

Attar of roses did Golden Sleeve suggest? Here is the essence of that
divinest distillation of the very heart of summer. But, O opulent
Howadji! no thin, pale, Constantinople perfume is this, but the viscous
richness of Indian roses. As many wide acres of bloom went to this jar
as to any lyric of Hafiz. It lies as molten gold in the quaint glass
vase. The magician holds it toward the Syrian sun, and the shadow of a
smile darkens over his withered features. Then, drop by drop, as if he
poured the last honey that should ever be hived from Hymettus, he
suffers it to exude into the little vials. They are closely stopped, and
sealed, and wrapped in cotton. And some wintry Christmas in the West the
Howadji shall offer to a fairer than Zobeide those more than drops of
diamond.

Nor this alone--but the cunning of Arabian art has sucked the secret of
their sweetness from tea and coffee, from all the wild herbs of Syria,
and from amber. In those small jars is stored the rich result of endless
series of that summer luxuriance you saw in the vale of Zabulon.
Sandal-wood to burn upon your nargileh, mystic bits to lay upon your
tongue, so that the startled Bedoueen, as you pass into the bazaar, and
breathe upon him in passing, dreams that you came from Paradise, and
have been kissed by houris.

Was it not the magic to draw from your purse the Philosopher's Stone?
The court-physician of Zobeide, relapsing into reverie, smiles vaguely
as he says salaam; as if the advantage were his--as if you were not
bearing away with you in those odors the triumphs of the rarest alchemy.

Breathing fragrance, you enter a khan opening upon the bazaar, that of
Assad Pacha, a stately and beautiful building, consisting of a lofty
domed court, the dome supported by piers, with a gallery running quite
around it. Private rooms for the choicest goods open out of the gallery.
The court is full of various merchandise, and merchants from every
region sit by their goods, and smoke placidly as they negotiate.

But we have received visits in our hotel from an Armenian merchant,
young and comely--why not Khadra's cousin?--and he brought with him
silks and stuffs at which all that was feminine in our nature swelled
with delight. Tempted by his odors, we have come to his garden. The room
is small and square, and rough-plastered. Upon the floor are strewn long
deep boxes, and the comely young Armenian, in a flowing dark dress,
reveals his treasures.

Scarfs, shawls, stuffs for dresses, morning gowns and vests,
handkerchiefs, sashes, purses, and tobacco-bags are heaped in rich
profusion. They are of the true East

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