← catalogue

Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXVII, August 1852, Vol. V

by Various · English · Gutenberg #43368 · 808,034 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXVII, August 1852, Vol. V
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXVII, August 1852, Vol. V

Author: Various


        
Release date: July 31, 2013 [eBook #43368]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43368

Credits: Produced by Judith Wirawan, David Kline, and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from scans of public domain works at the
        University of Michigan's Making of America collection.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE, NO. XXVII, AUGUST 1852, VOL. V ***

HARPER'S

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

NO. XXVII.--AUGUST, 1852.--VOL. V.




[Illustration: VIEW OF MT. CARMEL FROM THE SEA.]

MEMOIRS OF THE HOLY LAND

BY JACOB ABBOTT


MOUNT CARMEL.

ASPECT OF THE MOUNTAIN.

The Christian traveler, in journeying to the Holy Land, often
obtains his first view of the sacred shores from the deck of some
small Levantine vessel in which he has embarked at Alexandria, after
having completed his tour among the wonders of Egypt and the Nile.
He ascends, perhaps, to the deck of his vessel, early in the
morning, summoned by the welcome intelligence that the land is full
in view. Here, as he surveys the shore that presents itself before
him, the first object which attracts his eye is a lofty promontory
which he sees rising in sublime and sombre majesty above the
surrounding country, and at the same time jutting boldly into the
sea. It forms, he observes, the seaward terminus of a mountain range
which his eye follows far into the interior of the country, until
the undulating crest loses itself at last from view in the haze of
distant hills. The massive and venerable walls of an ancient convent
crown its summit; its sloping sides are enriched with a soft and
luxuriant vegetation; and the surf, rolling in from the sea, whitens
the rocks at its foot with breakers and foam. This promontory is Mt.
Carmel.


GEOGRAPHY OF THE VICINITY.

The geographical situation of Mt. Carmel is shown by the adjoining
map. Palestine in the time of our Saviour was comprised in three
distinct provinces--Judea, Samaria, and Galilee. Of these, Judea,
which bordered upon the Dead Sea and the lower portion of the
Jordan, was the most southerly; while Galilee, which was opposite to
the sea of Tiberias and the upper part of the Jordan, was the most
northerly; being separated from Judea by the mountainous district of
Samaria, which lay between. The region comprised upon the map is
chiefly that of Samaria and Galilee. The chain of which Mt. Carmel
is the terminus forms the southern and southwestern boundary of
Galilee. A little south of the boundary was Mt. Gerizim, the holy
ground of the Samaritans. Mt. Gerizim forms a part of the great
central chain or congeries of mountains which rises in the interior
of Palestine, and from which the Carmel range branches, as a sort of
spur or offshoot, traversing the country in a westward and northward
direction, and continuing its course until it terminates at the sea.
The other principal mountain groups in the Holy Land are the ranges
of Lebanon on the north, and the mountainous tract about Jerusalem
in the south.

[Illustration: MAP OF MOUNT CARMEL.]

On the northern side of the Carmel chain, at some distance from the
sea, there lies a broad expanse of extremely rich and fertile
country, which, though not strictly level, is called a plain. It was
known in ancient times as the plain of Jezreel. It is now called the
plain of Esdraelon. The waters of this plain, flowing westward and
northward along the foot of Mt. Carmel to the sea, constitute the
river Kishon, so celebrated in sacred history. The sea itself sets
up a little way into the valley through which this river flows,
forming thus a broad bay to the north of Mt. Carmel, called the Bay
of Acre. The town of Acre lies at the northern extremity of this
bay, and the town of Haïfa[1] at the southern border of it, just at
the foot of Carmel. The ceaseless action of the sea has sloped and
smoothed the shore of this bay throughout the whole distance from
Haïfa to Acre, and formed upon it a beach of sand, which serves the
double purpose of a landing-place for the boats of the fishermen,
and a road for the caravans of travelers that pass to and fro along
the coast. The conformation of the bay, together with the precise
situation of Acre and Haïfa, as well as the more important
topographical details of the mountain, will be found very clearly
represented in the chart upon the adjoining page.


NAPOLEON'S ENGINEERS.

The topographical chart of the bay of Acre here given is one made by
the engineers of the French army during Napoleon's celebrated
expedition to Egypt and Syria. These engineers accompanied the army
wherever it marched, and in the midst of all the scenes of
excitement, difficulty, and danger, through which they were
continually passing, devoted themselves to the performance of the
scientific duties which their commander had assigned them, with a
calmness and composure almost incredible. No possible excitement or
commotion around them seemed to have power to interrupt or disturb
them in their work. The din and confusion of the camp, the marches
and countermarches of the troops, the battles, the sieges, the
assaults, the excitement of victory, and the confusion of sudden and
unexpected retreats--all failed to embarrass or disconcert them.
Whatever were the scenes that might be transpiring around them, they
went quietly and fearlessly on, paying no regard to any thing but
their own proper duties. They adjusted their instruments; they made
their observations, their measurements, their drawings; they
computed their tables and constructed their charts; and in the end
they brought back to France a complete daguerreotype, as it were, of
every hill, and valley, and river, and plain, of the vast surface
which they traversed. The great chart from which the adjoining map
is taken was the last one which they made, for Acre was the northern
termination of Napoleon's expedition.[2]

[Illustration: MOUNT CARMEL AND THE BAY OF ACRE.]


APPROACHES TO MOUNT CARMEL.

By reference to the map, it will be seen that there are three roads
by which Mt. Carmel may be approached on land. One advances along
the coast from the southward, and passing round the promontory on
the western and northern side, between its steep declivity and the
sea, it turns to the east, and comes at last to the foot of the
branch road which leads up the mountain to the convent on the top.
The second is the road from Acre. It may be seen upon the map
following closely the line of the shore on the margin of the sandy
beach which has already been described. The third comes from
Nazareth, in the interior of the country. It descends from the plain
of Esdraelon by the banks of the Kishon, and joins the Acre road a
little to the east of the town of Haïfa. After passing through
Haïfa, the road follows the shore for a short distance, and then a
branch diverges to the right, leading to some ancient ruins on the
extremity of the cape. A little farther on another branch turns off
to the left, and leads up the mountain to the convent, while the
main road continues its course round the northern and western
extremity of the promontory, and there passes into the road that
comes up on the western coast, as at first described.

Travelers approaching Mt. Carmel from the interior of the country
come generally from Nazareth by the way of the third road above
described, that is, the one that leads down from the valley of the
Kishon, following the bank of the stream. The town of Nazareth,
where the journey of the day in such cases is usually commenced,
lies among the hills about midway between the Mediterranean Sea and
the Sea of Tiberias. The route for some hours leads the traveler
along the northern part of the plain of Esdraelon, and charms him by
the scenes of beauty and fertility which pass before his view. He
sees rich fields of corn and grain, groves of the pomegranate, the
fig, and the olive, verdant valleys clothed with the most luxuriant
herbage, masses of hanging wood, that adorn the declivities of the
hills, and descend in capes and promontories of foliage to beautify
the plain, and ruins of ancient fortresses and towns, scattered here
and there in picturesque and commanding positions. The whole country
is like a romantic park, with the great chain of Mt. Carmel
extending continuously to the southward of it, and bounding the
view.


BAY OF ACRE.

At length the great plain of Acre, with the bay, and the broad
expanse of the Mediterranean in the distance, opens before him. The
town of Acre, surrounded with its white walls, stands just on the
margin of the water, at the northern extremity of the bay; while at
the southern point of it stands Haïfa, sheltered by the mountain,
and adorned by the consular flags of the several nations who have
commercial agents there. In former times the principal harbor for
shipping was at Acre, but from some change which the course of time
has effected in the conformation of the coast or in the deposit of
sand, the only deep water is now found at the southern extremity of
the bay, where the Kishon finds its outlet--and Haïfa has
consequently become the port. It is not improbable, in fact, that
the greater depth of water at this point is to be attributed to the
effect produced by the outflow of the river in impeding the
accumulation of deposits from the sea.

The river, as will be seen from the map, in flowing into the bay
passes across the beach of sand. Its depth and the quantity of water
which issues from it vary very much, according to the season of the
year, and thus the accounts of travelers who ford it at different
periods differ extremely. In its ordinary condition it is very
easily forded, but sometimes, when swollen with rains, it overflows
the meadows that line its banks, up the valley, and becomes wholly
impassable near its mouth. In the summer the stream often becomes so
low that the sea, incessantly rolling in from the offing, fills up
the outlet entirely with sand, and then smoothing over the dyke
which it has made, it forms a beach on the outer slope of it, and
thus the sandy shore of the bay is carried continuously across the
mouth of the river, and the water is shut back as by a dam.

The next rain, however, and perhaps even the ordinary flow of the
river, causes the water to accumulate and rise behind this barrier
until it surmounts it. A small stream then begins to flow over the
beach--rapidly increasing in force and volume as the sand is washed
away--and thus the river regains once more its accustomed channel.
This alternate closing and opening of the outlet of a river is a
phenomenon often witnessed in cases where the river, at its mouth,
traverses a sandy beach on a coast exposed to winds and storms.[3]

The distance from Haïfa to Acre along the shore of the bay is about
eight miles. Acre itself has always been a very celebrated fortress,
having figured as the central point of almost all great military
operations in Syria for nearly two thousand years. It has
experienced every possible form and phase of the fortune of war,
having been assaulted, defended, besieged, destroyed, and rebuilt
again and again, in an endless succession of changes, and in the
experience of every possible fortune and misfortune which twenty
centuries of uninterrupted military vicissitude could bring. Within
the knowledge of the present generation it has been the scene of two
terrific conflicts. Perhaps the most important of these events, in a
historical point of view, was the struggle for the possession of the
place between Napoleon and its English defenders, and the consequent
check which was placed upon Napoleon's career, on his advance from
Egypt into Syria. On his arrival at Acre, the young general found
the port in possession of an English force under the command of Sir
Sydney Smith, and though he made the most desperate and determined
efforts to dislodge them, he was unable to succeed. He planted his
batteries on the declivities of the hills behind the town, and
cannonaded the walls from that position; while the English supported
the garrison in their defense of the place, by firing upon the
batteries of the besiegers from ships which they had anchored in the
bay.

[Illustration: DEFENSE OF ACRE.]


PRODUCTIONS OF THE COUNTRY.

The plains and valleys which border the Carmel chain of mountains,
especially on the northern side, are extremely fertile. They yield
grapes, olives, corn, and other similar productions, in the greatest
abundance, while the grass that clothes the slopes of the
surrounding mountains, and adorns with verdure and beauty a thousand
secluded valleys that wind among them, furnishes an almost
exhaustless supply of food for flocks and herds. A considerable
quantity of wheat, barley, cotton, and other similar products is
exported, being brought down to Haïfa and Acre from the interior, on
the backs of mules and camels, led by drivers in long caravans and
trains. One traveler speaks of having been detained at the gates of
Acre, when going out to make an excursion into the surrounding
country, by a train of _one hundred_ camels, laden with corn, that
were just then coming in.


MISGOVERNMENT.

The commerce of the port, however, would be vastly greater than it
is, were it not for the exactions of the government which restrict
and burden it exceedingly. It is true that governments generally
maintain themselves by taxing the commerce of the countries over
which they rule, but the despotic authorities that have borne
military sway in Syria and Palestine for the last five hundred
years, have done this, as it would seem, in a peculiarly exorbitant
and reckless manner. A practice is adopted in those countries of
"farming out" the revenue, as it is called; that is, the government
sells the privilege of collecting a certain tax to some wealthy
capitalist, who pays, or secures payment, in advance, and then
collects from the people what is due, on his own account. Of course
he is invested with power and authority from the government to
enforce the collection, and as it is a matter of personal interest
to him to make the amount that he receives as great as possible, he
has every conceivable inducement to be extortionate and oppressive.
The sufferers, too, in such cases generally find it useless to
complain; for the government know well that, if they wish to obtain
high prices from the farmers of the revenue, from year to year, they
must not obstruct them in any way in the claims which they make, or
the measures which they adopt, in collecting the amounts due, from
the people.

In the more highly civilized and commercial nations of the world, a
very different system is adopted. The revenue is never farmed, but
it is collected by officers appointed for the purpose, in the name
and for the benefit of the government; and generally in such a way,
that they who assess the tax, have no direct pecuniary interest--or,
at most, a very inconsiderable one--in the amount whether larger or
smaller, which they receive. The assessors and collectors thus
occupy, in some respects, the position of impartial umpires between
the government and the people, with very slight influences operating
upon their minds, to produce a bias in favor of one side or the
other. Even in this way, the evils and disadvantages of raising
national revenues by taxing commercial transactions, are very great,
while, in the form that has so long prevailed in Syria and
Palestine, the result is utterly disastrous. The taxes are
increased, under one pretext or another, until the poor peasant and
laborer finds himself robbed of every thing but the bare means of
subsistence. All hope and possibility of acquiring property by his
industry and thrift, and of rising to a respectable position in
society are taken away from him, and he spends his life in idleness,
degradation, and despair.


AN INCIDENT.

An incident strikingly illustrative of these truths, occurred to a
traveler who was visiting Acre, about the year 1815. One morning, in
rambling about the city, he chanced to come into the vicinity of the
custom house, at the port, and there he overheard a violent dispute
going on between some fishermen and a certain farmer of the
revenue--probably a wealthy merchant of the town--who was standing
near. It seems that a duty of about thirty-three per cent., that is,
one-third part of the whole price, had been laid upon all fish that
should be taken in the bay and brought into the port for sale; and
the privilege of collecting the tax had been sold to the merchant,
who was engaged in the dispute. It had been calculated that the
remaining two-thirds of the value of the fish would be sufficient to
induce the fishermen to continue their vocation. It proved, however,
not to be so. The cost of boats and outfit, and the other expenses
which were necessarily incurred in the prosecution of the business,
were so great, that the poor fishermen found when they had returned
to the shore and sold their fares, and paid the expenses of their
trip, that the government tax took so large a portion of what
remained, as to leave little or nothing over, to reimburse them for
their labor. They accordingly became discouraged, and began to
abandon the employment; so that the farmer who had bought the right
to collect the tax, was alarmed at finding that the revenue was
likely to fail altogether, inasmuch as for every five boats that had
been accustomed to go out to fish before, only one went now. The
dispute which attracted the attention of the traveler was occasioned
by the anger of the farmer, who was assailing the fishermen with
bitter invectives and criminations, and threatening to compel them
to go out to fish, in order that he might receive his dues.


THE TYRANT DJEZZAR.

For many years extending through the latter part of the last
century, and the earlier portion of the present one, the narratives
of travelers visiting Acre are filled with accounts of the tyranny
and oppression exercised upon the people of the country by a certain
despot named Djezzar, the history of whose government illustrates
very forcibly the nature of the injuries to which the wretched
inhabitants of those countries are compelled to submit. Djezzar, in
his infancy was carried into Egypt a slave, and sold to Ali-Bey, a
celebrated ruler of that country. In the service of Ali-Bey he rose
to high civil stations, and at length, after passing through a
great number of vicissitudes and romantic adventures, in the course
of which he was transferred to the service of the Turkish
government, he was placed by the Turks in command of the Pachalik of
Acre, in 1775. Here he ruled with such despotic cruelty, that he
made himself an object of universal execration to all mankind,
excepting always those who had placed him in power; for they seemed
to be pleased rather than otherwise with his remorseless and
terrible energy. One of the first measures which he adopted when he
entered upon his government, was to confiscate all the houses of the
town of Acre, declaring them the property of the government, and
requiring the inhabitants to pay rent for them to him. The taxes
were exorbitantly increased, and every possible pretext was resorted
to to deprive the people of their property, and transfer it to the
government. Land which was left uncultivated for three years was
considered as abandoned by the owners, and thenceforth fell to him.
Whenever a vessel was stranded upon the coast, he seized upon every
thing that could be saved from the wreck, as his perquisite. His
favorite mode of punishing those who displeased him, was to mutilate
their persons by cutting off an ear, a nose, an arm, or a foot, or
by taking out an eye. Those who visited his palace, say that it was
common to see many persons in the ante-chambers and halls who were
disfigured thus, having incurred the cruel monster's displeasure
from time to time in the course of their service. These were his
"marked men," as he called them--"persons bearing signs of their
having been instructed to serve their master with fidelity." His
secretary, who was his principal banker and minister, was deprived
of both an ear and an eye, at the same time, for some offense, real
or imaginary, which he had committed, and yet still continued to
serve his savage master. Djezzar lived in a massive palace,
occupying a well-protected part of the city of Acre, with gardens in
the rear between the palace and the city wall. Within this palace
was his harem, the residence of his women. No person but himself was
ever admitted to the harem. He was accustomed to retire thither
every evening through three massive doors, one within the other,
which doors he always closed and barred with his own hands. No one
knew how many or what women the harem contained. Additions were
often made to the number, from female slaves that were presented to
Djezzar from time to time; but no one knew how many were thus
introduced, or what was their fate after they disappeared from
public view. Every possible precaution was taken to seclude the
inmates of this harem in the most absolute manner from the outer
world. Their food was conveyed to them by means of a sort of wheel
or cylinder, turning in the wall, and so contrived that those
without could not see who received it. If any one was sick, a
physician was brought to a room where there was a hole in the wall
through which the patient, concealed on the other side, put her arm,
and thus the pulse was examined, and a prescription made. We might
fill many pages with curious details in respect to the life and
character, and peculiar habits, of this extraordinary man, but we
must leave Acre and the bay, and prepare to ascend the mountain.

[Illustration: HORSEMAN OF ACRE.]


THE MOUNTAIN.

The height of Mt. Carmel has been generally estimated at about
fifteen hundred feet. This is a very unusual elevation for land that
rises thus abruptly from the margin of the sea. Of course, from
every cliff, and rock, and projecting head-land on the higher
portions of it there is obtained a widely extended and most
commanding view both over the water and over the land. The sea lies
toward the west; the prospect is consequently in that direction
unobstructed to the horizon, and the whole western quarter of the
sky is fully exposed to view. It is by understanding the position of
Mt. Carmel in this respect, that we appreciate the full force and
beauty of the passage that describes the coming of the rain, after
the destruction of the priests of Baal by the Prophet Elijah; for it
is always, as we observe, in the western sky, through the operation
of some mysterious and hidden laws which human philosophy has not
yet been able to unfold, that the clouds which produce sudden summer
showers arise. It is almost invariably there, that those rounded and
dome-like condensations are formed, which from small and almost
unperceived beginnings expand and swell until they envelop the whole
heavens in darkness and gloom, and then sweep over the earth in
tempests of thunder, lightning, and rain. The narrative of the
sacred writer, describing the event is as follows.


AHAB AND THE RAIN.

"And Elijah said unto Ahab, Get thee up, eat and drink; for there is
a sound of abundance of rain. So Ahab went up to eat and to drink.
And Elijah went up to the top of Carmel; and he cast himself down
upon the earth, and put his face between his knees, and said to his
servant, Go up now, look toward the sea. And he went up, and looked
and said, There is nothing. And he said, Go again seven times. And
it came to pass at the seventh time that he said, Behold there
ariseth a little cloud out of the sea like a man's hand. And he
said, Go up, say unto Ahab, Prepare thy chariot, and get thee down
that the rain stop thee not. And it came to pass, in the mean while,
that the heaven was black with clouds and wind, and there was a
great rain."--1 Kings, xviii. 41-45.

       *       *       *       *       *

The traveler, as he looks up to the summit of the mountain from the
beach of the Bay of Acre, over the sands of which he is slowly
making his way toward the foot of the ascent, pictures in his
imagination the form of the servant of Elijah standing upon some
projecting pinnacle, and looking off over the sea. He loses for the
moment his recollection of the age in which he lives, and under the
influence of a temporary illusion, forgetting the five-and-twenty
centuries which have elapsed since the days of Elijah, almost looks
to see the chariot and horsemen of Ahab riding away up the valley,
in obedience to the prophet's command.


ASCENT OF THE MOUNTAIN.

The road to the mountain, as will appear from the map, passes
through Haïfa. Travelers and pilgrims, however, seldom make any stay
in the town. There is no inn there to detain them. The convent is
the inn--on the top of the mountain. After passing Haïfa, the road,
as may be seen upon the map, follows the line of the shore for about
half a mile, and then turns a little inland, while a branch of the
main road, diverging to the right, continues along the shore of the
sea. This branch leads to the extremity of the cape, where are
situated the ruins of an ancient place named Porphyrion, and also a
small fortress, on the point. Porphyrion was a place of some
consequence in former times, but it went gradually to decay, and at
last when Haïfa was built it was entirely abandoned.

A short distance further on, the traveler comes to another branch,
where a mule-path turns off to the left from the main road, and
leads up the mountain. The ascent is steep, but the path is so
guarded by a parapet on the outer side wherever required, that it
awakens no sense of danger. The declivities of the mountain, above
and below the path, are clothed with trees and herbage, with gray
walls, forming picturesque cliffs, and precipices, appearing here
and there among them. There is a profusion, too, of wild flowers of
every form and hue, which attract and charm the traveler, wherever
he turns. He looks off at every salient point that he passes in his
ascent, over the bay. He sees the white walls of the city of Acre
rising from the margin of the water at the extremity of it, far in
the distance--and never ceases to admire the smooth and beautiful
beach which lies spread out before him, its broad expanse broken,
perhaps, here and there on the side toward the sea, with the wrecks
of ships which lie there half buried, and enlivened on the land with
trains of mules or of camels passing toward Acre or Haïfa, or by
some picturesque group of tents pitched upon the plain--the
encampment of some wandering tribe of Arabs, or of a party of
European travelers. Further inland, he surveys broad fields of
luxuriant vegetation, variegated with every shade of green and
brown, and groves of trees that extend along the margin of the
rivers, and crown the summits of the distant hills. In a calm and
clear summer's morning, the observer looks down upon this brilliant
scene of verdure and beauty, as upon a map, and lingers long on his
way, to study minutely every feature of it.

[Illustration: THE ASCENT OF THE MOUNTAIN.]


THE RIVER BELUS AND THE DISCOVERY OF GLASS.

About midway between Haïfa and Acre, the traveler, pausing at some
resting-place in the progress of his ascent, may trace the course of
the river Belus, as it meanders through the plain beneath him,
northwardly, toward an outlet just in the rear of Acre, where it
empties into the sea. The course and direction of the stream are
delineated upon the map near the commencement of this article. This
river is celebrated as the place where, according to ancient story,
the discovery of the art of making glass was first made by means of
an accidental vitrification which chanced to take place under
certain peculiar circumstances, on its shores.[4] Glass is composed
essentially of silicious substances--such as sand--combined with
certain alkalies by fusion. For sand, though very refractory if
exposed alone to the influence of heat, when mixed with these
alkaline substances fuses easily, and _vitrifies_, that is it forms
a glass, which is more or less perfect according to the precise
nature of the substances employed, and the arrangements of the
process. The story of the origin of the discovery is, that a vessel
came into the mouth of the Belus from the Bay of Acre, laden with
certain fossil alkalies which were found somewhere along the coast,
and were used in those times for certain purposes, and that the
sailors landed on the beach and built a fire there, with a view of
taking supper on the shore. When the fire was made they looked about
the beach for stones to use as a support for their kettle; but the
soil being alluvial and sandy they were not able to find any stones,
and so they brought instead three fragments of the alkaline fossil,
whatever it might have been, with which their vessel was loaded.
These fragments they placed in the margin of the fire which they had
built upon the sand, and rested the kettle upon them; thus by means
of the alkali, the sand, the metal, and the fire, all the conditions
were combined that are essential to produce a vitrification, and
after their supper was ended the seamen found the glassy substance
which had been produced, lying beneath the fire. They made their
discovery known, and the experiment was repeated. Soon after this
the regular manufacture of glass for vessels and ornaments was
commenced in the city of Sidon, which lies on the coast of the
Mediterranean, not many miles north of the mouth of the Belus, and
from Sidon the art soon spread into every part of the civilized
world.

[Illustration: THE DISCOVERY OF GLASS.]


THE CONVENT.

The time required for the ascent from Haïfa to the convent is about
an hour--the buildings of the institution, though often spoken of as
upon the top of the mountain, being really only about two-thirds of
the way up to the highest summit. The condition in which the various
travelers who have visited the spot within the last hundred years
have found the institution, and the accounts which they have given
of the edifice and of the inmates, varies extremely according to the
time of the visit. In fact, after Napoleon's defeat before Acre, the
convent was entirely destroyed, and the spot was for a time
deserted. The cause of this was that Napoleon took possession of the
edifice for the purpose of using it as a hospital, and quartered his
wounded and disabled soldiers there. The Turks, consequently, when
they came and found the institution in the possession of the French,
considered themselves authorized to regard it as a post of the
enemy. They accordingly slaughtered the troops which they found
there, drove away the monks, and blew up the buildings. From this
time the convent remained desolate and in ruins for more than twenty
years.

At length, between 1820 and 1830, a celebrated monk, known by the
name of John Baptist, undertook the work of building up the
institution again. With great zeal, and with untiring patience and
perseverance, he traversed many countries of Europe and Asia to
gather funds for the work, and to remove the various obstacles which
are always in the way in the case of such an undertaking. He
succeeded, at length, in accomplishing the work, and the convent was
rebuilt in a more complete and extended form than ever before. Since
that time, accordingly, the traveler finds, when he reaches the brow
of the mountain where the convent buildings stand, a stately and
commodious edifice ready to receive him. Like most of the other
convents and monasteries of Asia, the institution serves the purpose
of an inn. A monk receives the traveler and his party, and conducts
them to a commodious sitting-room, furnished with a carpet, with
tables, and with chairs. A corridor from this apartment leads to
bed-rooms in the rear, furnished likewise in a very comfortable
manner, with beds, chairs, and tables;--articles which attract the
attention of the traveler, and are specially mentioned in his
journal, as they are very rarely to be found in the East. On the
terraces and balconies of the building the visitor, wearied with the
toil of the ascent, finds seats where he reposes in peace, and
enjoys the illimitable prospect which the view commands, both up and
down the coast, and far out over the waters of the Mediterranean
Sea.

Travelers are entertained at the convent as at an inn, except that
in place of a formal reckoning when they depart, they make their
acknowledgment for the hospitality which they have received in the
form of a donation to the monastery, the amount of which custom
prescribes. The rule is that no guest is to remain longer than a
fortnight--the arrangements being designed for the accommodation of
travelers, and not of permanent guests. This rule, however, is not
strictly enforced, except so far as to give to parties newly
arriving the precedence in respect to choice of rooms, over those
whose fortnight has expired. While the guests remain, they are very
kindly and hospitably entertained by the monks, who appear before
them clothed in a hood and cassock of coarse brown cloth, with a
rope girdle around the loins, and sandals upon the feet--the ancient
habit of the order. Their countenances wear a thoughtful and
serious, if not sad expression.


THE GROTTOS AND CAVES.

The halo of sacredness which invests Mt. Carmel proceeds from the
memory of the prophet Elijah, who, while he lived on the earth, made
this mountain his frequent resort, if not his usual abode. This we
learn from the Scriptures themselves, as well as from the long and
unbroken testimony of ancient tradition. The memorable transactions
connected with the destruction of the priests of Baal, in the time
of Ahab, at the conclusion of which came the sudden rain, as
described in the passage already quoted, is supposed to have taken
place at the foot of the mountain near this spot--and the ground on
which the priests were slain is still shown, as identified by
ancient tradition, on the banks of the Kishon, a little way up the
valley.[5] The mountain above is full of grottos and caves. It is
said that more than a thousand have been counted. The one which is
supposed to have been Elijah's special abode is now within the
buildings of the convent. Higher up, among the rocks behind the
convent, is another which is called Elisha's cave, and at some
distance below, in the bottom of a frightful chasm, into which the
traveler descends by a steep and dangerous path, and which opens
toward the sea, is another cavern, the largest and most noted of
all. It forms a large and lofty apartment, vaulted above, and is
said to have been the place where Obadiah concealed and protected
the company of prophets, one hundred and fifty in number, and fed
them with bread and water while they remained in their retreat.[6]
This cave is called accordingly the cave of the prophets. The
situation of this grotto is beyond description solitary, desolate,
and sublime. Nothing is to be seen from within it but the open sea,
and no sound is heard but the breaking of the surf, as it rolls in
upon the rocky shore six hundred feet below.


THE PETRIFACTIONS.

Among the other objects of interest and attraction for the pilgrims
and travelers that visit Mt. Carmel, are certain curious stones,
well known to geologists as a common mineral formation, but which
pass with the pilgrims and monks for petrified grapes, dates, or
melons, according to their size and configuration. These stones are
round in form, and are often hollow, being lined with a crystalline
incrustation within, the crystals representing, in the imagination
of the pilgrim, the seeds of the fruit from which the specimen was
formed. These fossils are found in a part of the mountain remote
from the convent, where a stream comes down from the heights above,
and they are supposed to be miraculous in their origin. The legend
accounting for the production of them is this.

In the time of Elijah there was a garden and a vineyard on the spot,
and one day as Elijah was passing that way, weary and faint with his
journey, he looked over the wall and asked the owner of the ground
to give him some of the melons and fruits that he saw growing there.
The man refused the wayfarer's request, saying jestingly in his
refusal, that those things were not melons and fruits, but only
stones. "Stones then let them be," said Elijah, and so passed on.
The gardener, on turning to examine the fruits of his garden, found
to his consternation that they had all been turned into stone, and
ever since that day the ground has been under a curse, and has
produced nothing but stony semblances of fruit, instead of the
reality. These supposed petrifactions are greatly prized by all who
visit the mountain. Well informed travelers value them as specimens
illustrative of a very singular superstition, and as souvenirs of
their visit to the spot;--while monks and pilgrims believe them to
possess some supernatural virtue. They suppose that though Elijah's
denunciation proved a curse to the ground in respect to the owner,
in causing it to produce these flinty mockeries, the stones
themselves, being miraculous in their nature and origin, are endued
with some supernatural power to protect and bless those who
reverently collect and preserve them.

[Illustration: ELIJAH AND THE GARDENER.]


ORIGIN OF THE CARMELITE ORDER.

The convent of Mt. Carmel, as alluded to and described by travelers
during the last five hundred years is to be understood as denoting
not a single building, but a series of buildings, that have risen,
flourished, and gone to decay on the same spot, in a long
succession, like a dynasty of kings following each other in a line
on the same throne. The grottos and caverns which are found upon the
mountain began to be occupied at a very early period by hermits and
solitary monks, who lived probably at first in a state of separation
from each other as well as of seclusion from the world. After a time
however they began to combine together, and to live in edifices
specially constructed for their use, and for the last thousand years
the Carmelites have constituted a well known and numerous religious
order, having spread from their original seat and centre to every
part of Europe, and taken a very active and important part in the
ecclesiastical affairs of modern times. Every religious order of the
Roman Church prides itself on the antiquity of its origin, and the
traditions of the Carmelites for a long time carried back the
history of their society to a very remote period indeed--not merely
to the Christian era, but from the time of Christ and the apostles
back to Elijah, and from Elijah to Enoch. In discussing this
subject, however, one ecclesiastical writer very gravely maintains
that the Enoch, if there was one, among the founders of the
Carmelite fraternity, could not have been the patriarch Enoch, the
father of Methusaleh, since it is plain that there could have been
no Carmelite monks among those saved in the ark, at the time of the
deluge, for the vow of celibacy was an essential rule of the order
from the beginning, and the sons of Noah, who were the only men
besides Noah himself that were saved from the flood, were all
married men, and took their wives with them when they went into the
ark!

These traditions, however, ascribing a very high antiquity to the
order of the Carmelites, were allowed to pass for many centuries
with very little question; but at last, about two hundred years ago,
certain religious historians belonging to other monastic orders, in
the course of the investigations which they made into the early
history of the church, came to the conclusion that the institution
of the Carmelites was founded in the twelfth century of the
Christian era. The earliest authentic information that they could
find, they said, in respect to its origin was the account given by a
traveler by the name of John Phocas, who visited the mountain in
1185, in the course of a tour which he was making in the Holy Land.
He relates that he ascended Mt. Carmel, and that he found there the
cave of Elijah, describing it as it now appears. He also states that
there was a monastery there which had been founded a few years
before by a venerable monk, gray-headed and advanced in years, who
had come upon the mountain in obedience to a revelation which he had
received from the Prophet Elijah, enjoining upon him so to do, and
that he had built a small tower for a dwelling, and a small chapel
for the purpose of worship, and that he had established himself here
with ten companions of the same religious profession with himself;
and this was the true origin of the convent of Mt. Carmel.


A CONTROVERSY.

The Carmelite monks throughout Europe were every where greatly
displeased at the publication of this account, which cut off at a
single blow some two thousand years from the antiquity of their
order, even supposing their pretensions to go no farther back than
to the time of Elijah. A protracted and very bitter controversy
arose. Volumes after volumes were published--the quarrel, as is
usual with religious disputes, degenerating in character as it
advanced, and growing continually more and more rancorous and
bitter, until at last the Pope interposed and put an end to the
dispute by a bull. The bull did not attempt to decide the question;
it only silenced the combatants. Nothing more was to be said by any
party, or under any pretext, on the origin of the institution of the
Carmelites, but the whole subject was entirely interdicted. This
bull, the issuing of which was a most excellent act on the part of
his Holiness, proved an effectual remedy for the evil which it was
intended to suppress. The dispute was suddenly terminated, and
though the question was in form left undecided, it was settled in
fact, for it has since been generally admitted that the story of
John Phocas was true, and that Mt. Carmel, though inhabited by
hermits and individual recluses long before, was not the seat of a
regularly organized society of Monks until nearly twelve centuries
after the Christian era.


THE MONK ST. BASIL.

The Carmelites themselves were accustomed to maintain that the
earliest written rule for the government of their order was given
them by a very celebrated ancient monk, known in history as St.
Basil. St. Basil lived about three hundred years after the time of
Christ. He was descended from a distinguished family, and received
an excellent education in early life, in the course of which he made
very high attainments in all the branches of knowledge customarily
pursued in those days. His mind, however, being strongly impressed
with a sense of religious obligation, he determined not to engage in
the duties of the profession for which he had been trained, but to
seclude himself from the world, in accordance with the custom that
prevailed in those days, and spend his life in religious meditation
and prayer. As a preliminary step he determined on taking a journey
into the countries where the practice of religious retirement had
begun to prevail, in order to visit the hermits, recluses, and
monks, in their dens and caves, and become practically acquainted
with the mode of life which these voluntary exiles from the world
were accustomed to lead. He accordingly set out upon his travels,
and in the course of a few years he explored Egypt, Palestine,
Syria, Asia Minor, and other countries still farther east, in order
to visit and converse with all the monks and hermits that he could
find, in the deserts and solitudes to which they had retired. We can
not here give the subsequent particulars of his life. It is
sufficient to say that his learning, his high rank, his exalted
character, and perhaps his honest and conscientious piety, combined
to raise him in the end to a very commanding position in respect to
the whole monastic world while he lived, and to inspire many
succeeding generations with a great veneration for his memory. He
was believed to have been during his life an object of the special
and miraculous protection of heaven; for it is recorded as sober
historic truth, that at one time, during the latter part of his
career, when certain theological enemies had prevailed in obtaining
a sentence of banishment against him, and the decree, properly drawn
up, was brought to the emperor to sign, the pen which was put into
the emperor's hand broke suddenly into pieces as soon as it touched
the paper. The emperor called for another pen, but on attempting to
use it the same result followed. This was done three times, and at
last, as the emperor seemed determined to persist in his design, his
hand was seized with a sudden and uncontrollable trembling, and the
chair upon which he was sitting broke down, and let him fall upon
the floor. The emperor now perceived that he was contending against
God, and taking up the decree he destroyed it by tearing it in
pieces.

Now the Carmelites maintained that this St. Basil was a monk of
their order, that he was one of the successors of Elijah, that they
had obtained their first written rule of their order from him, and
that the Basilians, an order of monks taking their name from him and
well known throughout Europe in the middle ages, were to be
considered as only a branch, or offshoot, from the ancient Carmelite
institution. Out of this state of things there arose subsequently a
very extraordinary controversy between the Basilians and the
Carmelites as will presently appear.


RULES OF THE ORDER.

The claim of the Carmelites to have received their first written
charter from St. Basil is not very well sustained, as the earliest
authentic evidence of any written rule for the government of the
institution relates to one given them by the patriarch of Jerusalem
in 1205, about thirty years after the time when the monastery was
founded, according to John Phocas's narrative. This "rule," or
charter as it would be called at the present day, consisted of
sixteen articles, and some particulars of it may be interesting to
the reader as illustrating the nature of this species of document.
The first article treats of the election of the prior of the
monastery, and of the obedience which was to be rendered to him by
the other monks. The second treats of the cells in which the
brethren were to live, and prescribes that they should be separated
from each other in such a way that there could be no intercourse or
communication between the respective inmates. The third contains
regulations in respect to the cell of the prior, its situation and
relation to the other cells. The fifth requires the monks to remain
constantly each within his own cell except when called away by
regularly prescribed duties elsewhere, and to devote himself in his
retirement to the work of prayer and meditation. The sixth
prescribes certain regulations in respect to divine service. By the
seventh the monks are forbidden to possess any private property of
any kind. The eighth requires the brethren of the monastery to build
an oratory or place of prayer in some central place, near the cells,
and to assemble there every morning to hear mass. The ninth
prescribes rules for the internal discipline of the institution. The
tenth enjoins certain fast days. The eleventh forbids the use of
flesh for food entirely. The twelfth exhorts the monks to clothe
themselves with certain spiritual armor which it describes. The
thirteenth enjoins upon them to labor with their hands, in
cultivating the fruits of the earth in their little gardens. The
fourteenth enjoins absolute silence upon them, from vespers until
the break of day on the following morning. The fifteenth inculcates
upon them the duty of humility and of devoting themselves to prayer;
and the sixteenth closes the series by exhorting them to be always
obedient and submissive to the prior.


EARLY MONASTIC LIFE.

There is no question that the monastic system of Christian Europe,
established originally by such beginnings as these, led in the end
to evil consequences and results of the most deplorable character,
and we are accustomed, as Protestants, to believe that there is
nothing that is not worthy of unqualified condemnation in it from
beginning to end. But when we dismiss from our minds the ideas and
associations with which the religious history of the last five
hundred years has invested every thing that pertains to monastic
life, and look at such a community as this of Mt. Carmel as it was
in its original inception and design, we shall find it impossible to
ascribe the conduct of those simple-minded recluses to any other
motive than a desire to withdraw themselves from the world, in a
spirit of honest self-denial, in order to live nearer to God, and
enjoy the peace and happiness of daily and uninterrupted communion
with him. And as to the delusion and folly of the course which they
pursued, in order to judge impartially, we must look at the
circumstances of the case as they really were, and see how
effectually, in the arrangements which the hermits made, all the
essential requisites for human comfort and happiness were secured.
The mountain which they chose for their retreat was beautiful beyond
description; the soil was fertile, the air was balmy and pure, and
such was the climate that the season with them was an almost
perpetual summer. They had gardens to till, which produced them an
abundance of fruits and vegetables, and in those climes the human
constitution requires no other food. The grottos in which they lived
were dry, and formed undoubtedly very safe and not uncomfortable
dwellings. They suffered neither heat nor cold, for in Palestine
cold is seldom known, and though the sun is sometimes hot, and the
air sultry, in the valleys, the mountain which they dwelt upon rises
into a region of perpetual salubrity, where there is always an
atmosphere of soft and balmy air reposing in the groves, or
breathing gently over the summit. Besides all these natural
advantages of their situation, their course of daily duty gave them
healthful and agreeable employment. Their hours were systematically
arranged, and their occupations, though varied in kind, were regular
in rotation and order. Thus, on the whole, though there was
doubtless much of superstition and of error in their ideas, still we
are inclined to think that there are some usages and modes of life
not at all monastic in their character--to be witnessed among the
world-following Christians of the present day, in palaces of wealth
and prosperity--which exhibit quite as much delusion and folly as
was ever evinced by these poor world-abandoning monks, in the caves
and grottos of Mt. Carmel.

[Illustration: THE HERMITS OF MOUNT CARMEL.]


THE DISPUTE WITH THE BASILIANS.

A society of monks once established, depends of course for its
continuance and prosperity on external additions, and not on any
internal growth; for since celibacy is the rule of all monastic
orders, there can not be in such communities, as in the case of an
ordinary hamlet or village, any natural sequence of generations. A
man is never born a monk: so that monasticism has at least one of
the marks and characteristics of a monstrosity. It does not
propagate its kind.

Notwithstanding this, however, the institution on Mt. Carmel
gradually increased. Accessions were made from time to time to the
numbers of the monks, until at length the order became so numerous
that several branch institutions were established in different parts
of Europe, and the Carmelites became very generally known throughout
the Christian world. We can not here, however, go away from the
mountain to follow the society in its general history, though we
will digress from our immediate subject so far as to give a brief
account of the singular controversy which arose in subsequent years
between the Carmelites and the Basilians, a controversy which not
only exhibits in a striking point of view some of the peculiar ideas
and religious usages of the times in which it occurred, but
illustrates certain important principles in respect to the nature of
religious controversy, that are applicable to the disputes of every
age. The question in this case related to the costume in which the
prophet Elijah was represented in a certain picture belonging to a
church which the Basilians built near Messina, in the island of
Sicily. The church was built in the year 1670, and the open
controversy arose then; but the origin of it may be traced to a
period antecedent to that time. It seems that in 1080, six hundred
years before the dispute to which we are referring commenced, a
certain Sicilian potentate built a church near Mt. Etna, in honor of
the prophet Elijah, as a token of his gratitude to the prophet for
appearing to him in a visible form at one time when he was involved
in very imminent danger, in his wars with the Saracens, and for
interposing to protect him. He also built a monastery in connection
with the church, and established a society of Basilian monks in it.

It seems that at the time when the church and monastery were built,
a picture of the prophet Elijah was painted and hung in the church,
where it remained without exciting any question, for six hundred
years.

At length at the expiration of that time the buildings of the
establishment having become very old, and being often greatly
damaged, and the lives of the inmates seriously endangered by the
shocks of earthquakes and the volcanic eruptions to which their
situation so near to Mt. Etna exposed them, it was determined to
remove the institution to another place, several miles distant from
its original location, where the ground was more secure. The old
picture of Elijah was however found to be too much decayed to be
removed. A careful copy of it was therefore made, the artist taking
care to transfer, as nearly as possible, to his copy, both the
features and the costume of the original. The following engraving is
a faithful representation of this portrait and of the dress which
became the subject of the dispute, except of course that the colors
are not shown. The shoulders are covered with a cloak which in the
painting was red. Beneath the cloak was a tunic, formed of the skin
of some animal, which descended to the knees. There were sandals on
the feet. There was a sword tipped with flame in the hand, and the
head was covered with a red cap trimmed with ornaments of gold.

[Illustration: THE ELIJAH OF THE BASILIANS.]

This painting in its original state had hung in its place in the old
convent during the whole six hundred years without attracting any
special notice; but when the copy was made and hung up in the new
convent, it became an object of greater attention, and the
Carmelites who saw or heard of it were much displeased with the
costume, inasmuch as it was not the costume of their order. The
painting by exhibiting the prophet in such a dress, seemed to deny
that Elijah had been a Carmelite, and to claim him as belonging to
some other order. They complained to the Basilians of the injustice
done them, and demanded that the obnoxious costume should be
changed. Finding, however, that their complaints and remonstrances
were unavailing, they appealed to the Archbishop of Sicily, praying
him to interpose his authority to redress the injury which they were
suffering, and to compel the Basilians to take down the painting in
question, the display of which was so dishonorable to the ancient
order of Mt. Carmel. The Basilians in reply alleged that the costume
of the portrait was no innovation of theirs, and they were not
responsible for it at all. The work, they said, was a faithful copy
of an ancient painting that had hung for six hundred years,
unquestioned and uncomplained of, in their former monastery, and
that they could not give up the ancient traditions and relics of
their institution; and they were especially unwilling to consent
that the prophet Elijah should be represented in their church in a
Carmelite dress, since that would prejudice the ancient claims of
the Basilian order.


SETTLEMENT OF THE DISPUTE.

[Illustration: THE AUTHORIZED ELIJAH.]

The Archbishop of Sicily, after a long hearing of the parties to
this dispute, refused to interpose, and finally the case was carried
by the Carmelites to Rome, and laid before a certain board of the
Roman church called the College of Rites, a sort of tribunal having
jurisdiction of all questions of this nature that might arise in the
Catholic church, and assume sufficient importance to come before
them. Here the Carmelites brought forward their cause, and offered
their complaints in language more earnest than ever. They
represented in very strong terms the deep dishonor which the
Basilians were inflicting upon them in publicly exhibiting the
prophet Elijah--the patriarch and the father of their order--dressed
in a cloak, and wearing a red cap upon his head, as if he were a
Turkish pashaw. To give force and emphasis to their plea they
exhibited to the sacred college before whom the cause was to be
tried, a representation of the picture, colored like the original,
in order that the judges might see for themselves how flagrant was
the wrong which they endured, and how much cause they had to
complain. After many long and patient hearings of the case before
the college, and many fruitless attempts to find some mode
satisfactory to all parties, for settling the dispute, the college
finally decided upon a middle course, a sort of forced compromise
which gave the victory to neither party. The costume of the painting
was ordered to be changed. The cap was to be taken away from the
head, and the sandals from the feet, and the red cloak was to be
replaced by one of a saffron color. The tunic of skin was to be
retained, and it was to be bound about the waist with a leathern
girdle. A new picture was accordingly painted in accordance with
this decision, as represented in the above engraving. The
controversy occupied ten years; it gave rise to protracted and
voluminous proceedings, and embroiled a great number of partisans
among all ranks and orders of the church: and by comparing the two
engravings the reader will see at a glance the amount of the
difference about which the combatants were contending. It might
excite surprise in our minds that a large section of the Christian
church could thus be engaged for ten years in an earnest, expensive,
and bitter controversy about the costume of a painting, were it not
that we sometimes see examples at the present day, of disputes
equally earnest and protracted, about points smaller and more
shadowy still. It ought, however, in strict justice to be said that
the real questions at issue in disputes about religious rites and
forms, are not usually as insignificant as they seem. Within and
beyond the outward symbol there usually lies some principle of
religious faith, which is, after all, the real object of the
controversy. In this case, for example, the comparative claims to
antiquity and pre-eminence on the part of two powerful religious
orders constituted the real question at issue. The costume of the
painting formed only the accidental battle ground, as it were, on
which the war was waged. It is thus with a great many religious
controversies, where at first view it would seem that the point at
issue is wholly inadequate to account for the degree of interest
taken in the dispute. The explanation is that the apparent question
is not the real one. The outward aspect of the contest seems to
indicate that the combatants are merely disputing about a form,
while they are really contending for a principle that lies concealed
beneath it. They are like soldiers at a siege, who fight on outer
walls, in themselves worthless, to defend homes and fire-sides that
are concealed within, entirely out of view.


DESCENT FROM THE MOUNTAIN.

[Illustration: THE SERPENT.]

But we must return to the mountain, though we return to it only to
come down, for it is time that our visit to it should be ended. In
his excursions around the convent during his stay on the mountain,
the visitor is somewhat restricted in respect to the range that he
can safely take, by fear of the wild beasts that infest the jungles
and thickets that grow densely on the declivities of the mountain,
and around the base of it, especially on the southern side.
Panthers, hyenas, wild boars, and strange serpents, make these
forests their abode, occupying, perhaps, in many cases, the caves
and grottos of the ancient recluses, for their dens. Many tales are
told by the monks of these savage beasts, and of the dangers which
pilgrims and travelers have incurred from them. There is an account
of a child which was found in a certain situation dead, with a
monstrous serpent coiled upon its breast. On examination of the body
no mark of any bite or wound could be perceived, and it was
accordingly supposed that the life of the little sufferer had been
extinguished by the chill of the body of the reptile, or by some
other mysterious and deadly agency, which it had power to exert.
Even the roadway leading up and down the mountain is not always
safe, it would seem, from these dangerous intruders. It is rocky and
solitary, and is bordered every where with gloomy ravines and
chasms, all filled with dense and entangled thickets, in which, and
in the cavernous rocks of which the strata of the mountain are
composed, wild beasts and noxious animals of every kind find a
secure retreat. The monks relate that not many years ago a servant
of the convent, who had been sent down the mountain to Haïfa, to
accompany a traveler, was attacked and seized by a panther on his
return. The panther, however, instead of putting his victim
immediately to death, began to play with him as a cat plays with a
mouse which she has succeeded in making her prey--holding him gently
with her claws, for a time, and then, after drawing back a little,
darting upon him again, as if to repeat and renew the pleasure of
capturing such a prize. This was continued so long, that the cries
of the terrified captive brought to the spot some persons that
chanced to be near, when the panther was terrified in her turn, and
fled into the forests; and then the man was rescued from his
horrible situation unharmed.

[Illustration: THE PANTHER.]

For these and similar reasons, travelers who ascend to the convent
of Mt. Carmel enjoy but little liberty there, but must confine their
explorations in most cases to the buildings of the monks, and to
some of the nearest caves of the ancient recluses. Still the spot is
rendered so attractive by the salubrity of the air, the intrinsic
beauty of the situation, the magnificence of the prospect, and the
kind and attentive demeanor of the monks, that some visitors have
recommended it as a place of permanent resort for those who leave
their homes in the West in pursuit of health, or in search of
retirement and repose. The rule that requires those who have been
guests of the convent more than two weeks to give place to others
more recently arrived, proves in fact to be no serious difficulty.
Some kind of an arrangement can in such cases always be made, though
it is seldom that any occasion arises that requires it. The
quarters, too, though plain and simple, are comfortable and neat,
and although the visitor is somewhat restricted, from causes that
have already been named, in respect to explorations of the mountain
itself, there are many excursions that can be made in the country
below, of a very attractive character. He can visit Haïfa, he can
ride or walk along the beach to Acre; he can go to Nazareth, or
journey down the coast, passing round the western declivity of the
mountain. In these and similar rambles he will find scenes of
continual novelty to attract him, and be surrounded every where with
the forms and usages of Oriental life.


LEAVING MOUNT CARMEL.

The traveler who comes to Mt. Carmel by the way of Nazareth and the
plain of Esdraelon, in going away from it generally passes round the
western declivity of the mountain, and thence proceeds to the south,
by the way of the sea. On reaching the foot of the descent, where
the mountain mule-path comes out into the main road, as shown upon
the map near the commencement of this article, he turns short to the
left, and goes on round the base of the promontory, with the lofty
declivities of the mountain on one hand, and a mass of dense forests
on the other, lying between the road and the shore. As he passes on,
the road, picturesque and romantic from the beginning, becomes
gradually wild, solitary, and desolate. It leads him sometimes
through tangled thickets, sometimes under shelving rocks, and
sometimes it brings him out unexpectedly to the shore of the sea,
where he sees the surf rolling in upon the beach at his feet, and
far over the water the setting sun going down to his rest beneath
the western horizon. At length the twilight gradually disappears,
and as the shades of the evening come on, lights glimmer in the
solitary villages that he passes on his way; but there is no welcome
for him in their beaming. At length when he deems it time to bring
his day's journey to an end, he pitches his tent by the wayside in
some unfrequented spot, and before he retires to rest for the night,
comes out to take one more view of the dark and sombre mountain
which he is about to leave forever. He stands at the door of his
tent, and gazes at it long and earnestly, before he bids it
farewell, equally impressed with the sublime magnificence of its
situation and form, and with the solemn grandeur of its history.


     FOOTNOTES:

     [1] Spelled variously, by different authors, Caïpha, Kaïfa,
     Caiffa, and in other ways.

     [2] The charts, as executed by the engineers, were on a
     still larger scale than is here represented. It was
     necessary to reduce the scale by one-fourth, in order to
     bring the portion to be copied within the limits of a page.

     [3] A striking example of this occurs at Long Branch in New
     Jersey, where a stream crosses the beach in entering the
     sea, at a point about half a mile to the southward of the
     hotels resorted to on that coast in summer by bathers. The
     visitor who walks along the shore in that direction,
     sometimes at a certain point finds himself upon an elevated
     sandy ridge, with the surf of the sea rolling in upon one
     side of it, and what appears to be a large inland pond lying
     quietly on the other. A few days afterward, on visiting the
     spot, he observes, perhaps, that the pond has disappeared;
     and a wide chasm has been made across the ridge of sand that
     he walked over before in safety, through the centre of which
     a small stream is flowing quietly into the sea. Neither of
     these views are of a nature to awaken any very special
     interest, except when they are considered in connection with
     each other: but if the observer should chance to come upon
     the ground when the pond is nearly full, he may witness a
     very extraordinary spectacle in the rushing out of the
     torrent by which the barrier is carried away. The boys of
     the vicinity often find amusement in hastening the
     catastrophe, by digging a little channel in the sand with
     their hands, when the water has risen nearly to the proper
     level. The stream that flows through this opening is at
     first extremely small, but it grows wider, deeper, and more
     rapid every moment, as the opening enlarges, and soon
     becomes a roaring torrent, spreading to a great width, and
     tossing itself into surges and crests as it rushes down the
     slope into the sea, in the most wild and tumultuous manner.

     The spectacle is almost equally imposing when, after the
     pond has emptied itself, and the tide begins to rise, the
     surf of the sea engages in its work of reconstructing the
     dam.

     [4] It is somewhat doubtful whether the very first discovery
     of the art of making glass, took place here or not, as
     learned men have noticed a considerable number of allusions
     in various writings of a very high antiquity, which they
     have thought might possibly refer to this substance. An
     example of this kind is found in the book of Job, where a
     word, translated crystal, is used. The writer, speaking of
     wisdom, says, "It can not be equaled with the gold of Ophir,
     with the precious onyx, or the sapphire. The gold and the
     _crystal_ can not equal it." It has been considered doubtful
     whether the word crystal, in this connection, is meant to
     denote a glass or some transparent mineral.

     [5] See 1 Kings xviii. 17-46. For other passages of
     Scripture referring to Mt. Carmel see 2 Kings ii. 25; iv.
     25; xix. 23. 2 Chron. xxvi. 10. Isa. xxxv. 2. Jer. xlvi. 18.
     Amos i. 2; ix. 3. Micah vii. 14.

     [6] 1 Kings xviii. 4




NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.


FIRST CONSUL FOR LIFE.

France was now at peace with all the world. It was universally
admitted that Napoleon was the great pacificator. He was the idol of
France. The masses of the people in Europe, every where regarded him
as their advocate and friend, the enemy of aristocratic usurpation,
and the great champion of equality. The people of France no longer
demanded _liberty_. Weary years of woe had taught them gladly to
relinquish the boon. They only desired a ruler who would take care
of them, govern them, protect them from the power of allied
despotism, and give them equal rights. Though Napoleon had now but
the title of First Consul, and France was nominally a republic, he
was in reality the most powerful monarch in Europe. His throne was
established in the hearts of nearly forty millions of people. His
word was law.

It will be remembered that Josephine contemplated the extraordinary
grandeur to which her husband had attained, with intense solicitude.
She saw that more than ordinary regal power had passed into his
hands, and she was not a stranger to the intense desire which
animated his heart to have an heir to whom to transmit his name and
his glory. She knew that many were intimating to him that an heir
was essential to the repose of France. She was fully informed that
divorce had been urged upon him as one of the stern necessities of
state. One day, when Napoleon was busy in his cabinet, Josephine
entered softly, by a side door, and seating herself affectionately
upon his knee, and passing her hand gently through his hair, said to
him, with a burst of tenderness, "I entreat you, my friend, do not
make yourself king. It is Lucien who urges you to it. Do not listen
to him." Napoleon smiled upon her kindly, and said, "Why, my poor
Josephine, you are mad. You must not listen to these fables which
the old dowagers tell you. But you interrupt me now; I am very busy;
leave me alone."

It is recorded that Lucien ventured to suggest to Josephine that a
law higher than the law of ordinary morality required that she must
become a mother, even were it necessary, for the attainment of that
end, that she should violate her nuptial vows. Brutalizing and
vulgar infidelity had obliterated in France, nearly all the
sacredness of domestic ties. Josephine, instinctively virtuous, and
revering the religion of her childhood, which her husband had
reinstated, bursting into tears, indignantly exclaimed, "This is
dreadful. Wretched should I be were any one to suppose me capable of
listening, without horror, to your infamous proposal. Your ideas are
poisonous; your language horrible." "Well, then, madame," responded
Lucien, "all that I can say is, that from my heart I pity you."

Josephine was at times almost delirious in apprehension of the awful
calamity which threatened her. She knew the intensity of her
husband's love. She also knew the boundlessness of his ambition.
She could not be blind to the apparent importance, as a matter of
state policy, that Napoleon should possess an heir. She also was
fully aware that throughout France marriage had long been regarded
but as a partnership of convenience, to be formed and sundered
almost at pleasure. "Marriage," said Madame de Stael, "has become
but the sacrament of adultery." The nation, under the influence of
these views, would condemn her for selfishly refusing assent to an
arrangement apparently essential to the repose of France and of
Europe. Never was a woman placed in a situation of more terrible
trial. Never was an ambitious man exposed to a more fiery
temptation. Laying aside the authority of Christianity, and
contemplating the subject in the light of mere expediency, it seemed
a plain duty for Napoleon and Josephine to separate. But gloriously
does it illustrate the immutable truth of God's word, that even in
such an exigence as this, the path which the Bible pointed out was
the only path of safety and of peace. "In separating myself from
Josephine," said Napoleon afterward, "and in marrying Maria Louisa,
I placed my foot upon an abyss which was covered with flowers."

Josephine's daughter, Hortense, beautiful, brilliant, and amiable,
then but eighteen years of age, was strongly attached to Duroc, one
of Napoleon's aids, a very fashionable and handsome man. Josephine,
however, had conceived the idea of marrying Hortense to Louis
Bonaparte, Napoleon's younger brother. She said, one day, to
Bourrienne, "My two brothers-in-law are my determined enemies. You
see all their intrigues. You know how much uneasiness they have
caused me. This projected marriage with Duroc, leaves me without any
support. Duroc, independent of Bonaparte's friendship, is nothing.
He has neither fortune, rank, nor even reputation. He can afford me
no protection against the enmity of the brothers. I must have some
more certain reliance for the future. My husband loves Louis very
much. If I can succeed in uniting my daughter to him, he will prove
a strong counterpoise to the calumnies and persecutions of my
brothers-in-law." These remarks were reported to Napoleon. He
replied, "Josephine labors in vain. Duroc and Hortense love each
other, and they shall be married. I am attached to Duroc. He is well
born. I have given Caroline to Murat, and Pauline to Le Clerc. I can
as well give Hortense to Duroc. He is brave. He is as good as the
others. He is general of division. Besides, I have other views for
Louis."

In the palace the heart may throb with the same joys and griefs as
in the cottage. In anticipation of the projected marriage Duroc was
sent on a special mission to compliment the Emperor Alexander on his
accession to the throne. Duroc wrote often to Hortense while absent.
When the private secretary whispered in her ear, in the midst of the
brilliant throng of the Tuileries, "I have a letter," she would
immediately retire to her apartment. Upon her return her friends
could see that her eyes were moistened with the tears of affection
and joy. Josephine cherished the hope that could she succeed in
uniting Hortense with Louis Bonaparte, should Hortense give birth to
a son, Napoleon would regard him as his heir. The child would bear
the name of Bonaparte; the blood of the Bonapartes would circulate
in his veins; and he would be the offspring of Hortense, whom
Napoleon regarded as his own daughter, and whom he loved with the
strongest parental affection. Thus the terrible divorce might be
averted. Urged by motives so powerful, Josephine left no means
untried to accomplish her purpose.

Louis Bonaparte was a studious, pensive, imaginative man, of great
moral worth, though possessing but little force of character. He had
been bitterly disappointed in his affections, and was weary of the
world. When but nineteen years of age he had formed a very strong
attachment for a young lady whom he had met in Paris. She was the
daughter of an emigrant noble, and his whole being became absorbed
in the passion of love. Napoleon, then in the midst of those
victories which paved his way to the throne of France, was
apprehensive that the alliance of his brother with one of the old
royalist families, might endanger his own ambitious projects. He
therefore sent him away on a military commission, and secured, by
his powerful instrumentality, the marriage of the young lady to
another person. The disappointment preyed deeply upon the heart of
the sensitive young man. All ambition died within him. He loved
solitude, and studiously avoided the cares and pomp of state.
Napoleon, not having been aware of the extreme strength of his
brother's attachment, when he saw the wound which he had inflicted
upon him, endeavored to make all the amends in his power. Hortense
was beautiful, full of grace and vivacity. At last Napoleon fell in
with the views of Josephine, and resolved, having united the two, to
recompense his brother, as far as possible, by lavishing great
favors upon them.

It was long before Louis would listen to the proposition of his
marriage with Hortense. His affections still clung to the lost
object of his idolatry, and he could not, without pain, think of
union with another. Indeed a more uncongenial alliance could hardly
have been imagined. In no one thing were their tastes similar. But
who could resist the combined tact of Josephine and power of
Napoleon. All obstacles were swept away, and the maiden, loving the
hilarity of life, and its gayest scenes of festivity and splendor,
was reluctantly led to the silent, pensive scholar, who as
reluctantly received her as his bride. Hortense had become in some
degree reconciled to the match, as her powerful father promised to
place them in high positions of wealth and rank. Louis resigned
himself to his lot, feeling that earth had no further joy in store
for him. A magnificent _fête_ was given in honor of this marriage,
at which all the splendors of the ancient royalty were revived.
Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, who, as President of the French Republic,
succeeded Louis Philippe, the King of the French, was the only child
of this marriage who survived his parents.

Napoleon had organized in the heart of Italy a republic containing
about five millions of inhabitants. This republic could by no means
maintain itself against the monarchies of Europe, unaided by France.
Napoleon, surrounded by hostile kings, deemed it essential to the
safety of France, to secure in Italy a nation of congenial
sympathies and interests, with whom he could form the alliance
of cordial friendship. The Italians, all inexperienced in
self-government, regarding Napoleon as their benefactor and their
sole supporter, looked to him for a constitution. Three of the most
influential men of the Cisalpine Republic, were sent as delegates to
Paris, to consult with the First Consul upon the organization of
their government. Under the direction of Napoleon a constitution was
drafted, which, considering the character of the Italian people, and
the hostile monarchical influences which surrounded them, was most
highly liberal. A President and Vice-president were to be chosen for
ten years. There was to be a Senate of eight members and a House of
Representatives of seventy-five members. These were all to be
selected from a body composed of 300 landed proprietors, 200
merchants, and 200 of the clergy and prominent literary men. Thus
all the important interests of the state were represented.

In Italy, as in all the other countries of Europe at that time,
there were three prominent parties. The Loyalists sought the
restoration of monarchy and the exclusive privileges of kings and
nobles. The Moderate Republicans wished to establish a firm
government, which would enforce order and confer upon all equal
rights. The Jacobins wished to break down all distinctions, divide
property, and to govern by the blind energies of the mob. Italy had
long been held in subjection by the spiritual terrors of the priests
and by the bayonets of the Austrians. Ages of bondage had enervated
the people and there were no Italian statesmen capable of taking the
helm of government in such a turbulent sea of troubles. Napoleon
resolved to have himself proposed as President, and then reserving
to himself the supreme direction, to delegate the details of affairs
to distinguished Italians, until they should, in some degree, be
trained to duties so new to them. Says Thiers, "This plan was not,
on his part, the inspiration of ambition, but rather of great good
sense. His views on this occasion were unquestionably both pure and
exalted." But nothing can more strikingly show the almost miraculous
energies of Napoleon's mind, and his perfect self-reliance, than the
readiness with which, in addition to the cares of the Empire of
France, he assumed the responsibility of organizing and developing
another nation of five millions of inhabitants. This was in 1802.
Napoleon was then but thirty-three years of age.

To have surrendered those Italians, who had rallied around the
armies of France in their hour of need, again to Austrian
domination, would have been an act of treachery. To have abandoned
them, in their inexperience, to the Jacobin mob on the one hand, and
to royalist intrigues on the other, would have insured the ruin of
the Republic. But by leaving the details of government to be
administered by Italians, and at the same time sustaining the
constitution by his own powerful hand, there was a probability that
the republic might attain prosperity and independence. As the press
of business rendered it extremely difficult for Napoleon to leave
France, a plan was formed for a vast congress of the Italians, to be
assembled in Lyons, about half way between Paris and Milan, for the
imposing adoption of the republican constitution. Four hundred and
fifty-two deputies were elected to cross the frozen Alps, in the
month of December. The extraordinary watchfulness and foresight of
the First Consul, had prepared every comfort for them on the way. In
Lyons sumptuous preparations were made for their entertainment.
Magnificent halls were decorated in the highest style of earthly
splendor for the solemnities of the occasion. The army of Egypt,
which had recently landed, bronzed by an African sun, was gorgeously
attired to add to the magnificence of the spectacle. The Lyonese
youth, exultant with pride, were formed into an imposing body of
cavalry. On the 11th of January, 1802, Napoleon, accompanied by
Josephine, arrived in Lyons. The whole population of the adjoining
country had assembled along the road, anxiously watching for his
passage. At night immense fires illumined his path, blazing upon
every hill side and in every valley. One continuous shout of "Live
Bonaparte," rolled along with the carriage from Paris to Lyons. It
was late in the evening when Napoleon arrived in Lyons. The
brilliant city flamed with the splendor of noon-day. The carriage of
the First Consul passed under a triumphal arch, surmounted by a
sleeping lion, the emblem of France, and Napoleon took up his
residence in the Hotel de Ville, which, in most princely
sumptuousness had been decorated for his reception. The Italians
adored Napoleon. They felt personally ennobled by his renown, for
they considered him their countryman. The Italian language was his
native tongue, and he spoke it with the most perfect fluency and
elegance. The moment that the name of Napoleon was suggested to the
deputies as President of the Republic, it was received with shouts
of enthusiastic acclamation. A deputation was immediately sent to
the First Consul to express the unanimous and cordial wish of the
convention that he would accept the office. While these things were
transpiring, Napoleon, ever intensely occupied, was inspecting his
veteran soldiers of Italy and of Egypt, in a public review. The
elements seemed to conspire to invest the occasion with splendor.
The day was cloudless, the sun brilliant, the sky serene, the air
invigorating. All the inhabitants of Lyons and the populace of the
adjacent country thronged the streets. No pen can describe the
transports with which the hero was received, as he rode along the
lines of these veterans, whom he had so often led to victory. The
soldiers shouted in a frenzy of enthusiasm. Old men, and young men,
and boys caught the shout and it reverberated along the streets in
one continuous roar. Matrons and maidens, waving banners and
handkerchiefs, wept in excess of emotion. Bouquets of flowers were
showered from the windows, to carpet his path, and every conceivable
demonstration was made of the most enthusiastic love. Napoleon
himself was deeply moved by the scene. Some of the old grenadiers,
whom he recognized, he called out of the ranks, kindly talked with
them, inquiring respecting their wounds and their wants. He
addressed several of the officers, whom he had seen in many
encounters, shook hands with them, and a delirium of excitement
pervaded all minds. Upon his return to the Hotel de Ville, he met
the deputation of the convention. They presented him the address,
urging upon him the acceptance of the Presidency of the Cisalpine
Republic. Napoleon received the address, intimated his acceptance,
and promised, on the following day, to meet the convention.

[Illustration: REVIEW AT LYONS.]

The next morning dawned brightly upon the city. A large church,
embellished with richest drapery, was prepared for the solemnities
of the occasion. Napoleon entered the church, took his seat upon an
elevated platform, surrounded by his family, the French ministers,
and a large number of distinguished generals and statesmen. He
addressed the assembly in the Italian language, with as much ease of
manner, elegance of expression, and fluency of utterance as if his
whole life had been devoted to the cultivation of the powers of
oratory. He announced his acceptance of the dignity with which they
would invest him, and uttered his views respecting the measures
which should be adopted to secure the prosperity of the _Italian
Republic_, as the new state was henceforth to be called. Repeated
bursts of applause interrupted his address, and at its close one
continuous shout of acclamation testified the assent and the delight
of the assembled multitude. Napoleon remained at Lyons twenty days,
occupied, apparently every moment, with the vast affairs which then
engrossed his attention. And yet he found time to write daily to
Paris, urging forward the majestic enterprises of the new government
in France. The following brief extracts, from this free and
confidential correspondence, afford an interesting glimpse of the
motives which actuated Napoleon at this time, and of the great
objects of his ambition.

"I am proceeding slowly in my operations. I pass the whole of my
mornings in giving audience to the deputations of the neighboring
departments. The improvement in the happiness of France is obvious.
During the past two years the population of Lyons has increased more
than 20,000 souls. All the manufacturers tell me that their works
are in a state of high activity. All minds seem to be full of
energy, not that energy which overturns empires, but that which
re-establishes them, and conducts them to prosperity and riches."

"I beg of you particularly to see that the unruly members, whom we
have in the constituted authorities, are every one of them removed.
The wish of the nation is, that the government shall not be
obstructed in its endeavors to act for the public good, and that the
head of Medusa shall no longer show itself, either in our tribunes
or in our assemblies. The conduct of Sieyes, on this occasion,
completely proves that, having contributed to the destruction of all
the constitutions since '91, he wishes now to try his hand against
the present. He ought to burn a wax candle to Our Lady, for having
got out of the scrape so fortunately and in so unexpected a manner.
But the older I grow, the more I perceive that each man must fulfill
his destiny. I recommend you to ascertain whether the provisions for
St. Domingo have actually been sent off. I take it for granted that
you have taken proper measures for demolishing the Châtelet. If the
Minister of Marine should stand in need of the frigates of the King
of Naples, he may make use of them. General Jourdan gives me a
satisfactory account of the state of Piedmont."

"I wish that citizen Royer be sent to the 16th military division, to
examine into the accounts of the paymaster. I also wish some
individual, like citizen Royer, to perform the same duty for the
13th and 14th divisions. It is complained that the receivers keep
the money as long as they can, and that the paymasters postpone
payment as long as possible. The paymasters and the receivers are
the greatest nuisance in the state."

"Yesterday I visited several factories. I was pleased with the
industry and the severe economy which pervaded these establishments.
Should the wintry weather continue severe, I do not think that the
$25,000 a month, which the Minister of the Interior grants for the
purposes of charity, will be sufficient. It will be necessary to add
five thousand dollars for the distribution of wood, and also to
light fires in the churches and other large buildings to give warmth
to a great number of people."

Napoleon arrived in Paris on the 31st of January. In the mean time,
there had been a new election of members of the Tribunate and of the
Legislative body. All those who had manifested any opposition to the
measures of Napoleon, in the re-establishment of Christianity, and
in the adoption of the new civil code, were left out, and their
places supplied by those who approved of the measures of the First
Consul. Napoleon could now act unembarrassed. In every quarter there
was submission. All the officers of the state, immediately upon his
return, sought an audience, and, in that pomp of language which his
majestic deeds and character inspired, presented to him their
congratulations. He was already a sovereign, in possession of regal
power, such as no other monarch in Europe enjoyed. Upon one object
all the energies of his mighty mind were concentrated. France was
his estate, his diadem, his all. The glory of France was his glory,
the happiness of France his happiness, the riches of France his
wealth. Never did a father with more untiring self-denial and toil
labor for his family, than did Napoleon through days of Herculean
exertion and nights of sleeplessness devote every energy of body and
soul to the greatness of France. He loved not ease, he loved not
personal indulgence, he loved not sensual gratification. The
elevation of France to prosperity, wealth, and power, was a
limitless ambition. The almost supernatural success which had thus
far attended his exertions, did but magnify his desires and
stimulate his hopes. He had no wish to elevate France upon the ruins
of other nations. But he wished to make France the pattern of all
excellence, the illustrious leader, at the head of all nations,
guiding them to intelligence, to opulence, and to happiness. Such,
at this time, was the towering ambition of Napoleon, the most noble
and comprehensive which was ever embraced by the conception of man.
Of course, such ambition was not consistent with the equality of
other nations, for he determined that France should be the first.
But he manifested no disposition to destroy the prosperity of
others; he only wished to give such an impulse to humanity in
France, by the culture of mind, by purity of morals, by domestic
industry, by foreign commerce, by great national works, as to place
France in the advance upon the race course of greatness. In this
race France had but one antagonist--England. France had nearly forty
millions of inhabitants. The island of Great Britain contained but
about fifteen millions. But England, with her colonies, girdled the
globe, and, with her fleets, commanded all seas. "France," said
Napoleon, "must also have her colonies and her fleets." "If we
permit that," the statesmen of England rejoined, "we may become a
secondary power, and may thus be at the mercy of France." It was
undeniably so. Shall history be blind to such fatality as this? Is
man, in the hour of triumphant ambition, so moderate, that we can be
willing that he should attain power which places us at his mercy?
England was omnipotent upon the seas. She became arrogant, and
abused that power, and made herself offensive to all nations.
Napoleon developed no special meekness of character to indicate that
he would be, in the pride of strength which no nation could resist,
more moderate and conciliating. Candor can not censure England for
being unwilling to yield her high position--to surrender her
supremacy on the seas--to become a secondary power--to allow France
to become her master. And who can censure France for seeking the
establishment of colonies, the extension of commerce, friendly
alliance with other nations, and the creation of fleets to protect
her from aggression upon the ocean, as well as upon the land?
Napoleon himself, with that wonderful magnanimity which ever
characterized him, though at times exasperated by the hostility
which he now encountered, yet often spoke in terms of respect of the
influences which animated his foes. It is to be regretted that his
antagonists so seldom reciprocated this magnanimity. There was here,
most certainly, a right and a wrong. But it is not easy for man
accurately to adjust the balance. God alone can award the issue.
The mind is saddened as it wanders amid the labyrinths of
conscientiousness and of passion, of pure motives and of impure
ambition. This is, indeed, a fallen world. The drama of nations is a
tragedy. Melancholy is the lot of man.

England daily witnessed, with increasing alarm, the rapid and
enormous strides which France was making. The energy of the First
Consul seemed superhuman. His acts indicated the most profound
sagacity, the most far-reaching foresight. To-day the news reaches
London that Napoleon has been elected President of the Italian
Republic. Thus in an hour five millions of people are added to his
empire! To-morrow it is announced that he is establishing a colony
at Elba, that a vast expedition is sailing for St. Domingo, to
re-organize the colony there. England is bewildered. Again it is
proclaimed that Napoleon has purchased Louisiana of Spain, and is
preparing to fill the fertile valley of the Mississippi with
colonists. In the mean time, all France is in a state of activity.
Factories, roads, bridges, canals, fortifications are every where
springing into existence. The sound of the ship hammer reverberates
in all the harbors of France, and every month witnesses the increase
of the French fleet. The mass of the English people contemplate with
admiration this development of energy. The statesmen of England
contemplate it with dread.

For some months, Napoleon, in the midst of all his other cares, had
been maturing a vast system of public instruction for the youth of
France. He drew up, with his own hand, the plan for their schools,
and proposed the course of study. It is a little singular that, with
his strong scientific predilections, he should have assigned the
first rank to classical studies. Perhaps this is to be accounted for
from his profound admiration of the heroes of antiquity. His own
mind was most thoroughly stored with all the treasures of Greek and
Roman story. All these schools were formed upon a military model,
for, situated as France was, in the midst of monarchies, at heart
hostile, he deemed it necessary that the nation should be
universally trained to bear arms. Religious instruction was to be
communicated in all these schools by chaplains, military instruction
by old officers who had left the army, and classical and scientific
instruction by the most learned men Europe could furnish. The First
Consul also devoted special attention to female schools. "France
needs nothing so much to promote her regeneration," said he, "as
good mothers." To attract the youth of France to these schools, one
million of dollars was appropriated for over six thousand gratuitous
exhibitions for the pupils. Ten schools of law were established,
nine schools of medicine, and an institution for the mechanical
arts, called the "School of Bridges and Roads," the first model of
those schools of art which continue in France until the present day,
and which are deemed invaluable. There were no exclusive privileges
in these institutions. A system of perfect equality pervaded them.
The pupils of all classes were placed upon a level, with an
unobstructed arena before them. "This is only a commencement," said
Napoleon, "by-and-by we shall do more and better."

Another project which Napoleon now introduced was vehemently
opposed--the establishment of the Legion of Honor. One of the
leading principles of the revolution was the entire overthrow of all
titles of distinction. Every man, high or low, was to be addressed
simply as _Citizen_. Napoleon wished to introduce a system of
rewards which should stimulate to heroic deeds, and which should
ennoble those who had deserved well of humanity. Innumerable
foreigners of distinction had thronged France since the peace. He
had observed with what eagerness the populace had followed these
foreigners, gazing with delight upon their gay decorations. The
court-yard of the Tuileries was ever crowded when these illustrious
strangers arrived and departed. Napoleon, in his council, where he
was always eloquent and powerful, thus urged his views:

"Look at these vanities, which genius pretends so much to disdain.
The populace is not of that opinion. It loves these many-colored
ribbons, as it loves religious pomp. The democrat philosopher calls
it vanity. Vanity let it be. But that vanity is a weakness common to
the whole human race, and great virtues may be made to spring from
it. With these so much despised baubles heroes are made. There must
be worship for the religious sentiment. There must be visible
distinctions for the noble sentiment of glory. Nations should not
strive to be singular any more than individuals. The affectation of
acting differently from the rest of the world, is an affectation
which is reproved by all persons of sense and modesty. Ribbons are
in use in all countries. Let them be in use in France. It will be
one more friendly relation established with Europe. Our neighbors
give them only to the man of noble birth. I will give them to the
man of merit--to the one who shall have served best in the army or
in the state, or who shall have produced the finest works."

It was objected that the institution of the Legion of Honor was a
return to the aristocracy which the revolution had abolished. "What
is there aristocratic," Napoleon exclaimed, "in a distinction purely
personal, and merely for life, bestowed on the man who has displayed
merit, whether civil or military--bestowed on him alone, bestowed
for his life only, and not passing to his children. Such a
distinction is the reverse of aristocratic. It is the essence of
aristocracy that its titles are transmitted from the man who has
earned them, to the son who possesses no merit. The ancient regimé,
so battered by the ram of the revolution, is more entire than is
believed. All the emigrants hold each other by the hand. The
Vendeeans are secretly enrolled. The priests, at heart, are not very
friendly to us. With the words 'legitimate king,' thousands might be
roused to arms. It is needful that the men who have taken part in
the revolution should have a bond of union, and cease to depend on
the first accident which might strike one single head. For ten years
we have only been making ruins. We must now found an edifice. Depend
upon it, the struggle is not over with Europe. Be assured that
struggle will begin again."

It was then urged by some, that the Legion of Honor should be
confined entirely to military merit. "By no means," said Napoleon,
"Rewards are not to be conferred upon soldiers alone. All sorts of
merit are brothers. The courage of the President of the Convention,
resisting the populace, should be compared with the courage of
Kleber, mounting to the assault of Acre. It is right that civil
virtues should have their reward, as well as military virtues. Those
who oppose this course, reason like barbarians. It is the religion
of brute force they commend to us. Intelligence has its rights
before those of force. Force, without intelligence, is nothing. In
barbarous ages, the man of stoutest sinews was the chieftain. Now
the general is the most intelligent of the brave. At Cairo, the
Egyptians could not comprehend how it was that Kleber, with his
majestic form, was not commander-in-chief. When Mourad Bey had
carefully observed our tactics, he could comprehend how it was that
I, and no other, ought to be the general of an army so conducted.
You reason like the Egyptians, when you attempt to confine rewards
to military valor. The soldiers reason better than you. Go to their
bivouacs; listen to them. Do you imagine that it is the tallest of
their officers, and the most imposing by his stature, for whom they
feel the highest regard? Do you imagine even that the bravest stands
first in their esteem? No doubt they would despise the man whose
courage they suspected; but they rank above the merely brave man him
whom they consider the most intelligent. As for myself, do you
suppose that it is solely because I am reputed a great general that
I rule France? No! It is because the qualities of a statesman and a
magistrate are attributed to me. France will never tolerate the
government of the sword. Those who think so are strangely mistaken.
It would require an abject servitude of fifty years before that
could be the case. France is too noble, too intelligent a country to
submit to material power. Let us honor intelligence, virtue, the
civil qualities; in short, let us bestow upon them, in all
professions, the like reward."

The true spirit of republicanism is certainly equality of rights,
not of attainments and honors; the abolition of hereditary
distinctions and privileges, not of those which are founded upon
merit. The badge of the Legion of Honor was to be conferred upon all
who, by genius, self-denial, and toil, had won renown. The prizes
were open to the humblest peasant in the land. Still the popular
hostility to any institution which bore a resemblance to the
aristocracy of the ancient nobility was so strong, that though a
majority voted in favor of the measure, there was a strong
opposition. Napoleon was surprised. He said to Bourrienne: "You are
right. Prejudices are still against me. I ought to have waited.
There was no occasion for haste in bringing it forward. But the
thing is done; and you will soon find that the taste for these
distinctions is not yet gone by. It is a taste which belongs to the
nature of man. You will see that extraordinary results will arise
from it."

The order was to consist of six thousand members. It was constituted
in four ranks: grand officers, commanders, officers, and private
legionaries. The badge was simply a red ribbon, in the button-hole.
To the first rank, there was allotted an annual salary of $1000; to
the second, $400; to the third, $200; to the fourth, $50. The
private soldier, the retired scholar, and the skillful artist were
thus decorated with the same badge of distinction which figured upon
the breasts of generals, nobles, and monarchs. That this institution
was peculiarly adapted to the state of France, is evident from the
fact, that it has survived all the revolutions of subsequent years.
"Though of such recent origin," says Thiers, "it is already
consecrated as if it had passed through centuries; to such a degree
has it become the recompense of heroism, of knowledge, of merit of
every kind--so much have its honors been coveted by the grandees and
the princes of Europe the most proud of their origin."

The popularity of Napoleon was now unbounded. A very general and
earnest disposition was expressed to confer upon the First Consul a
magnificent testimonial of the national gratitude--a testimonial
worthy of the illustrious man who was to receive it, and of the
powerful nation by which it was to be bestowed. The President of the
Tribunal thus addressed that body: "Among all nations public honors
have been decreed to men who, by splendid actions, have honored
their country, and saved it from great dangers. What man ever had
stronger claims to the national gratitude than General Bonaparte?
His valor and genius have saved the French people from the excesses
of anarchy, and from the miseries of war; and France is too great,
too magnanimous to leave such benefits without reward."

A deputation was immediately chosen to confer with Napoleon upon the
subject of the tribute of gratitude and affection which he should
receive. Surrounded by his colleagues and the principal officers of
the state, he received them the next day in the Tuileries. With
seriousness and modesty he listened to the high eulogium upon his
achievements which was pronounced, and then replied: "I receive
with sincere gratitude the wish expressed by the Tribunate. I desire
no other glory than that of having completely performed the task
imposed upon me. I aspire to no other reward than the affection of
my fellow-citizens. I shall be happy if they are thoroughly
convinced, that the evils which they may experience, will always be
to me the severest of misfortunes; that life is dear to me solely
for the services which I am able to render to my country; that death
itself will have no bitterness for me, if my last looks can see the
happiness of the republic as firmly secured as is its glory."

[Illustration: RECEPTION AT THE TUILERIES.]

But how was Napoleon to be rewarded? That was the great and
difficult question. Was wealth to be conferred upon him? For wealth
he cared nothing. Millions had been at his disposal, and he had
emptied them all into the treasury of France. Ease, luxury,
self-indulgence had no charms for him. Were monuments to be reared
to his honor, titles to be lavished upon his name? Napoleon regarded
these but as means for the accomplishment of ends. In themselves
they were nothing. The one only thing which he desired was _power_,
power to work out vast results for others, and thus to secure for
himself renown, which should be pure and imperishable. But how could
the _power_ of Napoleon be increased? He was already almost
absolute. Whatever he willed, he accomplished. Senators,
legislators, and tribunes all co-operated in giving energy to his
plans. It will be remembered, that Napoleon was elected First Consul
for a period of ten years. It seemed that there was absolutely
nothing which could be done, gratifying to the First Consul, but to
prolong the term of his Consulship, by either adding to it another
period of ten years, or by continuing it during his life. "What does
he wish?" was the universal inquiry. Every possible means were
tried, but in vain, to obtain a single word from his lips,
significant of his desires. One of the senators went to Cambaceres,
and said, "What would be gratifying to General Bonaparte? Does he
wish to be king? Only let him say so, and we are all ready to vote
for the re-establishment of royalty. Most willingly will we do it
for him, for he is worthy of that station." But the First Consul
shut himself up in impenetrable reserve. Even his most intimate
friends could catch no glimpse of his secret wishes. At last the
question was plainly and earnestly put to him. With great apparent
humility, he replied: "I have not fixed my mind upon any thing. Any
testimony of the public confidence will be sufficient for me, and
will fill me with satisfaction." The question was then discussed
whether to add ten years to his Consulship, or to make him First
Consul for life. Cambaceres knew well the boundless ambition of
Napoleon, and was fully conscious, that any limited period of power
would not be in accordance with his plans. He ventured to say to
him; "You are wrong not to explain yourself. Your enemies, for
notwithstanding your services, you have some left even in the
Senate, will abuse your reserve." Napoleon calmly replied: "Let them
alone. The majority of the Senate is always ready to do more than it
is asked. They will go further than you imagine."

On the evening of the 8th of May, 1802, the resolution was adopted,
of prolonging the powers of the First Consul for _ten years_.
Napoleon was probably surprised and disappointed. He, however,
decided to return a grateful answer, and to say that not from the
Senate, but from the suffrages of the people alone could he accept a
prolongation of that power to which their voices had elevated him.
The following answer was transmitted to the Senate, the next
morning:

"The honorable proof of your esteem, given in your deliberation of
the 8th, will remain forever engraven on my heart. In the three
years which have just elapsed fortune has smiled upon the republic.
But fortune is fickle. How many men whom she has loaded with favors,
have lived a few years too long. The interest of my glory and that
of my happiness, would seem to have marked the term of my public
life, at the moment when the peace of the world is proclaimed. But
the glory and the happiness of the citizen ought to be silent, when
the interest of the state, and the public partiality, call him. You
judge that I owe a new sacrifice to the people. I will make it, if
the wishes of the people command what your suffrage authorizes."

[Illustration: MALMAISON.]

Napoleon immediately left Paris for his country-seat at Malmaison.
This beautiful chateau was about ten miles from the metropolis.
Josephine had purchased the peaceful, rural retreat at Napoleon's
request, during his first Italian campaign. Subsequently, large sums
had been expended in enlarging and improving the grounds; and it was
ever the favorite residence of both Napoleon and Josephine.
Cambaceres called an extraordinary meeting of the Council of State.
After much deliberation, it was resolved, by an immense majority,
that the following proposition should be submitted to the people:
"Shall Napoleon Bonaparte be First Consul for life?" It was then
resolved to submit a second question: "Shall the First Consul have
the power of appointing his successor?" This was indeed
re-establishing monarchy, under a republican name.

Cambaceres immediately repaired to Malmaison, to submit these
resolutions to Napoleon. To the amazement of all, he immediately and
firmly rejected the second question. Energetically, he said: "Whom
would you have me appoint my successor? My brothers? But will
France, which has consented to be governed by me, consent to be
governed by Joseph or Lucien? Shall I nominate you consul,
Cambaceres? You? Dare you undertake such a task? And then the will
of Louis XIV. was not respected; is it likely that mine would be? A
dead man, let him be who he will, is nobody." In opposition to all
urgency, he ordered the second question to be erased, and the first
only to be submitted to the people. It is impossible to divine the
motive which influenced Napoleon in this most unexpected decision.
Some have supposed that even then he had in view the Empire and the
hereditary monarchy, and that he wished to leave a chasm in the
organization of the government, as a reason for future change.
Others have supposed that he dreaded the rivalries which would arise
among his brothers and his nephews, from his having at his disposal
so resplendent a gift as the Empire of France. But the historian
treads upon dangerous ground, when he begins to judge of motives.
That which Napoleon actually _did_ was moderate and noble in the
highest degree. He declined the power of appointing his successor,
and submitted his election to the suffrages of the people. A
majority of 3,568,885 voted for the Consulate for life, and only
eight thousands and a few hundreds, against it. Never before, or
since, was an earthly government established by such unanimity.
Never had a monarch a more indisputable title to his throne. Upon
this occasion Lafayette added to his vote these qualifying words: "I
can not vote for such a magistracy, until public freedom is
sufficiently guaranteed. When that is done, I give my voice to
Napoleon Bonaparte." In a private conversation with the First
Consul, he added: "A free government, and you at its head--that
comprehends all my desires." Napoleon remarked: "In theory Lafayette
is perhaps right. But what is theory? A mere dream, when applied to
the masses of mankind. He thinks he is still in the United
States--as if the French were Americans. He has no conception of
what is required for this country."

A day was fixed for a grand diplomatic festival, when Napoleon
should receive the congratulations of the constituted authorities,
and of the foreign embassadors. The soldiers, in brilliant uniform,
formed a double line, from the Tuileries to the Luxembourg. The
First Consul was seated in a magnificent chariot, drawn by eight
horses. A cortège of gorgeous splendor accompanied him. All Paris
thronged the streets through which he passed, and the most
enthusiastic applause rent the heavens. To the congratulatory
address of the Senate, Napoleon replied: "The life of a citizen
belongs to his country. The French nation wishes that mine should be
wholly consecrated to France. I obey its will. Through my efforts,
by your assistance, citizen-senators, by the aid of the authorities,
and by the confidence and support of this mighty people, the
liberty, equality, and prosperity of France will be rendered secure
against the caprices of fate, and the uncertainty of futurity. The
most virtuous of nations will be the most happy, as it deserves to
be; and its felicity will contribute to the general happiness of all
Europe. Proud then of being thus called, by the command of that
Power from which every thing emanates, to bring back order, justice,
and equality to the earth, when my last hour approaches, I shall
yield myself up with resignation, and, without any solicitude
respecting the opinions of future generations."

[Illustration: ELECTION FOR CONSUL FOR LIFE.]

On the following day the new articles, modifying the constitution in
accordance with the change in the consulship, were submitted to the
Council of State. The First Consul presided, and with his accustomed
vigor and perspicuity, explained the reasons of each article, as he
recounted them one by one. The articles contained the provision that
Napoleon should nominate his successor to the Senate. To this, after
a slight resistance, he yielded. The most profound satisfaction now
pervaded France. Even Josephine began to be tranquil and happy. She
imagined that all thoughts of royalty and of hereditary succession
had now passed away. She contemplated with no uneasiness the power
which Napoleon possessed of choosing his successor. Napoleon
sympathized cordially with her in her high gratification that
Hortense was soon to become a mother. This child was already, in
their hearts, the selected heir to the power of Napoleon. On the
15th of August, Paris magnificently celebrated the anniversary of
the birth-day of the First Consul. This was another introduction of
monarchical usages. All the high authorities of the Church and the
State, and the foreign diplomatic bodies, called upon him with
congratulations. At noon, in all the churches of the metropolis, a
_Te Deum_ was sung, in gratitude to God for the gift of Napoleon. At
night the city blazed with illuminations. The splendors and the
etiquette of royalty were now rapidly introduced; and the same
fickle populace who had so recently trampled princes and thrones
into blood and ruin, were now captivated with the reintroduction of
these discarded splendors. Napoleon soon established himself in the
beautiful chateau of St. Cloud, which he had caused to be repaired
with great magnificence. On the Sabbath the First Consul, with
Josephine, invariably attended divine service. Their example was
soon followed by most of the members of the court, and the nation as
a body returned to Christianity, which, even in its most corrupt
form, saves humanity from those abysses of degradation into which
infidelity plunges it. Immediately after divine service he conversed
in the gallery of the chateau with the visitors who were then
waiting for him. The brilliance of his intellect, and his high
renown, caused him to be approached with emotions of awe. His words
were listened to with intensest eagerness. He was the exclusive
object of observation and attention. No earthly potentate had ever
attained such a degree of homage, pure and sincere, as now circled
around the First Consul.

Napoleon was very desirous of having his court a model of decorum
and of morals. Lucien owned a beautiful rural mansion near Neuilly.
Upon one occasion he invited Napoleon, and all the inmates of
Malmaison, to attend some private theatricals at his dwelling.
Lucien and Eliza were the performers in a piece called Alzire. The
ardor of their declamation, the freedom of their gestures, and above
all the indelicacy of the costume which they assumed, displeased
Napoleon exceedingly. As soon as the play was over he exclaimed, "It
is a scandal. I ought not to suffer such indecencies. I will give
Lucien to understand that I will have no more of it." As soon as
Lucien entered the saloon, having resumed his usual dress, Napoleon
addressed him before the whole company, and requested him in future
to desist from all such representations. "What!" said he, "when I am
endeavoring to restore purity of manners, my brother and sister must
needs exhibit themselves upon a platform, almost in a state of
nudity! It is an insult!"

One day at this time Bourrienne, going from Malmaison to Ruel, lost
a beautiful watch. He proclaimed his loss by means of the bellman at
Ruel. An hour after, as he was sitting down to dinner, a peasant boy
brought him the watch, which he had found on the road. Napoleon
heard of the occurrence. Immediately he instituted inquiries
respecting the young man and the family. Hearing a good report of
them, he gave the three brothers employment, and amply rewarded the
honest lad. "Kindness," says Bourrienne, "was a very prominent trait
in the character of Napoleon."

If we now take a brief review of what Napoleon had accomplished
since his return from Egypt, it must be admitted that the records of
the world are to be searched in vain for a similar recital. No
mortal man before ever accomplished so much, or accomplished it so
well, in so short a time.

Let us for a moment return to his landing at Frejus on the 8th of
October, 1799, until he was chosen First Consul for life, in August,
1802, a period of not quite three years. Proceeding to Paris, almost
alone, he overthrew the Directory, and seized the supreme power;
restored order into the administration of government, established a
new and very efficient system for the collection of taxes, raised
public credit, and supplied the wants of the suffering army. By
great energy and humanity he immediately terminated the horrors of
that unnatural war which had for years been desolating La Vendee.
Condescending to the attitude of suppliant, he implored of Europe
peace. Europe chose war. By a majestic conception of military
combinations, he sent Moreau with a vast army to the Rhine;
stimulated Massena to the most desperate strife at Genoa, and then,
creating as by magic, an army, from materials which excited but the
ridicule of his foes, he climbed, with artillery and horse, and all
the munitions of war, the icy pinnacles of the Alps, and fell like
an avalanche upon his foes upon the plain of Marengo. With far
inferior numbers, he snatched the victory from the victors; and in
the exultant hour of the most signal conquest, wrote again from the
field of blood imploring peace. His foes, humbled, and at his mercy,
gladly availed themselves of his clemency, and promised to treat.
Perfidiously, they only sought time to regain their strength. He
then sent Moreau to Hohenlinden, and beneath the walls of Vienna
extorted peace with continental Europe. England still prosecuted the
war. The First Consul, by his genius, won the heart of Paul of
Russia, secured the affection of Prussia, Denmark, and Sweden, and
formed a league of all Europe against the Mistress of the Seas.
While engaged in this work, he paid the creditors of the State,
established the Bank of France, overwhelmed the highway robbers with
utter destruction, and restored security in all the provinces; cut
magnificent communications over the Alps, founded hospitals on their
summits, surrounded exposed cities with fortifications, opened
canals, constructed bridges, created magnificent roads, and
commenced the compilation of that civil code which will remain an
ever-during monument of his labors and his genius. In opposition to
the remonstrances of his best friends, he re-established
Christianity, and with it proclaimed perfect liberty of conscience.
Public works were every where established, to encourage industry.
Schools and colleges were founded. Merit of every kind was
stimulated by abundant rewards. Vast improvements were made in
Paris, and the streets cleaned and irrigated. In the midst of all
these cares, he was defending France against the assaults of the
most powerful nation on the globe; and he was preparing, as his last
resort, a vast army, to carry the war into the heart of England.
Notwithstanding the most atrocious libels with which England was
filled against him, his fame shone resplendent through them all, and
he was popular with the English people. Many of the most illustrious
of the English statesmen advocated his cause. His gigantic
adversary, William Pitt, vanquished by the genius of Napoleon, was
compelled to retire from the ministry--and the world was at peace.

The difficulties, perplexities, embarrassments which were
encountered in these enterprises were infinite. Says Napoleon, with
that magnanimity which history should recognize and applaud, "We are
told that all the First Consul had to look to, was to do justice.
But to whom was he to do justice? To the proprietors whom the
revolution had violently despoiled of their properties, for this
only, that they had been faithful to their legitimate sovereign and
to the principle of honor which they had inherited from their
ancestors; or to those new proprietors, who had purchased these
domains, adventuring their money on the faith of laws flowing from
an illegitimate authority? Was he to do justice to those royalist
soldiers, mutilated in the fields of Germany, La Vendee, and
Quiberon, arrayed under the white standard of the Bourbons, in the
firm belief that they were serving the cause of their king against a
usurping tyranny; or to the million of citizens, who, forming around
the frontiers a wall of brass, had so often saved their country from
the inveterate hostility of its enemies, and had borne to so
transcendent a height the glory of the French eagle? Was he to do
justice to that clergy, the model and the example of every Christian
virtue, stripped of its birthright, the reward of fifteen hundred
years of benevolence; or to the recent acquirers, who had converted
the convents into workshops, the churches into warehouses, and had
turned to profane uses all that had been deemed most holy for ages?"

"At this period," says Thiers, "Napoleon appeared so moderate, after
having been so victorious, he showed himself so profound a
legislator, after having proved himself so great a commander, he
evinced so much love for the arts of peace, after having excelled in
the arts of war, that well might he excite illusions in France and
in the world. Only some few among the personages who were admitted
to his councils, who were capable of judging futurity by the
present, were filled with as much anxiety as admiration, on
witnessing the indefatigable activity of his mind and body, and the
energy of his will, and the impetuosity of his desires. They
trembled even at seeing him do good, in the way he did--so impatient
was he to accomplish it quickly, and upon an immense scale. The wise
and sagacious Tronchet, who both admired and loved him, and looked
upon him as the saviour of France, said, nevertheless, one day in a
tone of deep feeling to Cambaceres, 'This young man begins like
Cæsar; I fear that he will end like him.'"

The elevation of Napoleon to the supreme power for life was regarded
by most of the states of continental Europe with satisfaction, as
tending to diminish the dreaded influences of republicanism, and to
assimilate France with the surrounding monarchies. Even in England,
the prime minister, Mr. Addington, assured the French embassador of
the cordial approbation of the British government of an event,
destined to consolidate order and power in France. The King of
Prussia, the Emperor Alexander, and the Archduke Charles of Austria,
sent him their friendly congratulations. Even Catharine, the haughty
Queen of Naples, mother of the Empress of Austria, being then at
Vienna, in ardent expression of her gratification to the French
embassador said, "General Bonaparte is a great man. He has done me
much injury, but that shall not prevent me from acknowledging his
genius. By checking disorder in France, he has rendered a service to
all of Europe. He has attained the government of his country because
he is most worthy of it. I hold him out every day as a pattern to
the young princes of the imperial family. I exhort them to study
that extraordinary personage, to learn from him how to direct
nations, how to make the yoke of authority endurable, by means of
genius and glory."

But difficulties were rapidly rising between England and France. The
English were much disappointed in not finding that sale of their
manufactures which they had anticipated. The cotton and iron
manufactures were the richest branches of industry in England.
Napoleon, supremely devoted to the development of the manufacturing
resources of France, encouraged those manufactures by the almost
absolute prohibition of the rival articles. William Pitt and his
partisans, still retaining immense influence, regarded with extreme
jealousy the rapid strides which Napoleon was making to power, and
incessantly declaimed, in the journals, against the ambition of
France. Most of the royalist emigrants, who had refused to
acknowledge the new government, and were still devoted to the cause
of the Bourbons, had taken refuge in London. They had been the
allies with England in the long war against France. The English
government could not refrain from sympathizing with them in their
sufferings. It would have been ungenerous not to have done so. The
emigrants were many of them supported by pensions paid them by
England. At the same time they were constantly plotting conspiracies
against the life of Napoleon, and sending assassins to shoot him. "I
will yet teach those Bourbons," said Napoleon, in a moment of
indignation, "that I am not a man to be shot at like a dog."
Napoleon complained bitterly that his enemies, then attempting his
assassination, were in the pay of the British government. Almost
daily the plots of these emigrants were brought to light by the
vigilance of the French police.

A Bourbon pamphleteer, named Peltier, circulated widely through
England the most atrocious libels against the First Consul, his
wife, her children, his brothers and sisters. They were charged with
the most low, degrading, and revolting vices. These accusations were
circulated widely through England and America. They produced a
profound impression. They were believed. Many were interested in the
circulation of these reports, wishing to destroy the popularity of
Napoleon, and to prepare the populace of England for the renewal of
the war. Napoleon remonstrated against such infamous representations
of his character being allowed in England. But he was informed that
the British press was free; that there was no resource but to
prosecute for libel in the British courts; and that it was the part
of true greatness to treat such slanders with contempt. But Napoleon
felt that such false charges were exasperating nations, were paving
the way to deluge Europe again in war, and that causes tending to
such woes were too potent to be despised.

The Algerines were now sweeping with their piratic crafts the
Mediterranean, exacting tribute from all Christian powers. A French
ship had been wrecked upon the coast, and the crew were made
prisoners. Two French vessels and a Neapolitan ship had also been
captured and taken to Algiers. The indignation of Napoleon was
aroused. He sent an officer to the Dey with a letter, informing him
that if the prisoners were not released and the captured vessels
instantly restored, and a promise given to respect in future the
flags of France and Italy, he would send a fleet and an army and
overwhelm him with ruin. The Dey had heard of Napoleon's career in
Egypt. He was thoroughly frightened, restored the ships and the
prisoners, implored clemency, and with barbarian injustice doomed to
death those who had captured the ships in obedience to his commands.
Their lives were saved only through the intercession of the French
minister. Napoleon then performed one of the most gracious acts of
courtesy toward the Pope. The feeble monarch had no means of
protecting his coasts from the pirates who still swarmed in those
seas. Napoleon selected two fine brigs in the naval arsenal at
Toulon, equipped them with great elegance, armed them most
effectively, filled them with naval stores, and conferring upon them
the apostolical names of St. Peter and St. Paul, sent them as a
present to the Pontiff. With characteristic grandeur of action, he
carried his attentions so far as to send a cutter to bring back the
crews, that the papal treasury might be exposed to no expense. The
venerable Pope, in the exuberance of his gratitude, insisted upon
taking the French seamen to Rome. He treated them with every
attention in his power; exhibited to them St. Peter's, and dazzled
them with the pomp and splendor of cathedral worship. They returned
to France loaded with humble presents, and exceedingly gratified
with the kindness with which they had been received.

It was stipulated in the treaty of Amiens, that both England and
France should evacuate Egypt, and that England should surrender Malta
to its ancient rulers. Malta, impregnable in its fortifications,
commanded the Mediterranean, and was the key of Egypt. Napoleon had
therefore, while he professed a willingness to relinquish all claim to
the island himself, insisted upon it, as an essential point, that
England should do the same. The question upon which the treaty hinged,
was the surrender of Malta to a neutral power. The treaty was signed.
Napoleon promptly and scrupulously fulfilled his agreements. Several
embarrassments, for which England was not responsible, delayed for a
few months the evacuation of Malta. But now nearly a year had passed
since the signing of the treaty. All obstacles were removed from the
way of its entire fulfillment, and yet the troops of England remained
both in Egypt and in Malta. The question was seriously discussed in
Parliament and in the English journals, whether England were bound to
fulfill her engagements, since France was growing so alarmingly
powerful. Generously and eloquently Fox exclaimed, "I am astonished at
all I hear, particularly when I consider who they are that speak such
words. Indeed I am more grieved than any of the honorable friends and
colleagues of Mr. Pitt, at the growing greatness of France, which is
daily extending her power in Europe and in America. That France, now
accused of interfering with the concerns of others, we invaded, for
the purpose of forcing upon her a government to which she would not
submit, and of obliging her to accept the family of the Bourbons,
whose yoke she spurned. By one of those sublime movements, which
history should recommend to imitation, and preserve in eternal
memorial, she repelled her invaders. Though warmly attached to the
cause of England, we have felt an involuntary movement of sympathy
with that generous outburst of liberty, and we have no desire to
conceal it. No doubt France is great, much greater than a good
Englishman ought to wish, but that ought not to be a motive for
violating solemn treaties. But because France now appears too great to
us--greater than we thought her at first--to break a solemn
engagement, to retain Malta, for instance, would be an unworthy breach
of faith, which would compromise the honor of Britain. I am sure that
if there were in Paris an assembly similar to that which is debating
here, the British navy and its dominion over the seas would be talked
of, in the same terms as we talk in this house of the French armies,
and their dominion over the land."

Napoleon sincerely wished for peace. He was constructing vast works
to embellish and improve the empire. Thousands of workmen were
employed in cutting magnificent roads across the Alps. He was
watching with intensest interest the growth of fortifications and
the excavation of canals. He was in the possession of absolute
power, was surrounded by universal admiration, and, in the enjoyment
of profound peace, was congratulating himself upon being the
pacificator of Europe. He had disbanded his armies, and was
consecrating all the resources of the nation to the stimulation of
industry. He therefore left no means of forbearance and conciliation
untried to avert the calamities of war. He received Lord Whitworth,
the English embassador in Paris, with great distinction. The most
delicate attentions were paid to his lady, the Duchess of Dorset.
Splendid entertainments were given at the Tuileries and at St. Cloud
in their honor. Talleyrand consecrated to them all the resources of
his courtly and elegant manners. The two Associate Consuls,
Cambaceres and Lebrun, were also unwearied in attentions. Still all
these efforts on the part of Napoleon to secure friendly relations
with England were unavailing. The British government still, in open
violation of the treaty, retained Malta. The honor of France was at
stake in enforcing the sacredness of treaties. Malta was too
important a post to be left in the hands of England. Napoleon at
last resolved to have a personal interview himself with Lord
Whitworth, and to explain to him, with all frankness, his sentiments
and his resolves.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH EMBASSADOR.]

It was on the evening of the 18th of February, 1803, that Napoleon
received Lord Whitworth in his cabinet in the Tuileries. A large
writing-table occupied the middle of the room. Napoleon invited the
embassador to take a seat at one end of the table, and seated
himself at the other. "I have wished," said he, "to converse with
you in person, that I may fully convince you of my real opinions and
intentions." Then with that force of language and that perspicuity
which no man ever excelled, he recapitulated his transactions with
England from the beginning; that he had offered peace immediately
upon his accession to the consulship; that peace had been refused;
that eagerly he had renewed negotiations as soon as he could with
any propriety do so; and that he had made great concessions to
secure the peace of Amiens. "But my efforts," said he, "to live on
good terms with England, have met with no friendly response. The
English newspapers breathe but animosity against me. The journals of
the emigrants are allowed a license of abuse which is not justified
by the British constitution. Pensions are granted to Georges and his
accomplices, who are plotting my assassination. The emigrants,
protected in England, are continually making excursions to France to
stir up civil war. The Bourbon princes are received with the
insignia of the ancient royalty. Agents are sent to Switzerland and
Italy to raise up difficulties against France. Every wind which
blows from England brings me but hatred and insult. Now we have come
to a situation from which we must relieve ourselves. Will you or
will you not execute the treaty of Amiens? I have executed it on my
part with scrupulous fidelity. That treaty obliged me to evacuate
Naples, Tarento, and the Roman States, within three months. In less
than two months, all the French troops were out of those countries.
Ten months have elapsed since the exchange of the ratifications, and
the English troops are still in Malta, and at Alexandria. It is
useless to try to deceive us on this point. Will you have peace, or
will you have war? If you are for war, only say so; we will wage it
unrelentingly. If you wish for peace, you must evacuate Alexandria
and Malta. The rock of Malta, on which so many fortifications have
been erected, is, in a maritime point of view, an object of great
importance; but, in my estimation, it has an importance infinitely
greater, inasmuch as it implicates the honor of France. What would
the world say, if we were to allow a solemn treaty, signed with us,
to be violated? It would doubt our energy. For my part, my
resolution is fixed. I had rather see you in possession of the
Heights of Montmartre, than in possession of Malta."

"If you doubt my desire to preserve peace, listen, and judge how far
I am sincere. Though yet very young, I have attained a power, a
renown to which it would be difficult to add. Do you imagine that I
am solicitous to risk this power, this renown, in a desperate
struggle? If I have a war with Austria, I shall contrive to find the
way to Vienna. If I have a war with you, I will take from you every
ally upon the Continent. You will blockade us; but I will blockade
you in my turn. You will make the Continent a prison for us; but I
will make the seas a prison for you. However, to conclude the war,
there must be more direct efficiency. There must be assembled
150,000 men, and an immense flotilla. We must try to cross the
Strait, and perhaps I shall bury in the depths of the sea my
fortune, my glory, my life. It is an awful temerity, my lord, the
invasion of England." Here, to the amazement of Lord Whitworth,
Napoleon enumerated frankly and powerfully all the perils of the
enterprise: the enormous preparations it would be necessary to make
of ships, men, and munitions of war--the difficulty of eluding the
English fleet. "The chance that we shall perish," said he, "is
vastly greater than the chance that we shall succeed. Yet this
temerity, my lord, awful as it is, I am determined to hazard, if you
force me to it. I will risk my army and my life. With me that great
enterprise will have chances which it can not have with any other.
See now if I ought, prosperous, powerful, and peaceful as I now am,
to risk power, prosperity, and peace in such an enterprise. Judge,
if when I say I am desirous of peace, if I am not sincere. It is
better for you; it is better for me to keep within the limits of
treaties. You must evacuate Malta. You must not harbor my assassins
in England. Let me be abused, if you please, by the English
journals, but not by those miserable emigrants, who dishonor the
protection you grant them, and whom the Alien Act permits you to
expel from the country. Act cordially with me, and I promise you, on
my part, an entire cordiality. See what power we should exercise
over the world, if we could bring our two nations together. You have
a navy, which, with the incessant efforts of ten years, in the
employment of all my resources, I should not be able to equal. But I
have 500,000 men ready to march, under my command, whithersoever I
choose to lead them. If you are masters of the seas, I am master of
the land. Let us then think of uniting, rather than of going to war,
and we shall rule at pleasure the destinies of the world. France and
England united, can do every thing for the interests of humanity."

England, however, still refused, upon one pretense and another, to
yield Malta; and both parties were growing more and more
exasperated, and were gradually preparing for the renewal of
hostilities. Napoleon, at times, gave very free utterance to his
indignation. "Malta," said he, "gives the dominion of the
Mediterranean. Nobody will believe that I consent to surrender the
Mediterranean to the English, unless I fear their power. I thus
loose the most important sea in the world, and the respect of
Europe. I will fight to the last, for the possession of the
Mediterranean; and if I once get to Dover, it is all over with those
tyrants of the seas. Besides, as we must fight, sooner or later,
with a people to whom the greatness of France is intolerable, the
sooner the better. I am young. The English are in the wrong; more so
than they will ever be again. I had rather settle the matter at
once. They shall not have Malta."

Still Napoleon assented to the proposal for negotiating with the
English for the cession of some other island in the Mediterranean.
"Let them obtain a port to put into," said he. "To that I have no
objection. But I am determined that they shall not have two
Gibraltars in that sea: one at the entrance, and one in the middle."
To this proposition, however, England refused assent.

Napoleon then proposed that the Island of Malta should be placed in
the hands of the Emperor of Russia; leaving it with him in trust,
till the discussions between France and England were decided. It had
so happened that the emperor had just offered his mediation, if that
could be available, to prevent a war. This the English government
also declined, upon the plea that it did not think that Russia would
be willing to accept the office thus imposed upon her. The English
embassador now received instructions to demand that France should
cede to England, Malta for ten years; and that England, by way of
compensation, would recognize the Italian republic. The embassador
was ordered to apply for his passports, if these conditions were not
accepted within seven days. To this proposition France would not
accede. The English minister demanded his passports, and left
France. Immediately the English fleet commenced its attack upon
French merchant-ships, wherever they could be found. And the world
was again deluged in war.

[Illustration: SEA COMBAT.]




THE PALACES OF FRANCE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.


France has recorded her past history and her present condition, in
the regal palaces she has reared. Upon these monumental walls are
inscribed, in letters more legible than the hieroglyphics of Egypt,
and as ineffaceable, the long and dreary story of kingly vice,
voluptuousness and pride, and of popular servility and oppression.
The unthinking tourist saunters through these magnificent saloons,
upon which have been lavished the wealth of princes and the toil of
ages, and admires their gorgeous grandeur. In marbled floors and
gilded ceilings and damask tapestry, and all the appliances of
boundless luxury and opulence, he sees but the triumphs of art, and
bewildered by the dazzling spectacle, forgets the burning outrage
upon human rights which it proclaims. Half-entranced, he wanders
through uncounted acres of groves and lawns, and parterres of
flowers, embellished with lakes, fountains, cascades, and the most
voluptuous statuary, where kings and queens have reveled, and he
reflects not upon the millions who have toiled, from dewy morn till
the shades of night, through long and joyless years, eating black
bread, clothed in coarse raiment--the man, the woman, the ox,
companions in toil, companions in thought--to minister to this
indulgence. But the palaces of France proclaim, in trumpet tones,
the shame of France. They say to her kings, Behold the undeniable
monuments of your pride, your insatiate extortion, your measureless
extravagance and luxury. They say to the people, Behold the proofs
of the outrages which your fathers, for countless ages, have
endured. They lived in mud hovels that their licentious kings might
riot haughtily in the apartments, canopied with gold, of Versailles,
the Tuileries, and St. Cloud--the Palaces of France. The mind of the
political economist lingers painfully upon them. They are gorgeous
as specimens of art. They are sacred as memorials of the past.
Vandalism alone would raze them to their foundations. Still, the
_judgment_ says, It would be better for the political regeneration
of France, if, like the Bastile, their very foundations were plowed
up, and sown with salt. For they are a perpetual provocative to
every thinking man. They excite unceasingly democratic rage against
aristocratic arrogance. Thousands of noble women, as they traverse
those gorgeous halls, feel those fires of indignation glowing in
their souls, which glowed in the bosom of Madame Roland. Thousands
of young men, with compressed lip and moistened eye, lean against
those marble pillars, lost in thought, and almost excuse even the
demoniac and blood-thirsty mercilessness of Danton, Marat, and
Robespierre. These palaces are a perpetual stimulus and provocative
to governmental aggression. There they stand, in all their
gorgeousness, empty, swept, and garnished. They are resplendently
beautiful. They are supplied with every convenience, every luxury.
King and Emperor dwelt there. Why should not the _President_? Hence
the palace becomes the home of the Republican President. The
expenses of the palace, the retinue of the palace, the court
etiquette of the palace become the requisitions of good taste. In
America, the head of the government, in his convenient and
appropriate mansion, receives a salary of twenty-five thousand
dollars a year. In France, the President of the Republic receives
four hundred thousand dollars a year, and yet, even with that vast
sum, can not keep up an establishment at all in accordance with the
dwellings of grandeur which invite his occupancy, and which
unceasingly and irresistibly stimulate to regal pomp and to regal
extravagance. The palaces of France have a vast influence upon the
present politics of France. There is an unceasing conflict between
those marble walls of monarchical splendor, and the principles of
republican simplicity. This contest will not soon terminate, and its
result no one can foresee. Never have I felt my indignation more
thoroughly aroused than when wandering hour after hour through the
voluptuous sumptuousness of Versailles. The triumphs of taste and
art are admirable, beyond the power of the pen to describe. But the
moral of execrable oppression is deeply inscribed upon all. In a
brief description of the Palaces of France, I shall present them in
the order in which I chanced to visit them.

1. _Palais des Thermes._--In long-gone centuries, which have faded
away into oblivion, a wandering tribe of barbarians alighted from
their canoes, upon a small island in the Seine, and there reared
their huts. They were called the Parisii. The slow lapse of
centuries rolled over them, and there were wars and woes, bridals
and burials, and still they increased in numbers and in strength,
and fortified their little isle against the invasions of their
enemies; for man, whether civilized or savage, has ever been the
most ferocious wild beast man has had to encounter. But soon the
tramp of the Roman legions was heard upon the banks of the Seine,
and all Gaul, with its sixty tribes, came under the power of the
Cæsars. Extensive marshes and gloomy forests surrounded the
barbarian village; but, gradually, Roman laws and institutions were
introduced; and Roman energy changed the aspect of the country.
Immediately the proud conquerors commenced rearing a palace for the
provincial governor. The Palace of Warm Baths rose, with its massive
walls, and in imposing grandeur. Roman spears drove the people to
the work; and Roman ingenuity knew well how to extort from the
populace the revenue which was required. Large remains of that
palace continue to the present day. It is the most interesting
memorial of the past which can now be found in France. The
magnificence of its proportions still strike the beholder with awe.
"Behold," says a writer, who trod its marble floors nearly a
thousand years ago: "Behold the Palace of the Kings, whose turrets
pierce the skies, and whose foundations penetrate even to the empire
of the dead." Julius Cæsar gazed proudly upon those turrets; and
here the shouts of Roman legions, fifteen hundred years ago,
proclaimed Julian emperor; and Roman maidens, with throbbing hearts,
trod these floors in the mazy dance. No one can enter the grand hall
of the baths, without being deeply impressed with the majestic
aspect of the edifice, and with the grandeur of its gigantic
proportions. The decay of nearly two thousand years has left its
venerable impress upon those walls. Here Roman generals proudly
strode, encased in brass and steel, and the clatter of their arms
resounded through these arches. In these mouldering, crumbling tubs
of stone, they laved their sinewy limbs. But where are those fierce
warriors now? In what employments have their turbulent spirits been
engaged, while generation after generation has passed on earth, in
the enactment of the comedies and the tragedies of life? Did their
rough tutelage in the camp, and their proud bearing in the court,
prepare them for the love, the kindness, the gentleness, the
devotion of Heaven? In fields of outrage, clamor, and blood, madly
rushing to the assault, shouting in frenzy, dealing, with iron hand,
every where around, destruction and death, did they acquire a taste
for the "green pastures and the still waters?" Alas! for the mystery
of our being! They are gone, and gone forever! Their name has
perished--their language is forgotten.

      "The storm which wrecks the wintry sky,
        No more disturbs their deep repose,
      Than summer evening's gentlest sigh,
        Which shuts the rose."

Upon a part of the ruins of this old palace of the Cæsars, there has
been reared, by more _modern ancients_, still another palace, where
mirth and revelry have resounded, where pride has elevated her
haughty head, and vanity displayed her costly robes--but over all
those scenes of splendor, death has rolled its oblivious waves.
About four hundred years ago, upon a portion of the crumbling walls
of this old Roman mansion, the Palace of Cluny was reared. For three
centuries, this palace was one of the abodes of the kings of France.
The tide of regal life ebbed and flowed through those saloons, and
along those corridors. There is the chamber where Mary of England,
sister of Henry VIII., and widow of Louis XII., passed the weary
years of her widowhood. It is still called the chamber of the "white
queen," from the custom of the queens of France to wear white
mourning. Three hundred years ago, these Gothic turrets, and
gorgeously ornamented lucarne windows, gleamed with illuminations,
as the young King of Scotland, James V., led Madeleine, the blooming
daughter of Francis I., to the bridal altar. Here the haughty family
of the Guises ostentatiously displayed their regal retinue--vying
with the kings of France in splendor, and outvying them in power.
These two palaces, now blended by the nuptials of decay into one,
are converted into a museum of antiquities--silent depositories of
memorials of the dead. Sadly one loiters through their deserted
halls. They present one of the most interesting sights of Paris. In
the reflective mind they awaken emotions which the pen can not
describe.

2. _The Louvre._--When Paris consisted only of the little island in
the Seine, and kings and feudal lords, with wine and wassail were
reveling in the saloons of Cluny, a hunting-seat was reared in the
dense forest which spread itself along the banks of the river. As
the city extended, and the forest disappeared, the hunting-seat was
enlarged, strengthened, and became a fortress and a state-prison.
Thus it continued for three hundred years. In its gloomy dungeons
prisoners of state, and the victims of crime, groaned and died; and
countless tragedies of despotic power there transpired, which the
Day of Judgment alone can reveal. Three hundred years ago, Francis
I. tore down the dilapidated walls of this old castle, and commenced
the magnificent Palace of the Louvre upon their foundations. But its
construction has required the labor of ages, and upon it has been
expended millions, which despotic power has extorted from the hard
hands of penury. This gorgeous palace contains a wilderness of
saloons and corridors, and flights of stairs; and seems rather
adapted to accommodate the population of a city, than to be merely
one of the residences of a royal family. The visitor wanders
bewildered through its boundless magnificence. The spirits of the
dead rise again, and people these halls. Here the pure and the noble
Jeanne d'Albret was received in courtly grandeur, by the impure and
the ignoble Catherine de Medici. Here Henry IV. led his profligate
and shameless bride to the altar. From this window Charles IX. shot
down the Protestants as they fled, amidst the horrors of the
perfidious massacre of St. Bartholomew. In this gilded chamber, with
its lofty ceiling and its tapestried walls, Catherine de Medici died
in the glooms of remorse and despair. Her bed of down, her despotic
power could present no refuge against the King of Terrors; and the
mind is appalled with the thought, that from this very room, now so
silent and deserted, her guilty spirit took its flight to the
tribunal of the King of kings, and the Lord of lords. Successive
generations of haughty sovereigns have here risen and died. And if
there be any truth in history, they have been, almost without
exception, proud, merciless, licentious oppressors. The orgies of
sin have filled this palace. Defiance to God and man has here held
its high carnival.

[Illustration: THE LOUVRE.]

The mind is indeed bewildered with a flood of emotions rushing
through it, as one is pointed to the alcove where Henry IV. was
accustomed to sleep three hundred years ago, and to the very spot
where, in anguish, he gasped and died, after having been stabbed by
Ravaillac. Here one sees the very helmet worn by Henry II. on that
unfortunate day, when the tilting spear of the Count of Montgommeri,
entering his eye, pierced his brain. It requires the labor of a day
even to saunter through the innumerable rooms of this magnificent
abode. But it will never again resound with the revelries of kings
and queens. Royalty has forsaken it forever. Democracy has now taken
strange and anomalous possession of its walls. It is converted into
the most splendid museum in the world--filled with the richest
productions of ancient and modern art. The people now enter freely
that sanctuary, where once none but kings and courtiers ventured to
appear. The Louvre now is useful to the world; but upon its massive
walls are registered deeds of violence, oppression, and crime which
make the ear to tingle.

[Illustration: THE INNER COURT OF THE LOUVRE.]

3. _Malmaison._--When Napoleon was in the midst of his Egyptian
campaign, he wrote to Josephine, to purchase somewhere in the
vicinity of Paris, a pleasant rural retreat, to which they could
retire from the bustle of the metropolis, and enjoy the luxury of
green fields and shady groves. Josephine soon found a delightful
chateau, about nine miles from Paris, and five from Versailles,
which she purchased, with many acres of land around it, for about
one hundred thousand dollars. The great value of the place was in
the spacious and beautiful grounds, not in the buildings. The
chateau itself was plain, substantial, simple, far less ostentatious
in its appearance than many a country-seat erected upon the banks of
the Hudson, or in the environs of Boston. Here Josephine resided
most of the time during the eighteen months of Napoleon's absence in
Egypt. Upon Napoleon's return, this became the favorite residence of
them both. Amid all the splendors of the Empire, it was ever their
great joy to escape to the rural quietude of Malmaison. There they
often passed the Sabbath, in the comparative happiness of private
life. Often Napoleon said, as he left those loved haunts, to attend
to the cares and toils of the Tuileries, "Now I must again put on
the yoke of misery." Napoleon ever spoke of the hours passed at
Malmaison, as the happiest of his life. He erected for himself
there, in a retired grove, a little pavilion, very simple, yet
beautiful, in its structure, which still retains the name of the
Pavilion of the Emperor. Here he passed many hours of uninterrupted
solitude, in profound study of his majestic plans and enterprises.
Directly behind the chateau there was a smooth and beautiful lawn,
upon a level with the ground floor of the main saloon. The windows,
extending to the floor, opened upon this lawn. When all the kings of
Europe were doing homage to the mighty emperor, crowds of visitors
were often assembled at Malmaison; and upon this lawn, with the
characteristic gayety of the French, many mirthful games were
enacted. The favorite amusement here was the game of prisoners.
Frequently, after dinner, the most distinguished gentlemen and
ladies, not of France only, but of all Europe, were actively and
mirthfully engaged in this sport. Kings and queens, and princes of
the blood royal were seen upon the green esplanade, pursuing and
pursued. Napoleon occasionally joined in the sport. He was a poor
runner, and not unfrequently fell and rolled over upon the grass,
while he and his companions were convulsed with laughter. Josephine,
fond of deeds of benevolence, loved to visit the cottages in the
vicinity of Malmaison; and her sympathy and kindness gave her
enthronement in the hearts of all their inmates. After the divorce
of Josephine, the Palace of Malmaison, which Napoleon had
embellished with all those attractions which he thought could soothe
the anguish of his wounded, weeping, discarded wife, was assigned to
Josephine. A jointure of six hundred thousand dollars a year was
settled upon her, and she retained the title and the rank of Empress
Queen. Here Napoleon frequently called to see her; though from
motives of delicacy, he never saw her alone. Taking her arm, he
would walk for hours through those embowered avenues, confiding to
her all his plans.

Just before Napoleon set out for his fatal campaign to Russia, he
called to see Josephine. Taking her hand, he led her out to a
circular seat in the garden, in front of the mansion, and for two
hours continued engaged with her in the most earnest conversation.
At last he rose and affectionately kissed her hand. She followed him
to his carriage and bade him adieu. This was their last interview
but one. He soon returned a fugitive from Moscow. All Europe was in
arms against him. He earnestly sought a hurried interview with the
faithful wife of his youth in her retreat at Malmaison. As he gazed
upon her beloved features, tenderly and sadly he exclaimed,
"Josephine! I have been as fortunate as was ever man upon the face
of this earth. But in this hour, when a storm is gathering over my
head, I have not any one in this wide world but you upon whom I can
repose." With a moistened eye he bade her farewell. They met not
again.

When the allied armies entered Paris a guard was sent, out of
respect to Josephine, to protect Malmaison. The Emperor Alexander,
with a number of illustrious guests, dined with the Empress Queen,
and in the evening walked out upon the beautiful lawn. Josephine,
whose health was shattered by sympathy and sorrow, took cold, and
after the illness of a few days died. It was the 29th of May, 1814.
It was the serene and cloudless evening of a tranquil summer's day.
The windows of the apartment were open where the Empress was dying.
The sun was silently sinking behind the trees of Malmaison, and its
rays, struggling through the foliage, shone cheerfully upon the bed
of death. The air was filled with the songs of birds, warbling, as
it were, the vespers of Josephine's most eventful life. Thus sweetly
her gentle spirit sank into its last sleep. In the antique village
church of Ruel, about two miles from Malmaison, the mortal remains
of this most lovely of women now slumber. A beautiful monument of
white marble, with a statue representing the Empress kneeling in
her coronation robes, is erected over her burial place, with this
simple but affecting inscription:

               TO
           JOSEPHINE,
               BY
      EUGENE AND HORTENSE.

It was a bright and beautiful morning when I took a carriage, with a
friend, and set out from Paris to visit Malmaison. We had been
informed that the property had passed into the hands of Christina,
the Queen-Mother of Spain, and that she had given strict injunctions
that no visitors should be admitted to the grounds. My great desire,
however, to visit Malmaison induced me to make special efforts to
accomplish the object. A recent rain had laid the dust, the trees
were in full leaf, the grass was green and rich, the grain was
waving in the wind, and the highly cultivated landscape surrounding
Paris presented an aspect of extraordinary beauty. We rode quietly
along, enjoying the luxury of the emotions which the scene inspired,
till we came to the village of Ruel. A French village has no aspect
of beauty. It is merely the narrow street of a city set down by
itself in the country. The street is paved, the cheerless, tasteless
houses are huddled as closely as possible together. There is no yard
for shrubbery and flowers, apparently no garden, no barn-yards with
lowing herds. The flowers of the empire have been garnered in the
palaces of the kings. The taste of the empire has been concentrated
upon the Tuileries, Versailles, St. Cloud, Fontainebleau, and none
has been left to embellish the home of the peasant. The man who
tills the field must toil day and night, with his wife, his
daughter, and his donkey, to obtain food and clothing for his
family, as animals. This centralization of taste and opulence in
particular localities, is one of the greatest of national mistakes
and wrongs. America has no Versailles. May God grant that she never
may have. But thousands of American farmers have homes where poets
would love to dwell. Their daughters trim the shrubbery in the yard,
and cultivate the rose, and partake themselves of the purity and the
refinement of the rural scenes in the midst of which they are
reared. In the village of Ruel, so unattractive to one accustomed to
the rich beauty of New England towns, we found the church, an old,
cracked, mouldering and crumbling stone edifice, built five hundred
years ago. It was picturesque in its aspect, venerable from its
historical associations, and as poorly adapted as can well be
imagined for any purposes to which we in America appropriate our
churches. The floor was of crumbling stone, worn by the footfalls of
five centuries. There were enormous pillars supporting the roof,
alcoves running in here and there, a pulpit stuck like the mud nest
of a swallow upon a rock. The village priest was there catechising
the children. A large number of straight-backed, rush-bottomed
chairs were scattered about in confusion, instead of pews. These old
Gothic churches, built in a semi-barbarian age, and adapted to a
style of worship in which the pomp of paganism and a corrupted
Christianity were blended, are to my mind gloomy memorials of days
of darkness. Visions of hooded monks, of deluded penitents, of
ignorant, joyless generations toiling painfully through them to the
grave, impress and oppress the spirit. In one corner of the church,
occupying a space some twenty feet square, we saw the beautiful
monument reared by Eugene and Hortense to their mother. It was
indeed a privilege to stand by the grave of Josephine; there to
meditate upon life's vicissitudes, there to breathe the prayer for
preparation for that world of spirits to which Josephine has gone.
How faithful her earthly love; how affecting her dying prayer!
clasping the miniature of the Emperor fervently to her bosom, she
exclaimed, "O God! watch over Napoleon while he remains in the
desert of this world. Alas! though he hath committed great faults,
hath he not expiated them by great sufferings? Just God, thou hast
looked into his heart, and hast seen by how ardent a desire for
useful and durable improvements he was animated! Deign to approve my
last petition. And may this image of my husband bear me witness that
my latest wish and my latest prayer were for him and for my
children."

As the Emperor Alexander gazed upon her lifeless remains, he
exclaimed, "She is no more; that woman whom France named the
Beneficent; that angel of goodness is no more. Those who have known
Josephine can never forget her. She dies regretted by her offspring,
her friends, and her contemporaries."

In the same church, opposite to the tomb of Josephine, stands the
monument of her daughter Hortense. Her life was another of those
tragedies of which this world has been so full. Her son, the present
President of France, has reared to her memory a tasteful monument of
various colored marble, emblematic, as it were, of the vicissitudes
of her eventful life. The monument bears the inscription--"To Queen
Hortense, by Prince Louis Bonaparte." She is represented kneeling in
sorrowful meditation. As I stood by their silent monuments, and
thought of the bodies mouldering to dust beneath them, the beautiful
lines of Kirke White rose most forcibly to my mind:

      "Life's labor done, securely laid
        In this their last retreat,
      Unheeded o'er their silent dust
        The storms of life shall beat."

From Ruel we rode slowly along, through vineyards and fields of
grain, with neither hedges nor fences to obstruct the view, for
about two miles, when we arrived at the stone wall and iron
entrance-gate of the chateau of Malmaison. The concierge, a
pleasant-looking woman, came from the porter's lodge, and looking
through the bars of the gate very politely and kindly told us that
we could not be admitted. I gave her my passport, my card, and a
copy of the Life of Josephine, which I had written in America, and
requested her to take them to the head man of the establishment,
and to say to him that I had written the life of Josephine, and that
I had come to France to visit localities which had been made
memorable by Napoleon and Josephine, and that I was exceedingly
desirous to see Malmaison. The good woman most obligingly took my
parcel, and tripping away as lightly as a girl, disappeared in the
windings of the well-graveled avenue, skirted with trees and
shrubbery. In about ten minutes she returned, and smiling and
shaking her head, said that the orders were positive, and that we
could not be admitted. I then wrote a note to the keeper, in French,
which I fear was not very classical, informing him "that I was
writing the life of Napoleon; that it was a matter of great
importance that I should see Malmaison, his favorite residence; that
I had recently been favored with a private audience with the Prince
President, and that he had assured me that he would do every thing
in his power to facilitate my investigations, and that he would give
me free access to all sources of information. But that as I knew the
chateau belonged to the Queen of Spain, I had made no efforts to
obtain from the French authorities a ticket of admission." Then for
the first time I reflected that the proper course for me to have
pursued was to have called upon the Spanish embassador, a very
gentlemanly and obliging man, who would unquestionably have removed
every obstacle from my way. Giving the good woman a franc to quicken
her steps, again she disappeared, and after a considerable lapse of
time came back, accompanied by the keeper. He was a plain,
pleasant-looking man, and instead of addressing me with that angry
rebuff, which, in all probability in America one, under similar
circumstances, would have encountered, he politely touched his hat,
and begged that I would not consider his refusal as caprice in him,
but that the Queen of Spain did not allow any visitors to enter the
grounds of Malmaison. The French are so polite, that an American is
often mortified by the consciousness of his own want of
corresponding courtesy. Assuming, however, all the little suavity at
my command, I very politely touched my hat, and said: "My dear sir,
is it not rather a hard case? I have crossed three thousand miles of
stormy ocean to see Malmaison. Here I am at the very gate of the
park, and these iron bars won't let me in." The kind-hearted man
hesitated for a moment, looked down upon the ground as if deeply
thinking, and then said, "Let me see your passports again, if you
please." My companion eagerly drew out his passport, and pointed to
the cabalistic words--"Bearer of dispatches." Whether this were the
talisman which at last touched the heart of our friend I know not,
but suddenly relenting he exclaimed, with a good-natured smile, "Eh
bien! Messieurs, entrez, entrez," and rolling the iron gate back
upon its hinges, we found ourselves in the enchanting park of
Malmaison.

Passing along a beautiful serpentine avenue, embowered in trees and
shrubbery, and presenting a scene of very attractive rural beauty,
we came in sight of the plain, comfortable home-like chateau. A
pleasant garden, smiling with flowers, bloomed in solitude before
the windows of the saloon, and a statue of Napoleon, in his familiar
form, was standing silently there. An indescribable air of
loneliness and yet of loveliness was spread over the scene. It was
one of the most lovely of May days. Nearly all the voices of nature
are pensive; the sighing of the zephyr and the wailing of the
tempest, the trickling of the rill and the roar of the ocean, the
vesper of the robin and the midnight cry of the wild beast in his
lair. Nature this morning and in this scene displayed her mood of
most plaintive pathos. There was Napoleon, standing in solitude in
the garden. All was silence around him. The chateau was empty and
deserted. Josephine and Hortense were mouldering to dust in the damp
tombs of Ruel. The passing breeze rustled the leaves of the forest,
and the birds with gushes of melody sung their touching requiems.
Shall I be ashamed to say that emotions uncontrollable overcame me,
and I freely wept? No! For there are thousands who will read this
page who will sympathize with me in these feelings, and who will
mingle their tears with mine.

We entered the house, and walked from room to room through all its
apartments. Here was the library of Napoleon, for he loved books.
Christina has converted it into a billiard-room, for she loves play.
Here was the little boudoir where Napoleon and Josephine met in
their hours of sacred confidence, and the tapestry and the window
curtains, in their simplicity, remain as arranged by Josephine's own
hands. Here is the chamber in which Josephine died, and the very bed
upon which she breathed her last. The afternoon sun was shining
brilliantly in through the windows, which we had thrown open, as it
shone forty years ago upon the wasted form and pallid cheek of the
dying Josephine. The forest, so secluded and beautiful, waved
brightly in the sun and in the breeze then as now; the birds then
filled the air with the same plaintive melody. The scene of nature
and of art--house, lawn, shrubbery, grove, cascade, grotto--remains
unchanged; but the billows of revolution and death have rolled over
the world-renowned inmates of Malmaison, and they are all swept
away.

An old-serving man, eighty years of age, conducted us through the
silent and deserted apartments. The affection with which he spoke of
Napoleon and of Josephine amounted almost to adoration. He was in
their service when the Emperor and Empress, arm-in-arm, sauntered
through these apartments and these shady walks. There must have been
some most extraordinary fascination in Napoleon, by which he bound
to him so tenaciously all those who were brought near his person.
His history in that respect is without a parallel. No mortal man,
before or since, has been so enthusiastically loved. The column in
the Place Vendome is still hung with garlands of flowers by the hand
of affection. It is hardly too much to say, that the spirit of
Napoleon, emerging from his monumental tomb under the dome of the
Invalids, still reigns in France. Louis Napoleon is nothing in
himself. His power is but the reflected power of the Emperor.

We passed from the large saloon, upon the smooth green lawn, which
has so often resounded with those merry voices, which are now all
hushed in death. We looked upon trees which Napoleon and Josephine
had planted, wandered through the walks along which their footsteps
had strayed, reclined upon the seats where they had found repose,
and culling many wild flowers, as memorials of this most beautiful
spot, with lingering footsteps retired. Nothing which I have seen in
France has interested me so much as Malmaison. Galignani's
Guide-Book says: "The park and extensive gardens in which Josephine
took so much delight are nearly destroyed. The chateau still exists,
but the Queen Dowager of Spain, to whom Malmaison now belongs, has
strictly forbidden all visits." This appears to be, in part, a
mistake. The park and the grounds immediately around the mansion, as
well as the chateau itself, remain essentially as they were in the
time of Josephine. France contains no spot more rich in touching
associations.

4. _The Tuileries._--"Will Prince Louis Napoleon," inquired a
gentleman, of a French lady, "take up his residence in the
Tuileries?" "He had better not," was the laconic reply. "It is an
unlucky place." It requires not a little effort of imagination to
invest this enormous pile of blackened buildings with an aspect of
beauty. Three hundred years ago the palace was commenced by
Catherine de Medici. But it has never been a favorite residence of
the kings of France, and no effort of the imagination, and no
concomitants of regal splendor can make it an agreeable home. It has
probably witnessed more scenes of woe, and more intensity of
unutterable anguish, than any other palace upon the surface of the
globe. Its rooms are of spacious, lofty, cheerless grandeur. Though
millions have been expended upon this structure, it has had but
occasional occupants. A few evenings ago I was honored with an
invitation to a party given by Prince Louis Napoleon in the palace
of the Tuileries. Four thousand guests were invited. The vast
palace, had all its rooms been thrown open, might perhaps have
accommodated twice as many more. When I arrived at half-past nine
o'clock at the massive gateway which opens an entrance to the court
of the Tuileries, I found a band of soldiers stationed there to
preserve order. Along the street, also, for some distance, armed
sentinels were stationed on horseback, promptly to summon, in case
of necessity, the 80,000 troops who, with spear and bayonet, keep
the restless Parisians tranquil. The carriage, following a long
train, and followed by a long train, entered, between files of
soldiers with glittering bayonets, the immense court-yard of the
palace, so immense that the whole military force of the capital can
there be assembled. The court-yard was illuminated with almost the
brilliance of noon-day, by various pyramids of torches; and dazzling
light gleamed from the brilliant windows of the palace, proclaiming
a scene of great splendor within. A band of musicians, stationed in
the court-yard, pealed forth upon the night air the most animating
strains of martial music. At the door, an armed sentry looked at my
ticket of invitation, and I was ushered into a large hall.
It was brilliantly lighted, and a swarm of servants, large,
imposing-looking men in gorgeous livery, thronged it. One of these
servants very respectfully conducted the guest through the hall to a
spacious ante-room. This room also was dazzling with light, and
numerous servants were there to take the outer garments of the
guests, and to give them tickets in return. My number was 2004. We
then ascended a magnificent flight of marble stairs, so wide that
twenty men could, with ease, march up them abreast. Sentinels in
rich uniform stood upon the stairs with glittering bayonets. We
were ushered into the suit of grand saloons extending in long
perspective, with regal splendor. Innumerable chandeliers suspended
from the lofty gilded ceilings, threw floods of light upon the
brilliant throng which crowded this abode of royalty. In two
different saloons bands of musicians were stationed, and their
liquid notes floated through the hum of general conversation. Men of
lofty lineage were there, rejoicing in their illustrious birth, and
bearing upon their breasts the jeweled insignia of their rank.
Generals of armies were there, decorated with garments inwoven with
gold. Ladies, almost aerial in their gossamer robes, floated like
visions through the animated assembly. Occasionally the dense throng
was pressed aside, and a little space made for the dancers. The
rooms were warm, the crowd immense, the champagne abundant, and the
dancers seemed elated and happy. As the hours of the night wore
away, and the throng was a little diminished, and the bottles
emptied, I thought that I could perceive that the polka and the
waltz were prosecuted with a decided increase of fervor. I must
confess that, with my Puritan notions, I should not like to see a
friend of mine, whose maiden delicacy I desired to cherish, exposed
to such hugs and such twirls.

About half-past ten o'clock, a wide door was thrown open at one end
of the long suit of rooms, and the Prince President, accompanied by
a long retinue of lords, ladies, embassadors, &c., entered the
apartments. They passed along through the crowd, which opened
respectfully before them, and entering one of the main saloons, took
their seats upon an elevated platform, which had been arranged and
reserved for them. All eyes were fastened upon the President. Every
one seemed to feel an intense curiosity to see him. Wherever he
moved, a circle, about ten feet in diameter, was left around him. It
was curious to see the promptness with which the crowd would
disperse before him, and close up behind him, whenever he changed
his position. There were two immense refreshment rooms, supplied
with every luxury, at the two ends of the suit of apartments, filled
with guests. These rooms of vast capacity--for four thousand hungry
people were to be provided for--were fitted up with counters running
along three of their sides like those of a shop. Behind these
counters stood an army of waiters; before them, all the evening
long, an eager crowd. As soon as one had obtained his supply, there
were two or three others ready to take his place. In one of the
rooms there were provided wines, meats of all kinds, and a
most luxurious variety of substantial viands. In the other
refreshment-room, at the other end of the thronged apartments, there
were ices, confectionery, fruits, and all the delicacies of the
dessert.

This was seeing the Palace of the Tuileries in all its glory.
Embassadors of all nations were there--the turbaned Turk, the proud
Persian, the white-robed Arab. Many of the ladies were glittering
with diamonds and every variety of precious stones.

      "Music was there with her voluptuous swell,
      And all went merry as a marriage bell."

But as I sauntered through the brilliant scene, visions of other
days, and of spectacles more impressive, filled my mind. Through
these very halls, again and again, has rolled an inundation of all
that Paris can furnish of vulgarity, degradation, and violence. Into
the embrasure of this very window the drunken mob of men and women
drove, with oaths and clubs, Louis XVI., and compelled him to drink
the cup of humiliation to its very dregs. It was from this window
that the hapless Maria Antoinette looked, when the sentinel beneath
brutally exclaimed to her, "I wish, Austrian woman, that I had your
head upon my bayonet here, that I might pitch it over the wall to
the dogs in the street!" It was upon this balcony that the sainted
Madame Elizabeth and Maria Antoinette stepped, that dark and
dreadful night when frenzied Paris, from all its garrets, and all
its kennels, was surging like the billows of the ocean against the
Tuileries. Their hearts throbbed with terror as they heard the
tolling of the alarm bells, the rumbling of artillery wheels, and
the rattle of musketry, as the infuriate populace thronged the
palace, thirsting for their blood. From this balcony that awful
night, Maria entered the chamber where her beautiful son was
sleeping, gazed earnestly upon him, and left a mother's loving kiss
upon his cheek. She then went to the apartment of her daughter. The
beautiful child, fifteen years of age, comprehending the peril of
the hour, could not sleep. Maria pressed her to her throbbing heart,
and a mother's tenderness triumphed over the stoicism of the Queen.
Her pent-up feelings burst through all restraints, and she wept with
anguish unendurable.

[Illustration: THE TUILERIES.]

The Tuileries! It is, indeed, an "unlucky palace." This saloon, now
resounding with music and mirth, is the very spot where Josephine,
with swollen eyes and heart of agony, signed that cruel deed of
divorcement which sundered the dearest hopes and the fondest ties
which a human heart can cherish. History contains not a more
affecting incident than her final adieu to her husband, which
occurred in this chamber the night after the divorce. The Emperor,
restless and wretched, had just placed himself in the bed from which
he had ejected his faithful wife, when the door of his chamber was
slowly opened, and Josephine tremblingly entered. She tottered into
the middle of the room, and approached the bed. Here, irresolutely
stopping, she burst into a flood of tears. She seemed for a moment
to reflect that it was no longer proper for her to approach the bed
of Napoleon. But suddenly the pent-up fountains of love and grief in
her heart burst forth; and, forgetting every thing, in the fullness
of her anguish, she threw herself upon the bed, clasped Napoleon's
neck in her arms, and exclaiming, "My husband! my husband!" wept in
agony which could not be controlled. The firm spirit of Napoleon
was vanquished: he folded her to his bosom, pressed her cheek to
his, and their tears were mingled together. He assured her of his
love, of his ardent and undying love, and endeavored in every way to
sooth her anguish.

It was down this marble staircase, now thronged with brilliant
guests, that the next morning Josephine descended, vailed from head
to foot. Her grief was too deep for utterance. Waving an adieu to
the affectionate and weeping friends who surrounded her, she entered
her carriage, sank back upon the cushion, buried her face in her
handkerchief, and, sobbing bitterly, left the Tuileries forever. It
is not probable that the Tuileries will ever again be inhabited by
royalty. There are too many mournful associations connected with the
place ever to render it agreeable as a residence. When Louis
Philippe was driven from the Tuileries, the mob again sacked it, and
its vast saloons are unfurnished and empty. Four years ago, the
Provisional Government passed a decree that this palace should be
converted into a hospital for invalid workmen. The Provisional
Government, however, has passed away, and the decree has not been
carried into effect. After the insurrection in June of 1848 it was
used as a hospital for the wounded. More recently it has been used
as a museum for the exhibition of paintings. Its days of regal pride
and splendor have now passed away for ever.

[Illustration: GRAND AVENUE OF THE TUILERIES.]

5. _The Palace Elysée._--This is a beautiful rural home in the very
heart of Paris. It is now occupied by Prince Louis Napoleon. For a
regal residence it is quite unostentatious, and few abodes could any
where be found, combining more attractions, for one of refined and
simple tastes. Through the kindness of our minister, Mr. Rives, I
obtained an audience with Count Roguet, who is at the head of the
Presidential household, and through him secured an "audience
particulière" with Prince Louis Napoleon in the Elysée. As I
alighted from a hackney-coach at the massive gateway of the palace,
armed sentinels were walking to and fro upon the pavements,
surrounding the whole inclosure of the palace with a vigilant guard.
At the open iron gate two more were stationed. I passed between
their bayonets and was directed into a small office where a
dignified-looking official examined my credentials, and then pointed
my steps along the spacious court-yard to the door of the mansion.
Armed soldiers were walking their patrols along the yard, and upon
the flight of steps two stood guarding the door, with their
glittering steel. They glanced at my note of invitation, and I
entered the door. Several servants were there, evidently picked men,
large and imposing in figure, dressed in small-clothes, and silk
stockings, and laced with rich livery. One glanced at my letter, and
conducting me across the hall introduced me into another room. There
I found another set of servants and three clerks writing at a long
table. One took my note of invitation and sat down, as if to copy
it, and I was ushered into the third room. This was a large room in
the interior of the palace, richly ornamented with gilded pilasters
and ceiling. The walls were painted with landscapes, representing
many scenes of historic interest. There were ten gentlemen, who had
come before me, waiting for an audience. Some were nobles, with the
full display upon their breasts of the decorations of their rank.
Others were generals, in brilliant military costume. Several I
observed with the modest red ribbon in the button hole, indicating
that they were members of the Legion of Honor. All spoke in low and
subdued tones of voice, and with soft footsteps moved about the
room. Occasionally, an officer of the household would enter the room
with a paper in his hands, apparently containing a list of the
names of those who had arrived, and softly would call out the name
of one, who immediately followed him into another room. As I at once
saw that I had at least an hour to wait in the ante-room, I turned
my thoughts to the scenes which, in years gone by, have transpired
in this palace of Elysium. Nearly 150 years ago, the Count of Evreux
built it for his aristocratic city residence. It was afterward
purchased, enlarged, and beautified for the residence of Madame de
Pompadour, the frail, voluptuous, intriguing paramour of Louis XV.;
and often have they, arm-in-arm, paced this floor. They have passed
out at these open French windows into the beautiful lawn which
spreads before the mansion, and sauntered until lost in the
wilderness of fountains, flowers, shrubbery, grove, and serpentine
walks which spread over these enchanting grounds. But inexorable
death struck down both king and mistress, and they passed away to
the Judgment. The Revolution came, the awful retribution for
centuries of kingly pride and oppression, and the regal palace
became a printing-office for the irreligion of Voltaire, and the
Jacobinism of Marat. These saloons and boudoirs were turned into
eating rooms, and smoking rooms. The girls of the street crowded
this spacious parlor, and where kings and queens had danced before
them, they proudly danced with _liberté, fraternité, égalité_, in
red cap and blouse. Then came the young soldier from Corsica, and
with a whip of small cords drove printer, blouse, and grisette into
the street. By his side stands the tall, athletic, mustached
inn-keeper's boy, who had learned to ride when grooming the horses
of his father's guests. With his whirlwind cloud of cavalry he had
swept Italy and Egypt, and now enriched and powerful, Murat claims
the hand of Caroline Bonaparte, the sister of the great conqueror.
With his bride he takes the palace of the Elysée, and lives here in
extravagance which even Louis XV. could not surpass. These paintings
on the wall, Murat placed here. These pyramids of Egypt ever remind
his guests that Murat, with his crushing squadrons, trampled down
the defiant Mamelukes upon the Nile. This lady, walking beneath the
trees of the forest, is Caroline, his wife. The children filling
this carriage so joyously, are his sons and daughters. But he who
had crowns at his disposal, places his brother-in-law upon the
throne of Naples, and Napoleon himself chooses this charming spot
for his favorite city residence. Weary with the cares of empire, he
has often sought repose in these shady bowers. But allied Europe
drove him from his Elysium, and the combined forces of Russia,
Prussia, and Austria, take possession of the capital of his empire,
and reinstate the Bourbons upon the throne from which they had been
driven. Napoleon returns from Elba, and again hastens to his beloved
Elysée. A hundred days glide swiftly by, and he is a prisoner, bound
to St. Helena, to die a captive in a dilapidated stable. As I was
reflecting upon the changes, and upon the painful contrast which
must have presented itself to Napoleon, between the tasteful and
exquisite seclusion of the Elysée, and the cheerless, barren,
mist-enveloped rock of St. Helena, I was awakened from my reverie by
a low tone of voice calling my name. I followed the messenger
through a door, expecting to enter the presence of Louis Napoleon.
Instead of that I was ushered into a large, elegantly furnished
saloon--the council chamber of the Emperor Napoleon, but it was
empty. There was a large folio volume, resembling one of the account
books of a merchant, lying open upon a table. The messenger who
summoned me, with my note of invitation in his hand, went to the
book, passed his finger down the page, and soon I saw it resting
upon my name. He read, apparently, a brief description of my
character, and then, leaving me alone, went into another room, I
suppose to inform the President who was to be introduced to him. In
a few moments he returned, and I was ushered into the presence of
the Prince President of Republican France. He was seated in an
arm-chair, at the side of a table covered with papers. Louis
Napoleon is a small man, with a mild, liquid, rather languid eye,
and a countenance expressive of much passive resolution rather than
of active energy. In his address, he is courteous, gentle, and
retiring, and those who know him best, assign him a far higher
position in the grade of intellect than is usually in our country
allotted to him. His government is an utter despotism, sustained by
the bayonets of the army. I have made great efforts, during the two
months in which I have been in Paris, to ascertain the state of
public opinion respecting the government of Louis Napoleon.
Circumstances have thrown me much into French society, both into the
society of those who are warm friends, and bitter enemies of the
present government. So far as I can ascertain facts, they seem to be
these. There are four parties who divide France--the Bourbonists,
the Orleanists, the Socialists, and the Bonapartists. Like the
military chieftains in Mexico, they are all struggling for dominion.
There is not sufficient intelligence and virtue in France, for it to
be governed by _opinion_, by a _vote_. The bayonet is the
all-availing argument. If Louis Napoleon is overthrown, it must be
to give place to some one, who, like him, must call the army and
despotic power to his support. Consequently, multitudes say, What
shall we gain by the change? We shall have new barricades in the
street, new rivulets of blood trickling down our gutters, and simply
another name in the Elysée.--I can see no indication that Louis
Napoleon has any personal popularity. The glory of his uncle
over-shadows him and renders him available. The army and the church,
but without any enthusiasm, are in his favor. Most of the men in
active business who seek protection and good order, support his
claims. The American merchants, settled in Paris, generally feel
that the overthrow of Louis Napoleon would be to them a serious
calamity, and that they should hardly dare in that case, to remain
in Paris. His government is submitted to, not merely as a choice of
evils, but there is a kind of approval of his despotism as necessary
to sustain him in power, and for the repose of France. I do not say
that these views are correct. I only say, that so far as I can
learn, this appears to me to be the state of the public mind.

It is very evident that no portion of the people regard Louis
Napoleon with enthusiasm. At the great fête in the Champs Elysée,
which called all Europe to Paris, to witness the restoration of the
ancient eagles of France to the standards of the army, it was almost
universally supposed out of Paris, that the hundred thousand troops
then passing in proud array before the President would hail him
_Emperor_. A countless throng encircled the area of that vast field.
It was estimated that nearly a million of people were there
assembled. Yet when Louis Napoleon made his appearance with his
brilliant staff, I did not hear one single _citizen's_ voice raised
in applause. As he rode along the ranks of the army, a murmur of
recognition followed his progress, but no shouts of enthusiasm.

Immediately after the fête, a magnificent ball and entertainment
were given by the army, to Prince Louis Napoleon. It is said, that
one hundred and sixty thousand dollars were expended in canopying
the vast court yard of the Ecole Militaire, and in decorating it for
this occasion. Fifteen thousand guests were invited. The scene of
brilliance and splendor, no pen can describe. About half-past twelve
o'clock the President entered upon an elevated platform, accompanied
by the foreign ministers and the members of his court. But not one
single voice even shouted a welcome. He remained a couple of hours
conversing with those around him, and then bowing to the enormous
throng of those whose invited guest he was, retired. One man, by my
side, shouted in a clear, shrill voice which filled the vast
saloons, "Vive l'Empereur," two others promptly responded, "Vive
_Napoleon_." No other acclaim was heard.

The prospect of France is gloomy. Such a government as the present
can not be popular. No other seems possible. No one seems to expect
that the government can last for many years. And yet a change is
dreaded. Rich men are transferring their property to England and
America. Never did I love my own country as now. Never did I
appreciate as now, the rich legacy we have inherited from our
fathers. The hope of the world is centred in America. We must let
Europe alone. To mortal vision her case is hopeless. We must
cultivate our country, spread over our land, virtue and
intelligence, and freedom; and welcome to peaceful homes in the new
world, all who can escape from the taxation and despotism of the
old. In half a century from now, the United States will be the most
powerful nation upon which our sun has ever shone. Then we can speak
with a voice that shall be heard. Our advice will have the
efficiency of commands. Europe now has apparently but to choose
between the evils of despotism, and the evils of anarchy. And still
it is undeniable that the progress, though slow and painful is
steadily onward toward popular liberty.

In this paper I have but commenced the description of the Palaces of
France. In a subsequent number I may continue the subject.




A LEAF FROM A TRAVELER'S NOTE-BOOK.

BY MAUNSELL B. FIELD.


"Another flask of Orvieto, Gaetano, and tell the vetturino that we
start to-morrow morning, punctually at six," exclaimed one of three
foreigners, seated around a table, in the smokiest corner of the
"_Lepre_"--the artist-haunt of the _Via Condotti_.

The speaker was a plain looking French gentleman, who, under the
simplest exterior, concealed the most admirable mind and the highest
personal qualities. A Provincial by birth, a Parisian by education,
and a cosmopolite by travel, he united all the peculiar sagacity of
his nation with that more dignified tone of character so rarely met
with in his countrymen. Descended from a family of Lorraine, who had
inherited the magistracy for centuries, and who, ruined at the
emigration, had only partially recovered their fortunes at the
restoration, our friend (_ours_, at least, reader) found himself, on
attaining his majority, possessed of a sufficient competency to
enable him to travel in a moderate way, so long as the taste should
continue. And here he had been residing in Rome a twelvemonth (not
_rushing through_ it with cis-Atlantic steam-power), studying art
with devotion, and living the intense life of Italian existence. His
companions at the moment our recital commences, were an old
Hollander, who had emerged from commerce into philosophy (no very
usual exit!) and myself, whom chance had made a lounger in European
capitals--a pilgrim from both Mecca and Jerusalem--and a connoisseur
in every vintage from Burgundy to Xeres.

Carnival, with its fantastic follies, when the most constitutionally
sedate by a species of frenzied reaction become the most reckless in
absurdity, was past. Holy Week, with its gorgeous ecclesiastical
mummery--its magnificent fire-works, and its still more magnificent
illumination was likewise gone. Nearly all the travelers who had
been spending the winter in Rome, including the two thousand English
faces which, from their constant repetition at every public place,
seemed at least two hundred thousand, had disappeared. Our own party
had lingered after the rest, loath to leave, perhaps forever, the
most fascinating city in the world to an intelligent mind. But at
last we too, had determined to go, and our destination was Naples.

That very afternoon we had taken one of the tumble-down carriages,
which station on the _Piazza di Spagna_, to make a farewell _giro_
through the Forum. Leaving Rome is not like leaving any other town.
Associations dating from early childhood, and linking the present
with the past, make familiar, before they are known, objects in
themselves so intrinsically interesting and beautiful, that the
strongest attachment is sure to follow a first actual acquaintance
with them. And when that acquaintance has been by daily intercourse
matured, it is hard to give it up.

The weather was delicious. And as our crazy vehicle rattled over the
disjointed pavement of the Appian way, among sandaled monks,
lounging Jesuits, and herdsmen from the Campagna, a heart-sickness
came over us which, in the instance of one, at least, of the party,
has since settled down into a chronic _mal du pays_.

We had been taking our last meal at the "_Trattoria Lepre_," where
we had so often, after a hard day's work, feasted upon _cignale_
(wild boar), or something purporting so to be, surrounded by the
bearded _pensionnaires_ of all the academies.

Our Figaro-like attendant, who had served us daily for so many
months, was more than commonly officious in the consciousness that
the next morning we proposed to start for Naples. And, in fact, on
the succeeding day at an early hour, an antediluvian vehicle,
with chains and baskets slung beneath, drawn by three wild
uncouth-looking animals, under the guidance of 

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/43368