Historic Oddities and Strange Events
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Title: Historic Oddities and Strange Events
Author: S. Baring-Gould
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HISTORIC ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS ***
HISTORIC ODDITIES
AND
STRANGE EVENTS
By the same Author.
+ARMINELL: A SOCIAL ROMANCE.+ 3 Vols. Cr. 8vo. (_On Nov. 1_).
+OLD COUNTRY LIFE.+--With Numerous Illustrations, Initial Letters,
&c. Cr. 8vo. (_In October_).
+YORKSHIRE ODDITIES.+--New and Cheaper Edition (_In Preparation_).
+STRANGE SURVIVALS.+--(_In Preparation_).
+HISTORIC ODDITIES.+--Second Series (_In Preparation_).
METHUEN & CO.
HISTORIC ODDITIES
AND
STRANGE EVENTS
BY
S. BARING GOULD, M.A.
AUTHOR OF "MEHALAH," "JOHN HERRING," ETC.
FIRST SERIES
LONDON
METHUEN & CO.
18 BURY STREET, W.C.
1889
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE, vii
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF BATHURST, 1
THE DUCHESS OF KINGSTON, 26
GENERAL MALLET, 51
SCHWEINICHEN'S MEMOIRS, 67
THE LOCKSMITH GAMAIN, 83
ABRAM THE USURER, 103
SOPHIE APITZSCH, 121
PETER NIELSEN, 136
THE WONDER-WORKING PRINCE HOHENLOHE, 164
THE SNAIL TELEGRAPH, 185
THE COUNTESS GOERLITZ, 199
A WAX AND HONEY-MOON, 234
THE ELECTRESS' PLOT, 257
SUESS OPPENHEIM, 271
IGNATIUS FESSLER, 294
PREFACE.
A reader of history in its various epochs in different countries, comes
upon eccentric individuals and extraordinary events, lightly passed
over, may be, as not materially affecting the continuity of history, as
not producing any seriously disturbing effect on its course. Such
persons, such events have always awakened interest in myself, and when I
have come on them, it has been my pleasure to obtain such details
concerning them as were available, and which would be out of place in a
general history as encumbering it with matter that is unimportant, or of
insufficient importance to occupy much space. Two of the narratives
contained in this work have appeared already in the "Cornhill Magazine,"
but I have considerably enlarged them by the addition of fresh
material; some of the others came out in the "Gentleman's Magazine," and
one in "Belgravia." With only two of them--"Peter Nielsen" and "A Wax
and Honey-Moon"--are the authorities somewhat gone beyond and the facts
slightly dressed to assume the shape of stories.
S. BARING GOULD.
LEW TRENCHARD, N. DEVON,
_July, 1889_.
HISTORIC ODDITIES.
The Disappearance of Bathurst.
The mystery of the disappearance of Benjamin Bathurst on November 25,
1809, is one which can never with certainty be cleared up. At the time
public opinion in England was convinced that he had been secretly
murdered by order of Napoleon, and the "Times" in a leader on January
23, 1810, so decisively asserted this, that the "Moniteur" of January 29
ensuing, in sharp and indignant terms repudiated the charge.
Nevertheless, not in England only, but in Germany, was the impression so
strong that Napoleon had ordered the murder, if murder had been
committed, that the Emperor saw fit, in the spring of the same year,
solemnly to assure the wife of the vanished man, on his word of honour,
that he knew nothing about the disappearance of her husband. Thirty
years later Varnhagen von Ense, a well-known German author, reproduced
the story and reiterated the accusation against Napoleon, or at all
events against the French. Later still, the "Spectator," in an article
in 1862, gave a brief sketch of the disappearance of Bathurst, and
again repeated the charge against French police agents or soldiers of
having made away with the Englishman. At that time a skeleton was said
to have been discovered in the citadel of Magdeburg with the hands
bound, in an upright position, and the writer of the article sought to
identify the skeleton with the lost man.[1]
We shall see whether other discoveries do not upset this identification,
and afford us another solution of the problem--What became of Benjamin
Bathurst?
Benjamin Bathurst was the third son of Dr. Henry Bathurst, Bishop of
Norwich, Canon of Christchurch, and the Prebendary of Durham, by Grace,
daughter of Charles Coote, Dean of Kilfenora, and sister of Lord
Castlecoote. His eldest brother, Henry, was Archdeacon of Norwich; his
next, Sir James, K.C.B., was in the army and was aide-de-camp to Lord
Wellington in the Peninsula.
Benjamin, the third son of the bishop, was born March 14, 1784,[2] and
had been secretary of the Legation at Leghorn. In May, 1805, he married
Phillida, daughter of Sir John Call, Bart., of Whiteford, in Cornwall,
and sister of Sir William Pratt Call, the second baronet. Benjamin is a
Christian name that occurs repeatedly in the Bathurst family after the
founder of it, Sir Benjamin, Governor of the East India Company and of
the Royal African Company. He died in 1703. The grandfather of the
subject of our memoir was a Benjamin, brother of Allen, who was created
Baron in 1711, and Earl in 1772.
Benjamin had three children: a son who died, some years after his
father's disappearance, in consequence of a fall from a horse at a race
in Rome; a daughter, who was drowned in the Tiber; and another who
married the Earl of Castlestuart in 1830, and after his death married
Signor Pistocchi.
In 1809, early in the year, Benjamin was sent to Vienna by his kinsman,
Earl Bathurst, who was in the ministry of Lord Castlereagh, and, in
October, Secretary of State for the Foreign Department. He was sent on a
secret embassy from the English Government to the Court of the Emperor
Francis. The time was one of great and critical importance to Austria.
Since the Peace of Pressburg she had been quiet; the Cabinet of Vienna
had adhered with cautious prudence to a system of neutrality, but she
only waited her time, and in 1808 the government issued a decree by
which a militia, raised by a conscription, under the name of the
"Landwehr," was instituted, and this speedily reached the number of
300,000 men. Napoleon, who was harassed by the insurrection in the
Peninsula, demanded angrily an explanation, which was evaded. To overawe
Austria, he met the Emperor Alexander of Russia at Erfurth, and the
latter when sounded by Austria refused to have any part in the
confederation against Napoleon. England, in the meantime, was urging
Austria to cast down the gauntlet. In pledge of amity, the port of
Trieste was thrown open to the English and Spanish flags. In December, a
declaration of the King of England openly alluded to the hostile
preparations of Austria, but the Cabinet at Vienna were as yet undecided
as to the course they would finally adopt. The extreme peril which the
monarchy had undergone already in the wars with Napoleon made them
hesitate. England was about to send fifty thousand men to the Peninsula,
and desired the diversion of a war in the heart of Germany. Prussia
resolved to remain neutral. Napoleon rapidly returned from Spain, and
orders were despatched to Davoust to concentrate his immense corps at
Bamberg; Massena was to repair to Strasburg, and press on to Ulm;
Oudenot to move on Augsburg, and Bernadotte, at the head of the Saxons,
was to menace Bohemia. It was at this juncture that Benjamin Bathurst
hurried as Ambassador Extraordinary to Vienna, to assure the Cabinet
there of the intentions of England to send a powerful contingent into
Spain, and to do all in his power to urge Austria to declare war.
Encouraged by England, the Cabinet of Vienna took the initiative, and on
April 8 the Austrian troops crossed the frontier at once on the Inn, in
Bohemia, in Tyrol, and in Italy.
The irritation and exasperation of Napoleon were great; and Bathurst,
who remained with the Court, laboured under the impression that the
Emperor of the French bore him especial enmity, on account of his
exertions to provoke the Austrian Ministry to declaration of war.
Whether this opinion of his were well founded, or whether he had been
warned that Napoleon would take the opportunity, if given him, of
revenging himself, we do not know; but what is certain is, that Bathurst
was prepossessed with the conviction that Napoleon regarded him with
implacable hostility and would leave no stone unturned to compass his
destruction.
On July 6 came the battle of Wagram, then the humiliating armistice of
Znaim, which was agreed to by the Emperor Francis at Komorn in spite of
the urgency of Metternich and Lord Walpole, who sought to persuade him
to reject the proposals. This armistice was the preliminary to a peace
which was concluded at Schönbrun in October. With this, Bathurst's
office at Vienna came to an end, and he set out on his way home. Now it
was that he repeatedly spoke of the danger that menaced him, and of his
fears lest Napoleon should arrest him on his journey to England. He
hesitated for some time which road to take, and concluding that if he
went by Trieste and Malta he might run the worst risks, he resolved to
make his way to London by Berlin and the north of Germany. He took with
him his private secretary and a valet; and, to evade observation,
assumed the name of Koch, and pretended that he was a travelling
merchant. His secretary was instructed to act as courier, and he passed
under the name of Fisher. Benjamin Bathurst carried pistols about his
person, and there were firearms in the back of the carriage.
On November 25, 1809, about midday, he arrived at Perleberg, with
post-horses, on the route from Berlin to Hamburg, halted at the
post-house for refreshments, and ordered fresh horses to be harnessed
to the carriage for the journey to Lenzen, which was the next station.
Bathurst had come along the highway from Berlin to Schwerin, in
Brandenburg, as far as the little town of Perleberg, which lies on the
Stepnitz, that flows after a few miles into the Elbe at Wittenberge. He
might have gone on to Ludwigslust, and thence to Hamburg, but this was a
considerable détour, and he was anxious to be home. He had now before
him a road that led along the Elbe close to the frontier of Saxony. The
Elbe was about four miles distant. At Magdeburg were French troops. If
he were in danger anywhere, it would be during the next few hours--that
is, till he reached Dömitz. About a hundred paces from the post-house
was an inn, the White Swan, the host of which was named Leger. By the
side of the inn was the Parchimer gate of the town, furnished with a
tower, and the road to Hamburg led through this gate, outside of which
was a sort of suburb consisting of poor cottagers' and artisans' houses.
Benjamin Bathurst went to the Swan and ordered an early dinner; the
horses were not to be put in till he had dined. He wore a pair of grey
trousers, a grey frogged short coat, and over it a handsome sable
greatcoat lined with violet velvet. On his head was a fur cap to match.
In his scarf was a diamond pin of some value.
As soon as he had finished his meal, Bathurst inquired who was in
command of the soldiers quartered in the town, and where he lodged. He
was told that a squadron of the Brandenburg cuirassiers was there under
Captain Klitzing, who was residing in a house behind the Town Hall. Mr.
Bathurst then crossed the market place and called on the officer, who
was at the time indisposed with a swollen neck. To Captain Klitzing he
said that he was a traveller on his way to Hamburg, that he had strong
and well-grounded suspicions that his person was endangered, and he
requested that he might be given a guard in the inn, where he was
staying. A lady who was present noticed that he seemed profoundly
agitated, that he trembled as though ague-stricken, and was unable to
raise a cup of tea that was offered him to his lips without spilling it.
The captain laughed at his fears, but consented to let him have a couple
of soldiers, and gave the requisite orders for their despatch; then Mr.
Bathurst rose, resumed his sable overcoat, and, to account for his
nervous difficulty in getting into his furs again, explained that he was
much shaken by something that had alarmed him.
Not long after the arrival of Mr. Bathurst at the Swan, two Jewish
merchants arrived from Lenzen with post-horses, and left before
nightfall.
On Mr. Bathurst's return to the inn, he countermanded the horses; he
said he would not start till night. He considered that it would be safer
for him to spin along the dangerous portion of the route by night when
Napoleon's spies would be less likely to be on the alert. He remained in
the inn writing and burning papers. At seven o'clock he dismissed the
soldiers on guard, and ordered the horses to be ready by nine. He stood
outside the inn watching his portmanteau, which had been taken within,
being replaced on the carriage, stepped round to the heads of the
horses--_and was never seen again_.
It must be remembered that this was at the end of November. Darkness had
closed in before 5 P.M., as the sun set at four. An oil lantern hung
across the street, emitting a feeble light; the ostler had a horn
lantern, wherewith he and the postillion adjusted the harness of the
horses. The landlord was in the doorway talking to the secretary, who,
as courier, was paying the account. No one particularly observed the
movements of Mr. Bathurst at the moment. He had gone to the horses'
heads, where the ostler's lantern had fallen on him. The horses were in,
the postillion ready, the valet stood by the carriage door, the landlord
had his cap in hand ready to wish the gentleman a "lucky journey;" the
secretary was impatient, as the wind was cold. They waited; they sent up
to the room which Mr. Bathurst had engaged; they called. All in vain.
Suddenly, inexplicably, without a word, a cry, an alarm of any sort, he
was gone--spirited away, and what really became of him will never be
known with certainty.
Whilst the whole house was in amazement and perplexity the Jewish
merchants ordered their carriage to be got ready, and departed.
Some little time elapsed before it was realised that the case was
serious. Then it occurred to the secretary that Mr. Bathurst might have
gone again to the captain in command to solicit guards to attend his
carriage. He at once sent to the captain, but Mr. Bathurst was not with
him. The moment, however, that Klitzing heard that the traveller had
disappeared, he remembered the alarm expressed by the gentleman, and
acted with great promptitude. He sent soldiers to seize the carriage and
all the effects of the missing man. He went, in spite of his swollen
neck, immediately to the Swan, ordered a chaise, and required the
secretary to enter it; he placed a cuirassier and the valet on the box,
and, stepping into the carriage, ordered it to be driven to the Golden
Crown, an inn at the further end of the town, where he installed the
companions of Bathurst, and placed a soldier in guard over them. A guard
was also placed over the Swan, and next morning every possible search
was made for the lost man. The river was dragged, outhouses, woods,
marshes, ditches were examined, but not a trace of him could be found.
That day was Sunday. Klitzing remained at Perleberg only till noon, to
wait some discovery, and then, without delay, hurried to Kyritz, where
was his commandant, Colonel Bismark, to lay the case before him, and
solicit leave to hasten direct to Berlin, there to receive further
instructions what was to be done.
He was back on Monday with full authority to investigate the matter.
Before he left he had gone over the effects of Mr. Bathurst, and had
learned that the fur coat belonging to him was missing; he communicated
this fact to the civil magistrate of the district, and whilst he was
away search was instituted for this. It was the sable coat lined with
violet velvet already mentioned, and this, along with another belonging
to the secretary, Fisher was under the impression had been left in the
post-house.
The amazing part of the matter is that the city authorities--and,
indeed, on his return, Captain Klitzing--for a while confined themselves
to a search for the fur coat, and valuable time was lost by this means.
Moreover, the city authorities, the police, and the military were all
independent, and all jealous of each other. The military commander,
Klitzing, and the burgomaster were in open quarrel, and sent up to
headquarters charges against each other for interference in the matter
beyond their rights. The head of the police was inert, a man afterwards
dismissed for allowing defalcation in the monies entrusted to him. There
was no system in the investigation, and the proper clues were not
followed.
On December 16th, two poor women went out of Perleberg to a little fir
wood in the direction of Quitzow, to pick up broken sticks for fuel.
There they found, a few paces from a path leading through the wood,
spread out on the grass, a pair of trousers turned inside out. On
turning them back they observed that they were stained on the outside,
as if the man who had worn them had lain on the earth. In the pocket was
a paper with writing on it; this, as well as the trousers, was sodden
with water. Two bullet holes were in the trousers, but no traces of
blood about them, which could hardly have been the case had the bullets
struck a man wearing the trousers. The women took what they had found to
the burgomaster. The trousers were certainly those of the missing man.
The paper in the pocket was a half-finished letter from Mr. Bathurst to
his wife, scratched in pencil, stating that he was afraid he would never
reach England, and that his ruin would be the work of Count
d'Entraigues, and he requested her not to marry again in the event of
his not returning.
The English Government offered £1,000 reward, and his family another
£1,000; Prince Frederick of Prussia, who took a lively interest in the
matter, offered in addition 100 Friedrichs d'or for the discovery of the
body, or for information which might lead to the solution of the
mystery, but no information to be depended upon ever transpired. Various
rumours circulated; and Mrs. Thistlethwaite, the sister of Benjamin
Bathurst, in her Memoirs of Dr. Henry Bathurst, Bishop of Norwich,
published by Bentley in 1853, gives them. He was said to have been lost
at sea. Another report was that he was murdered by his valet, who took
an open boat on the Elbe, and escaped. Another report again was that he
had been lost in a vessel which was crossing to Sweden and which
foundered about this time. These reports are all totally void of truth.
Mrs. Thistlethwaite declares that Count d'Entraigues, who was afterwards
so cruelly murdered along with his wife by their Italian servant, was
heard to say that he could prove that Mr. Bathurst was murdered in the
fortress of Magdeburg. In a letter to his wife, dated October 14, 1809,
Benjamin Bathurst said that he trusted to reach home by way of Colberg
and Sweden. D'Entraigues had been a French spy in London; and Mrs.
Thistlethwaite says that he himself told Mrs. Bathurst that her husband
had been carried off by _douaniers-montés_ from Perleberg to Magdeburg,
and murdered there. This it is hard to believe.
Thomas Richard Underwood, in a letter from Paris, November 24, 1816,
says he was a prisoner of war in Paris in 1809, and that both the
English and French there believed that the crime of his abduction and
murder had been committed by the French Government.
The "European Magazine" for January, 1810, says that he was apparently
carried off by a party of French troops stationed at Lenzen, but this
was not the case. No French troops were on that side of the Elbe. It
further says, "The French Executive, with a view to ascertain by his
papers the nature of the relations subsisting between this country and
the Austrian Government, has added to the catalogue of its crimes by the
seizure, or probably the murder, of this gentleman."
If there had been French troops seen we should have known of it; but
none were. Every effort was made by the civil and military authorities
to trace Bathurst. Bloodhounds were employed to track the lost man, in
vain. Every well was explored, the bed of the Stepnitz thoroughly
searched. Every suspicious house in Perleberg was examined from attic to
cellar, the gardens were turned up, the swamps sounded, but every effort
to trace and discover him was in vain.
On January 23, 1810, in a Hamburg paper, appeared a paragraph, which for
the first time informed the people of Perleberg who the merchant Koch
really was who had so mysteriously vanished. The paragraph was in the
form of a letter, dated from London, January 6, 1810--that is, six weeks
after the disappearance. It ran thus: "Sir Bathurst, Ambassador
Extraordinary of England to the Court of Austria, concerning whom a
German newspaper, under date of December 10, stated that he had
committed suicide in a fit of insanity, is well in mind and body. His
friends have received a letter from him dated December 13, which,
therefore, must have been written after the date of his supposed death."
Who inserted this, and for what purpose? It was absolutely untrue. Was
it designed to cause the authorities to relax their efforts to probe the
mystery, and perhaps to abandon them altogether?
The Jewish merchants were examined, but were at once discharged; they
were persons well-to-do, and generally respected.
Was it possible that Mr. Bathurst had committed suicide? This was the
view taken of his disappearance in France, where, in the "Moniteur" of
December 12, 1809, a letter from the correspondent in Berlin stated:
"Sir Bathurst on his way from Berlin showed signs of insanity, and
destroyed himself in the neighbourhood of Perleberg." On January 23,
1810, as already said, the "Times" took the matter up, and not obscurely
charged the Emperor Napoleon with having made away with Mr. Bathurst,
who was peculiarly obnoxious to him.
In the mean time, the fur coat had been found, hidden in the cellar of a
family named Schmidt, behind some firewood. Frau Schmidt declared that
it had been left at the post house, where she had found it; and had
conveyed it away, and given it to her son Augustus, a fellow of
notoriously bad character. Now, it is remarkable that one witness
declared that she had seen the stranger who had disappeared go out of
the square down the narrow lane in which the Schmidts lived, and where
eventually the fur coat was found. When questioned, Augustus Schmidt
said that "his mother had told him the stranger had two pistols, and had
sent her to buy him some powder. He supposed therefore that the
gentleman had shot himself." Unfortunately the conflict of authorities
acted prejudicially at this point, and the questions how the Schmidts
came to know anything about the pistols, whether Frau Schmidt really was
sent for powder, and whether Bathurst was really seen entering the alley
in which they lived, and at what hour, were never properly entered into.
Whatever information Klitzing obtained, was forwarded to Berlin, and
there his reports remain in the archives. They have not been examined.
Fresh quarrels broke out between Klitzing and the Burgomaster, and
Klitzing instead of pursuing the main investigations, set to work to
investigate the proceedings of the Burgomaster. So more time was lost.
On Thursday, November 30th, that is to say, five days after the
disappearance of Bathurst, Captain Klitzing ordered the town
magistrates; 1. To have all ditches and canals round the place examined;
2. To have the neighbourhood of the town explored by foresters with
hounds; 3. To let off the river Stepnitz and examine the bed. Then he
added, "as I have ascertained that Augustus Schmidt, who is now under
arrest for the theft of the fur coat, was _not at home at the time that
the stranger disappeared_, I require that this fact be taken into
consideration, and investigated"--and this, as far as we can ascertain,
was not done; it was just one of those valuable clues which were left
untraced.
The whole neighbourhood was searched, ditches, ponds, the river bed,
drains, every cellar, and garden, and nothing found. The search went on
to December 6, and proved wholly resultless. It was not till December 16
that the trousers were found. It is almost certain that they were laid
in the Quitzow wood after the search had been given over, on December
6th.
As nothing could be proved against the Schmidt family, except that they
had taken the fur coat, Frau Schmidt and her son were sentenced to eight
weeks' imprisonment.
The matter of the pistols was not properly cleared up. That, again, was
a point, and an important point that remained uninvestigated.
The military authorities who examined the goods of Mr. Bathurst declared
that nothing was missing except the fur cloak, which was afterwards
recovered, and we suppose these pistols were included. If not, one may
be sure that some notice would have been taken of the fact that he had
gone off with his pistols, and had not returned. This would have lent
colour to the opinion that he destroyed himself. Besides no shot was
heard. A little way outside the gateway of the town beyond the Swan inn
is a bridge over the small and sluggish stream of the Stepnitz. It was
possible he might have shot himself there, and fallen into the water;
but this theory will not bear looking closely into. A shot fired there
would certainly have been heard at night in the cottages beside the
road; the river was searched shortly after without a trace of him having
been found, and his trousers with bullet holes made in them after they
had been taken off him had been discovered in another direction.
The "Moniteur" of January 29 said: "Among the civilised races, England
is the only one that sets an example of having bandits[3] in pay, and
inciting to crime. From information we have received from Berlin, we
believe that Mr. Bathurst had gone off his head. It is the manner of the
British Cabinet to commit diplomatic commissions to persons whom the
whole nation knows are half fools. It is only the English diplomatic
service which contains crazy people."
This violent language was at the time attributed to Napoleon's
dictation, stung with the charge made by the "Times," a charge ranking
him with "vulgar murderers," and which attributed to him two other and
somewhat similar cases, that of Wagstaff, and that of Sir George
Rumbold. It is very certain that the "Moniteur" would not have ventured
on such insulting language without his permission.
In April Mrs. Bathurst, along with some relatives, arrived in
Perleberg. The poor lady was in great distress and anxiety to have the
intolerable suspense alleviated by a discovery of some sort, and the
most liberal offers were made and published to induce a disclosure of
the secret. At this time a woman named Hacker, the wife of a peasant who
lived in the shoe-market, was lying in the town gaol--the tower already
mentioned, adjoining the White Swan. She was imprisoned for various
fraudulent acts. She now offered to make a confession, and this was her
statement:
"A few weeks before Christmas I was on my way to Perleberg from a place
in Holstein, where my husband had found work. In the little town of
Seeberg, twelve miles from Hamburg, I met the shoemaker's assistant
Goldberger, of Perleberg, whom I knew from having danced with him. He
was well-dressed, and had from his fob hanging a hair-chain with gold
seals. His knitted silk purse was stuffed with louis d'ors. When I asked
him how he came by so much money, he said, 'Oh, I got 500 dollars and
the watch as hush-money when the Englishman was murdered.' He told me no
more particulars, except that one of the seals was engraved with a name,
and he had had that altered in Hamburg."
No credit was given to this story, and no inquiry was instituted into
the whereabouts of Goldberger. It was suspected that the woman had
concocted it in the hopes of getting Mrs. Bathurst to interest herself
in obtaining her release, and of getting some of the money offered to
informers.
Mrs. Bathurst did not return immediately to England; she appealed to
Napoleon to grant her information, and he assured her through
Cambacières, and on his word of honour, that he knew nothing of the
matter beyond what he had seen in the papers.
So the matter rested, an unsolved mystery.
In Prussia, among the great bulk of the educated, in the higher and
official classes, the prevailing conviction was that Napoleon had caused
the disappearance of Bathurst, not out of personal feeling, but in
political interests, for the purpose of getting hold of the dispatches
which he was believed to be conveying to England from the Austrian
Government. The murder was held to be an accident, or an unavoidable
consequence. And in Perleberg itself this was the view taken of the
matter as soon as it was known who the stranger was. But then, another
opinion prevailed there, that Klitzing had secretly conveyed him over
the frontier, so as to save him from the spies, and the pursuit which,
as he and Bathurst knew, endangered the safety of the returning envoy.
In Perleberg two opinions were formed, by such as conceived that he had
been murdered, as to the manner in which he had been made away with.
Not far from the post-house was at the time a low tavern kept by Hacker,
who has been mentioned above; the man combined shoemaking with the sale
of brandy. Augustus Schmidt spent a good deal of his time in this house.
Now shortly after this affair, Hacker left Perleberg, and set up at
Altona, where he showed himself possessed of a great deal of money. He
was also said to have disposed of a gold repeater watch to a jeweller in
Hamburg. This was never gone into; and how far it was true, or idle
rumour, cannot be said. One view was that Bathurst had been robbed and
murdered by Hacker and Schmidt.
The other opinion was this. Opposite the post-house was a house occupied
at the time by a fellow who was a paid French spy; a man who was tried
for holding secret communication with the enemy of his Fatherland. He
was a petty lawyer, who stirred up quarrels among the peasants, and
lived by the result. He was a man of the worst possible character,
capable of anything. The opinion of one section of the people of
Perleberg was, that Bathurst, before entering the carriage, had gone
across the square, and had entered into conversation with this man, who
had persuaded him to enter his door, where he had strangled him, and
buried him in his cellar. The widow of this man on her death-bed
appeared anxious to confess something, but died before she could speak.
In 1852 a discovery was made at Perleberg which may or may not give the
requisite solution.
We may state before mentioning this that Captain Klitzing never believed
that Bathurst had been spirited away by French agents. He maintained
that he had been murdered for his money.
On April 15, 1852, a house on the Hamburg road that belonged to the
mason Kiesewetter was being pulled down, when a human skeleton was
discovered under the stone threshold of the stable. The skeleton lay
stretched out, face upwards, on the black peat earth, covered with
mortar and stone chips, the head embedded in walling-stones and mortar.
In the back of the skull was a fracture, as if a blow of a heavy
instrument had fallen on it. All the upper teeth were perfect, but one
of the molars in the lower jaw was absent, and there were indications of
its having been removed by a dentist. The house where these human
remains were found had been purchased in 1834 by the mason Kiesewetter
from Christian Mertens, who had inherited it from his father, which
latter had bought it in 1803 of a shoemaker. _Mertens, the father, had
been a serving man in the White Swan at the time of the disappearance of
Mr. Bathurst._
Inquiry was made into what was known of old Mertens. Everyone spoke
highly of him as a saving, steady man, God-fearing; who had scraped
together during his service in the Swan sufficient money to dower his
two daughters with respectively £150 and £120. After a long illness he
had died, generally respected.
Information of the discovery was forwarded to the Bathurst family, and
on August 23, Mrs. Thistlethwaite, sister of Benjamin, came to
Perleberg, bringing with her a portrait of her brother, but she was
quite unable to say that the skull that was shown her belonged to the
missing man, whom she had not seen for forty-three years. And--no
wonder! When Goethe was shown the skull of his intimate friend Schiller
he could hardly trace any likeness to the head he remembered so well.
Mrs. Thistlethwaite left, believing that the discovery had no connection
with the mystery of her brother's disappearance, so ineradicably fixed
in the convictions of the family was the belief that he had been carried
away by French agents.
However, let us consider this discovery a little closer, and perhaps we
shall be led to another conclusion.
In the first place, the skeleton was that of a man who had been murdered
by a blow on the back of his head, which had fractured the skull. It had
been stripped before being buried, for not a trace of clothing could be
found.
Secondly, the house of the Mertens family lay on the Hamburg road, on
the way to Lenzen, outside the Parchimer Gate, only three hundred paces
from the White Swan. In fact, it was separated from the White Swan only
by the old town-gate and prison tower, and a small patch of garden
ground.
At the time of the disappearance of Mr. Bathurst it was inhabited by
Christian Mertens, who was servant at the White Swan. No examination was
made at the time of the loss of Bathurst into the whereabouts of
Mertens, nor was his cottage searched. It was assumed that he was at the
inn waiting for his "vale," like the ostler and the _Kellner_. It is
quite possible that he may have been standing near the horses' heads,
and that he may have gone on with Mr. Bathurst a few steps to show him
the direction he was to go; or, with the pretence that he had important
information to give him, he may have allured him into his cottage, and
there murdered him, or, again, he may have drawn him on to where by
pre-arrangement Goldberger was lying in wait with a hammer or hatchet to
strike him down from behind. Considering how uneasy Mr. Bathurst was
about the road, and how preoccupied with the idea that French spies and
secret agents were on the look-out for him, he might easily have been
induced by a servant of the inn where he was staying to go a few steps
through the gate, beyond earshot of the post-boy and landlord and
ostler, to hear something which the boots pretended was of importance to
him. Goldberger or another may have lain in wait in the blackness of the
shadow of the gateway but a short distance from the lights about the
carriage, and by one stroke have silenced him. It is possible that
Augustus Schmidt may have been mixed up in the matter, and that the
sable coat was taken off Mr. Bathurst when dead.
Again, Mertens was able on the marriage of his two daughters to give one
150_l._ and the other 120_l._ This would mean that Mertens had saved as
boots of the Swan at the least 300_l._, for he would not give every
penny to his children. Surely this was a considerable sum for a boots in
a little inn to amass from his wage and from "vales."
Mrs. Thistlethwaite asserts in her Memoirs of Bishop Bathurst that
shortly after the disappearance of her brother the ostler--can she mean
Mertens?--also disappeared, ran away. But we do not know of any
corroborating evidence.
Lastly, the discovery of the trousers in the wood near Quitzow points to
the traveller having been murdered in Perleberg; the murderers, whoever
they were, finding that an investigation of houses, barns, gardens and
stables was being made, took the garments of the unfortunate man,
discharged a couple of shots through them to make believe he had been
fired at by several persons lying in wait for him, and then exposed
them in a place away from the road along which Mr. Bathurst was going.
The man who carried these garments was afraid of being observed, and he
probably did not go through the town with them, but made a circuit to
the wood, and for the same reason did not take them very far. The road
to Lenzen ran S.W. and that to Quitzow N.W. He placed the trousers near
the latter, but did not venture to cross the highway. He could get to
the wood over the fields unperceived.
Supposing that this is the solution of the mystery, one thing remains to
be accounted for--the paragraph in the Hamburg paper dated from London,
announcing that Mr. Bathurst was alive and had been heard of since the
disappearance.
This, certainly, seems to have been inserted with a design to divert or
allay suspicion, and it was generally held to have been sent from London
by a French agent, on instruction from Paris. But it is possible that
the London correspondent may have heard a coffee-house rumour that
Bathurst was still alive, and at once reported it to the paper. Its
falsehood was palpable, and would be demonstrated at once by the family
of the lost man to the authorities at Perleberg. It could not answer the
purpose of arresting inquiry and staying investigation.
It remains only to inquire whether it was probable that Napoleon had any
hand in the matter.
What could induce him to lay hands on an envoy? He could not expect to
find on the person of Mr. Bathurst any important dispatches, for the war
was over, peace with Austria was concluded. He was doubtless angry at
Austria having declared war, and angry at England having instigated her
to do so, but Mr. Bathurst was very small game indeed on which to wreak
his anger; moreover, the peace that had been concluded with Austria gave
great advantages to France. He can have had no personal dislike to
Bathurst, for he never saw him. When Napoleon entered Vienna, Bathurst
was with the Emperor Francis in Hungary, at Komorn.
And yet, he may have suspected that Austria was insincere, and was
anxious to renew the conflict, if she could obtain assurance of
assistance from England. He may have thought that by securing the papers
carried to England by Bathurst, he would get at the real intentions of
Austria, and so might be prepared for consequences. We cannot say. The
discovery of the body in Mertens' house, under the threshold--supposing
it to be that of Bathurst, does not by any means prove that the murder
was a mere murder for the purpose of robbery.
If Napoleon had given instructions for the capture of Bathurst, and the
taking from him of his papers, it does not follow that he ordered his
murder, on the contrary, he would have given instructions that he should
be robbed--as if by highwaymen--and let go with his life. The murder was
against his wishes, if he did give orders for him to be robbed.
The Bathurst family never doubted that Benjamin had been murdered by the
agents of Napoleon. It is certain that he was well aware that his safety
was menaced, and menaced at Perleberg. That was why he at once on
reaching the place asked for the protection of a guard. He had received
warning from some one, and such warning shows that an attempt to rob him
of his papers was in contemplation.
That caution to be on his guard must have been given him, before he left
Vienna. He probably received another before he reached Perleberg, for he
appeared before the Commandant in a state of great alarm and agitation.
That this was mere spiritual presage of evil is hardly credible. We
cannot doubt--and his letter to his wife leads to this conviction--that
he had been warned that spies in the pay of the French Government were
on the look-out for him. Who the agents were that were employed to get
hold of his papers, supposing that the French Government did attempt to
waylay him, can never be determined, whether Mertens or Augustus
Schmidt.
In 1815 Earl Bathurst was Secretary of State for War and the Colonial
Department. May we not suspect that there was some mingling of personal
exultation along with political satisfaction, in being able to send to
St. Helena the man who had not only been the scourge of Europe, and the
terror of kings, but who, as he supposed--quite erroneously we
believe--had inflicted on his own family an agony of suspense and doubt
that was never to be wholly removed?
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The discovery of a skeleton as described was denied afterwards by
the Magdeburg papers. It was a newspaper sensational paragraph, and
unfounded.
[2] Register of Baptisms, Christchurch, Oxford, 1784, March 14,
Benjamin, s. of Henry Bathurst, Canon, and Grace his wife, born, and
bap. April 19.
[3] When, in 1815, Napoleon was at St. Helena, on his first introduction
to Sir Hudson Lowe, he addressed the governor with the insulting words,
"Monsieur, vous avez commandé des brigands." He alluded to the Corsican
rangers in the British service, which Lowe had commanded.
The Duchess of Kingston.
Elizabeth Chudleigh, Countess of Bristol and Duchess of Kingston, who
was tried for bigamy in Westminster Hall by the Peers in 1776, was, it
can hardly be doubted, the original from whom Thackeray drew his
detailed portrait of Beatrix Esmond, both as young Trix and as the old
Baroness Bernstein; nor can one doubt that what he knew of his prototype
was taken from that scandalous little book, "An Authentic Detail of
Particulars relative to the late Duchess of Kingston," published by G.
Kearsley in 1788. Thackeray not only reproduced some of the incidents of
her life, but more especially caught the features of her character.
Poor Trix! Who does not remember her coming down the great staircase at
Walcote, candle in hand, in her red stockings and with a new cherry
ribbon round her neck, her eyes like blue stars, her brown hair curling
about her head, and not feel a lingering liking for the little coquette,
trying to catch my Lord Mohun, and the Duke of Hamilton, and many
another, and missing all? and for the naughty old baroness, with her
scandalous stories, her tainted past, her love of cards, her complete
unscrupulousness, and yet with one soft corner in the withered heart for
the young Virginians?
The famous, or infamous, Duchess has had hard measure dealt out to her,
which she in part deserved; but some of the stories told of her are
certainly not true, and one circumstance in her life, if true, goes far
to palliate her naughtiness. Unfortunately, almost all we know of her is
taken from unfriendly sources. The only really impartial source of
information is the "Trial," published by order of the Peers, but that
covers only one portion of her life, and one set of incidents.
Elizabeth Chudleigh was the daughter of Colonel Thomas Chudleigh, of
Chelsea, and his wife Henrietta, who was his first cousin, the fourth
daughter of Hugh Chudleigh, of Chalmington, in Dorset. Thomas was the
only brother of Sir George Chudleigh, fourth baronet of Asheton, in
Devon. As Sir George left only daughters, Thomas, the brother of
Elizabeth, whose baptism in 1718 is recorded in the Chelsea registers,
succeeded as fifth baronet in 1738. Unfortunately the Chelsea registers
do not give the baptism of Elizabeth, and we are not able to state her
precise age, about which there is some difference. Her father had a post
in Chelsea College, but apparently she was not born there. There can,
however, be little doubt that she saw the light for the first time in
1726, and not in 1720, as is generally asserted.
Her family was one of great antiquity in the county of Devon, and was
connected by marriage with the first families of the west of England.
The old seat, Asheton, lies in a pleasant coombe under the ridge of
Haldon; some remains of the old mansion, and venerable trees of the
park, linger on; and in the picturesque parish church, perched on a rock
in the valley, are many family monuments and heraldic blazonings of the
Chudleigh lions, gules on an ermine field. Elizabeth lost her father
very early, and the widow was left on a poor pension to support and
advance the prospects of her two children. Though narrowed in fortune,
Mrs. Chudleigh had good connections, and she availed herself of these to
push her way in the world. At the age of sixteen--that is, in
1743--Elizabeth was given the appointment of maid of honour to the
Princess of Wales, through the favour of Mr. Pulteney, afterwards Earl
of Bath, who had met her one day while out shooting. The old beau was
taken with the vivacity, intelligence and beauty of the girl. She was
then not only remarkable for her beauty, delicacy of complexion, and
sparkling eyes, but also for the brilliancy of her wit and the
liveliness of her humour. Even her rival, the Marquise de la Touche, of
whom more hereafter, bears testimony to her charms. Pulteney, himself a
witty, pungent, and convivial man, was delighted with the cleverness of
the lovely girl, and amused himself with drawing it out. In after years,
when she was asked the secret of her sparkling repartee, she replied, "I
always aim to be short, clear, and surprising."
The Princess of Wales, Augusta, daughter of Frederick of Saxe-Gotha, who
with the Prince, Frederick Lewis, had their court at Leicester House,
became greatly attached to her young maid of honour. The beautiful Miss
Chudleigh was speedily surrounded by admirers, among whom was James,
sixth Duke of Hamilton, born in 1724, and therefore two years her
senior.
According to the "Authentic Detail," the Duke obtained from her a
solemn engagement that, on his return from a tour on the Continent which
he was about to take, she would become his wife. Then he departed,
having arranged for a mutual correspondence.
In the summer of 1744 she went on a visit to Lainston, near Winchester,
to her maternal aunt, Anne Hanmer, who was then living at the house of
Mr. Merrill, the son of another aunt, Susanna, who was dead.
To understand the relationship of the parties, a look will suffice at
the following pedigree.[4]
Sir George Chudleigh = Elizabeth, da. of Hugh Fortescue
2nd Bart. |
|
+---------------------+-----------------------+
| |
Hugh Chudleigh = Susanna da. Sir George Chudleigh = Mary da.
2nd surv. son, | Sir R. Stroud. s. & h., 3rd Bart., | R. Lee,
d. 1716. | d. 1719. | d. 1710.
| |
+----------+-----------+ +----------------------+
| | | | |
Susanna, Anne, Henrietta = Thomas Chudleigh, Sir George
d. 1740, d. 1764, d. 1756. | 2nd son, Chudleigh,
m. John m. Wm. | d. before 1734. 4th Bart.
Merrill. Hanmer. | d. s. p.
| 1738.
+-----------+--------------+
| |
ELIZABETH, Sir Thomas Chudleigh,
Duchess of Kingston, 5th Bart., d. s. p. 1741.
d. 1788.
Mrs. Hanmer, a widow, kept house for her nephew, who was squire. At the
Winchester races, to which she went with a party, Elizabeth met
Lieutenant Hervey, second son of the late John, Lord Hervey, and
grandson of the Earl of Bristol. Lieutenant Hervey, who was in the
"Cornwall," then lying at Portsmouth, a vessel in Sir John Danver's
squadron, was born in 1724, and was therefore two years the senior of
Elizabeth; indeed, at the time he was only just twenty. He was
fascinated by the beautiful girl, and was invited by Mrs. Hanmer to
Lainston. "To this gentleman," says the "Authentic Detail," "Mrs. Hanmer
became so exceedingly partial that she favoured his views on her niece,
and engaged her efforts to effect, if possible, a matrimonial connexion.
There were two difficulties which would have been insurmountable if not
opposed by the fertile genius of a female: Miss Chudleigh disliked
Captain Hervey, and she was betrothed to the Duke of Hamilton. To render
this last nugatory, the letters of his Grace were intercepted by Mrs.
Hanmer, and his supposed silence giving offence to her niece, she worked
so successfully on her pride as to induce her to abandon all thoughts of
the lover, whose passion she had cherished with delight."
Is this story true? It seems incredible that Mrs. Hanmer should have
urged her niece to throw over such a splendid prospect of family
advancement as that offered by marriage with the Duke of Hamilton, for
the sake of an impecunious young sailor who was without the means of
supporting his wife, and who, at that time, had not the faintest
expectation of succeeding to the Earldom of Bristol.
It is allowable to hope that the story of the engagement to the Duke of
Hamilton, broken through the intrigues of the aunt, is true, as it forms
some excuse for the after conduct of Elizabeth Chudleigh.
It is more probable that the Duke of Hamilton had not said anything to
Elizabeth, and did not write to her, at all events not till later. She
may have entertained a liking for him, but not receiving any token that
the liking was reciprocated, she allowed her aunt to engage and marry
her to young Hervey. That the poor girl had no fancy for the young man
is abundantly clear. The Attorney General, in the trial, said that Mrs.
Hanmer urged on the match "as advantageous to her niece;" but
advantageous it certainly was not, and gave no prospect of being.
In August, Augustus John Hervey got leave from his ship and came to
Lainston. The house, which had belonged to the Dawleys, had passed into
the possession of the Merrills. In the grounds stands the parish church,
but as the only house in the parish is the mansion, it came to be
regarded very much as the private chapel of the manor house. The living
went with Sparsholt. There was no parsonage attached, and though the
Dawleys had their children baptized in Lainston, they were registered in
the book of Sparsholt. The church is now an ivy-covered ruin, and the
mansion is much reduced in size from what it was in the time when it
belonged to the Merrills.
"Lainston is a small parish, the value of the living being £15 a year;
Mr. Merrill's the only house in it, and the parish church at the end of
his garden. On the 4th August, 1744, Mr. Amis, the then rector, was
appointed to be at the church, alone, late at night. At eleven o'clock
Mr. Hervey and Miss Chudleigh went out, as if to walk in the garden,
followed by Mrs. Hanmer, her servant--Anne Craddock, Mr. Merrill, and
Mr. Mountenay, which last carried a taper to read the service by. They
found Mr. Amis in the church, according to his appointment, and there
the service was celebrated, Mr. Mountenay holding the taper in his hat.
The ceremony being performed, Mrs. Hanmer's maid was despatched to see
that the coast was clear, and they returned into the house without being
observed by any of the servants." This is the account of the wedding
given at the trial by the Attorney General, from the evidence of Anne
Craddock, then the sole surviving witness.
There was no signing of registers, Mr. Amis was left to make the proper
entry in the Sparsholt book--and he forgot to do this. The happiness of
the newly-married couple lasted but a few days--two, or at the outside,
three; and then Lieutenant Hervey left to rejoin his vessel, and in
November sailed for the West Indies. The "Authentic Detail" declares
that a violent quarrel broke out immediately on marriage between the
young people, and that Elizabeth declared her aversion, and vowed never
to associate with him again.
So little was the marriage to her present advantage that Elizabeth was
unable to proclaim it, and thereby forfeit her situation as maid of
honour to the Princess, with its pay and perquisites. Consequently, by
her aunt's advice, she kept it concealed.
"Miss Chudleigh, now Mrs. Hervey,--a maid in appearance, a wife in
disguise,--seemed from those who judge from externals only, to be in an
enviable situation. Of the higher circles she was the attractive centre,
of gayer life the invigorating spirit. Her royal mistress not only
smiled on, but actually approved her. A few friendships she cemented,
and conquests she made in such abundance that, like Cæsar in a triumph,
she had a train of captives at her heels. Her husband, quieted for a
time, grew obstreperous as she became more the object of admiration. He
felt his right, and was determined to assert it. She endeavoured by
letter to negotiate him into peace, but her efforts succeeded not. He
demanded a private interview, and, enforcing his demands by threats of
exposure in case of refusal, she complied through compulsion."
The Duke of Hamilton returned from the grand tour, and he at once sought
Elizabeth to know why his letters had not been answered. Then the fraud
that had been practised on her was discovered, and the Duke laid his
coronet at her feet. She was unable to accept the offer, and unable also
to explain the reasons of her refusal. Rage at having been duped,
disappointment at having lost the strawberry leaves, embittered
Elizabeth, and stifled the germs of good principle in her.
This is the generally received story. It is that given by the author, or
authoress, of the "Authentic Detail," usually well informed. But, as we
have seen, it is hardly possible to suppose that Mrs. Hanmer can have
suppressed the Duke's letters. No doubt she was a fool, and a woman,
when a fool, is of abnormal folly, yet she never loses sight of her own
interest; and it was not Mrs. Hanmer's interest to spoil the chances of
her niece with the Duke.
After the Duke of Hamilton had been refused, and his visits to her
house in Conduit Street prohibited, the Duke of Ancaster, Lord Howe, and
other nobles made offers, and experienced a fate similar to that of his
Grace of Hamilton. This astonished the fashionable world, and Mrs.
Chudleigh, her mother, who was a stranger to the private marriage of her
daughter, reprehended her folly with warmth.[5] To be freed from her
embarrassments, Elizabeth resolved to travel. She embarked for the
Continent, and visited Dresden, where she became an attached friend of
the Electress of Saxony.
On her return to England she was subjected to annoyance from her
husband. She could not forgive him the deception practised on her,
though he was probably innocent of connivance in it.
"Captain Hervey, like a perturbed spirit, was eternally crossing the
path trodden by his wife. Was she in the rooms at Bath? he was sure to
be there. At a rout, ridotto, or ball, there was this fell destroyer of
peace, embittering every pleasure and blighting the fruit of happiness
by the pestilential malignity of his presence. As a proof of his
disposition to annoy, he menaced his wife with an intimation that he
would disclose the marriage to the Princess of Wales. In this Miss
Chudleigh anticipated him by being the first relater of the
circumstance. Her royal mistress heard and pitied her. She continued her
patronage to the hour of her death."
In 1749, Elizabeth attended a masquerade ball in the dress, or rather
undress, of the character of Iphigenia. In a letter of Mrs. Montague to
her sister, she says, "Miss Chudleigh's dress, or rather undress, was
remarkable, she was Iphigenia for the sacrifice, but so naked, the high
priest might easily inspect the entrails of the victim. The Maids of
Honour (not of maids the strictest) were so offended they would not
speak to her." Horace Walpole says, "Miss Chudleigh was Iphigenia, but
so naked that you would have taken her for Andromeda." It was of her
that the witty remark was then first made that she resembled Eve in that
she was "naked and not ashamed." On May 17th Walpole writes: "I told you
we were to have another masquerade; there was one by the King's command
for Miss Chudleigh, the Maid of Honour, with whom our gracious monarch
has a mind to believe himself in love, so much in love, that at one of
the booths he gave her a fairing for her watch, which cost him
five-and-thirty guineas, actually disbursed out of his privy purse, and
not charged on the civil list. I hope some future Holinshed or Speed
will acquaint posterity that five-and-thirty guineas were an immense sum
in those days."
In December 1750, George II. gave the situation of Housekeeper at
Windsor to Mrs. Chudleigh, Elizabeth's mother. Walpole says, "Two days
ago, the gallant Orondates (the King) strode up to Miss Chudleigh, and
told her he was glad to have the opportunity of obeying her commands,
that he appointed her mother Housekeeper at Windsor, and hoped she would
not think a kiss too great a reward--against all precedent he kissed her
in the circle. He has had a hankering these two years. Her life, which
is now of thirty years' standing, has been a little historic. Why should
not experience and a charming face on her side, and near seventy years
on his, produce a title?"
In 1760 she gave a soirée on the Prince's birthday, which Horace Walpole
describes: "Poor thing," he writes, "I fear she has thrown away above a
quarter's salary!"
The Duke of Kingston saw and was captivated by Elizabeth. Evelyn
Pierrepoint, Duke of Kingston, Marquis of Dorchester, Earl of Kingston,
and Viscount Newark, was born in 1711. Horace Walpole says of him that
he was "a very weak man, of the greatest beauty and finest person in
England."
He had been to Paris along with Lord Scarborough, taking with him an
entire horse as a present to the Duke of Bourbon, and was unable to do
this without a special Act of Parliament to authorise him. The Duke of
Bourbon, in return for the compliment, placed his palace at Paris, and
his château of Chantilly at the disposal of the visitor.
The Duke was handsome, young, wealthy and unmarried. A strong set was
made at him by the young ladies of the French court; but of all the
women he there met, none attracted his attentions and engaged his heart
but the Marquise de la Touche, a lady who had been married for ten years
and was the mother of three children. He finally persuaded her to elope
with him to England, where, however, he grew cold towards her, and when
he fell under the fascinations of Elizabeth Chudleigh he dismissed her.
The Marquise returned to France, and was reconciled to her husband;
there in 1786 she published her version of the story, and gave a history
of her rival, whom naturally she paints in the blackest colours.
Now follows an incident which is stated in the English accounts of the
life of Elizabeth Chudleigh; but of which there is no mention in the
trial, and which is of more than doubtful truth.
She had become desperate, resolved at all hazard to break the miserable
tie that bound her to Captain Hervey. She made a sudden descent on
Lainston--so runs the tale--visited the parsonage, and whilst Mr. Amis
was kept in conversation with one of her attendants, she tore out the
leaf of the register book that contained the entry of her marriage.
This story cannot possibly be true. As already said, Lainston has no
parsonage, and never had. Lainston goes with Sparsholt, half-a-mile off.
But Mr. Amis never held Sparsholt, but acted as curate there for a while
in 1756 and 1757. Lainston had no original register. What Elizabeth did
was probably to convince herself that through inadvertence, her marriage
had not been registered in the parish book of Sparsholt.
In 1751 died John, Earl of Bristol, and was succeeded by his grandson,
George William, who was unmarried. He was in delicate health; at one
time seriously ill, and it was thought he would die. In that case
Augustus John, Elizabeth's husband, would succeed to the Earldom of
Bristol. She saw now that it was to her interest to establish her
marriage. She accordingly took means to do so.
She went at once to Winchester and sent for the wife of Mr. Amis, who
had married her. She told Mrs. Amis that she wanted the register of her
marriage to be made out. Mr. Amis then lay on his death-bed, but,
nevertheless, she went to the rectory to obtain of him what she desired.
What ensued shall be told in the words of Mrs. Amis at the trial.
"I went up to Mr. Amis and told him her request. Then Mr. Merrill and
the lady consulted together whom to send for, and they desired me to
send for Mr. Spearing, the attorney. I did send for him, and during the
time the messenger was gone the lady concealed herself in a closet; she
said she did not care that Mr. Spearing should know that she was there.
When Mr. Spearing came, Mr. Merrill produced a sheet of stamped paper
that he brought to make the register upon. Mr. Spearing said it would
not do; it must be a book, and that the lady must be at the making of
it. Then I went to the closet and told the lady. Then the lady came to
Mr. Spearing, and Mr. Spearing told the lady a sheet of stamped paper
would not do, it must be a book. Then the lady desired Mr. Spearing to
go and buy one. Mr. Spearing went and bought one, and when brought, the
register was made. Then Mr. Amis delivered it to the lady; the lady
thanked him, and said it might be an hundred thousand pounds in her way.
Before Mr. Merrill and the lady left my house the lady sealed up the
register and gave it to me, and desired I would take care of it until
Mr. Amis's death, and then deliver it to Mr. Merrill."
The entries made thus were those:
"2 August, Mrs. Susanna Merrill, relict of John Merrill, Esq.
buried.
4 August, 1744, married the Honourable Augustus Hervey, Esq., in
the parish Church of Lainston, to Miss Elizabeth Chudleigh,
daughter of Col. Thomas Chudleigh, late of Chelsea College, by me,
Thos. Amis."
Unfortunately this register book was taken up to Westminster at the
trial of the Duchess and was never returned. Application was made to
Elbrow Woodcock, solicitor in the trial, for the return of the book, by
the then rector and patron of the living, but in vain; and in December,
1777, a new register book was purchased for the parish.
The Earl recovered, and did not die till some years later, in 1775, when
Augustus John did succeed to the earldom.
In 1751, the Prince of Wales died, and this necessitated a rearrangement
of the household of the Princess. Elizabeth was reappointed maid of
honour to her, still in her maiden name. Soon after--that is, in
1752--the Duke of Hamilton married the beautiful Miss Gunning.
In 1760 the king was dead. "Charles Townshend, receiving an account of
the impression the king's death had made," writes Walpole, "was told
Miss Chudleigh cried. 'What,' said he, 'oysters?'" "There is no keeping
off age," he writes in 1767, "as Miss Chudleigh does, by sticking roses
and sweet peas in one's hair."
Before this, in 1765, the Duke of Kingston's affection for her seeming
to wane, Elizabeth, who was getting fat as well as old, started for
Carlsbad to drink the waters. "She has no more wanted the Carlsbad
waters than you did," wrote Lord Chesterfield. "Is it to show the Duke
of Kingston he can not live without her? A dangerous experiment, which
may possibly convince him that he can. There is a trick, no doubt, in
it, but what, I neither know nor care." "Is the fair, or, at least, the
fat Miss Chudleigh with you still? It must be confessed she knows the
arts of courts to be so received at Dresden and so connived at in
Leicester Fields."
At last the bonds of a marriage in which he was never allowed even to
speak with his wife became intolerable to Captain Hervey; and some
negotiations were entered into between them, whereby it was agreed that
she should institute a suit in the Consistory Court of the Bishop of
London for the jactitation of the marriage, and that he should not
produce evidence to establish it. The case came on in the Michaelmas
term, 1768, and was in form, proceedings to restrain the Hon. Augustus
John Hervey from asserting that Elizabeth Chudleigh was his wife, "to
the great danger of his soul's health, no small prejudice to the said
Hon. Elizabeth Chudleigh, and pernicious example of others."
There was a counter-suit of Captain Hervey against her, in which he
asserted that in 1743 or 1744, being then a minor of the age of
seventeen or eighteen, he had contracted himself in marriage to
Elizabeth Chudleigh, and she to him; and that they had been married in
the house of Mr. Merrill, on August 9, 1744, at eleven o'clock at night,
by the Rev. Thomas Amis, since deceased, and in the presence of Mrs.
Hanmer and Mr. Mountenay, both also deceased.
As will be seen, the counter-libel was incorrectly drawn. The marriage
had not taken place in the house, but in the church; Mr. Hervey was aged
twenty, not seventeen or eighteen; and Anne Craddock, the sole surviving
witness of the ceremony, was not mentioned. The register of the marriage
was not produced,[6] and no serious attempt was made to establish it.
Accordingly, on February 10, 1769, sentence was given, declaring the
marriage form gone through in 1744 to have been null and void, and to
restrain Mr. Hervey from asserting his claim to be husband to Miss
Elizabeth Chudleigh, and condemning him in costs to the sum of one
hundred pounds.
As the Attorney-General said at her subsequent trial, "a grosser
artifice, I believe, than this suit was never fabricated."
On March 8, 1769, the Duke of Kingston married Elizabeth Chudleigh by
special licence from the Archbishop, the minister who performed it being
the Rev. Samuel Harper, of the British Museum, and the Church, St.
Margaret's, Westminster. The Prince and Princess of Wales wore favours
on the occasion.
No attempt was made during the lifetime of the Duke to dispute the
legality of the marriage. Neither he nor Elizabeth had the least doubt
that the former marriage had been legally dissolved. It was, no doubt,
the case that Captain Hervey made no real attempt to prove his
marriage, he was as impatient of the bond as was she. It can hardly be
doubted that the sentence of the Ecclesiastical Court was just. Captain
Hervey was a minor at the time, and the poor girl had been deluded into
marrying him by her wretched aunt. Advantage had been taken of her--a
mere girl--by the woman who was her natural guardian in the absence of
her mother. Such a marriage would at once be annulled in the Court of
the Church of Rome; it would be annulled in a modern English divorce
court.
The fortune of the Duke was not entailed; his Grace had, therefore, the
option to bequeath it as seemed best to his inclination. His nearest of
kin were his nephews, Evelyn and Charles Meadows, sons of Lady Francis
Pierrepont; Charles was in 1806 created Earl Manners; he had previously
changed his name to Pierrepont, and been created Baron Pierrepont and
Viscount Newark in 1796.
The Duke was and remained warmly attached to the Duchess. She made him
happy. She had plenty of conversation, had her mind stored with gossip,
and though old, oldened gracefully and pleasantly. Her bitter enemy--an
old servant and confidant, who furnished the materials for the
"Authentic Detail," says, "Contrarily gifted and disposed, they were
frequently on discordant terms, but she had a strong hold on his mind."
On September 23, 1773, the Duke died. The Duchess had anticipated his
death. He had already made his will, bequeathing to her the entire
income of his estates during her life, subject to the proviso that she
remained in a state of widowhood. This did not at all please the
Duchess, and directly she saw that her husband was dying she sent for a
solicitor, a Mr. Field, to draw up a new will, omitting the obnoxious
proviso; she was only by two years on the right side of fifty, and might
marry again. When Mr. Field was introduced to the Duke, he saw that the
dying man was not in a mental condition capable of executing a will, and
he refused to have anything to do with an attempt to extort his
signature from him. The Duchess was very angry; but the refusal of Mr.
Field was most fortunate for her, as, had the will proposed been
executed, it would most indubitably have been set aside.
As soon as the Duke was dead the dowager Duchess determined to enjoy
life. She had a pleasure yacht built, placed in command of it an officer
who had served in the navy, fitted it up with every luxury, sailed for
Italy, and visited Rome, where the Pope and the cardinals received her
with great courtesy. Indeed, she was given up one of the palaces of the
cardinals for her residence. Whilst she was amusing herself in Italy
something happened in England that was destined to materially spoil her
happiness. Anne Craddock was still alive, the sole witness of her
marriage that survived. She was in bad circumstances, and applied to Mr.
Field for pecuniary relief. He refused it, but the Duchess sent to offer
her twenty guineas per annum. This Anne Craddock refused, and gave
intimation to Mr. Evelyn Meadows that she had information of importance
which she could divulge.
When Mr. Meadows heard what Anne Craddock had to say, he set the
machinery of the law in motion to obtain the prosecution of the Duchess,
in the hopes of convicting her of bigamy, and then of upsetting the will
of the late Duke in her favour. A bill of indictment for bigamy was
preferred against her; the bill was found, Mr. Field had notice of the
procedure, and the Duchess was advised to return instantly to England
and appear to the indictment, to prevent an outlawry.
At this time--that is, in 1775--the Earl of Bristol died without issue,
and Augustus John, her first husband, succeeded to the title.
The anxieties of the Duchess were not confined to the probable issue of
the trial. Samuel Foote, the comedian, took a despicable advantage of
her situation to attempt to extort money from her. He wrote a farce,
entitled "A Trip to Calais," in which he introduced her Grace under the
sobriquet of Lady Kitty Crocodile, and stuffed the piece with
particulars relative to the private history of the Duchess, which he had
obtained from Miss Penrose, a young lady who had been about her person
for many years. When the piece was finished, he contrived to have it
communicated to her Grace that the Haymarket Theatre would open with the
entertainment in which she was held up to ridicule and scorn. She was
alarmed, and sent for Foote. He attended with the piece in his pocket.
She desired him to read a part of it. He obeyed; and had not read far
before she could no longer control herself, but, starting up in a rage,
exclaimed, "This is scandalous, Mr. Foote! Why, what a wretch you have
made me!" After a few turns round the room, she composed herself to
inquire on what terms he would suppress the play. Foote had the
effrontery to demand two thousand pounds. She offered him fourteen, then
sixteen hundred pounds; but he, grasping at too much, lost all. She
consulted the Duke of Newcastle, and the Lord Chamberlain was apprised
of the circumstances, and his interference solicited. He sent for the
manuscript copy of the "Trip to Calais," perused, and censured it. In
the event of its publication she threatened to prosecute Foote for
libel. Public opinion ranged itself on the side of the Duchess, and Dr.
Schomberg only expressed its opinion when he said that "Foote deserved
to be run through the body for such an attempt. It was more ignoble than
the conduct of a highwayman."
On April 17, 1776, the trial of the Duchess came on in Westminster Hall,
and lasted five days. The principal object argued was the admission, or
not, of a sentence of the Spiritual Court, in a suit for jactitation of
marriage, in an indictment for polygamy. As the judges decided against
the admission of such a sentence in bar to evidence, the fact of the two
marriages was most clearly proved, and a conviction of course followed.
The Duchess was tried by the Peers, a hundred and nineteen of whom sat
and passed judgment upon her, all declaring "Guilty, upon mine honour,"
except the Duke of Newcastle, who pronounced "Guilty, erroneously; but
not intentionally, upon mine honour."
No sooner did the Duchess see that her cause was lost than she
determined to escape out of England. The penalty for bigamy was death,
but she could escape this sentence by claiming the benefits of the
statute 3 and 4 William and Mary, which left her in a condition to be
burnt in the hand, or imprisoned; but she claimed the benefit of the
peerage, and the Lord Chief Baron, having conferred with the rest of the
judges, delivered their unanimous opinion that she ought "to be
immediately discharged." However, her prosecutors prepared a writ "ne
exeat regno," to obtain her arrest and the deprivation of her personal
property. To escape this she fled to Dover, where her yacht was in
waiting, and crossed to Calais, whilst amusing the public and her
prosecutors by issuing invitations to a dinner at Kingston House, and
causing her carriage to appear in the most fashionable quarters of the
town. Mr. Meadows had carried his first point; she could no longer call
herself Dowager Duchess of Kingston in England, but she was reinstated
in her position of wife to Augustus John Hervey, and was therefore now
Countess of Bristol. Mr. Meadows next proceeded to attack the will of
the late Duke, but in this attempt he utterly failed. The will was
confirmed, and Elizabeth, Countess of Bristol, was acknowledged as
lawfully possessed of life interest in the property of the Duke so long
as she remained unmarried. Mr. Meadows was completely ruined, and his
sole gain was to keep the unhappy woman an exile from England.
Abroad the Countess was still received as Duchess of Kingston. She lived
in considerable state, and visited Italy, Russia, and France. Her visit
to St. Petersburg was splendid, and to ensure a favourable reception by
the Empress Catharine she sent her a present of some of the valuable
paintings by old masters from Kingston House. When in Russia she
purchased an estate near the capital, to which she gave the name of
Chudleigh, and which cost her 25,000_l._[7] The Empress also gave her a
property on the Neva. She had a corvette built of mahogany which was to
be a present to the Empress, but the vessel stranded on the coast of
Ingermanland. Eight of the cannons out of her are now at Chudleigh,
almost the only things there that recall the Duchess. She gave
magnificent entertainments; at one of these, to which the Empress was
invited, a hundred and forty of her own servants attended in the
Kingston livery of black turned up with red and silver.
On her return from Russia she bought an estate at Montmartre, which cost
her 9,000_l._, and another that belonged to one of the French royal
princes at Saint Assise, which cost her 55,000_l._ The château was so
large that three hundred beds could be made up in it.
She was getting on in years, but did not lose her energy, her vivacity,
and her selfishness. Once in Rome, the story goes, she had been invited
to visit some tombs that were famous. She replied with a touch of real
feeling: "Ce n'est pas la peine de chercher des tombeaux, on en porte
assez dans son coeur."
The account of her death shall be given in the words of the author of
"Authentic Detail."
"She was at dinner, when her servants received intelligence of a
sentence respecting the house near Paris having been awarded against
her. She flew into a violent passion, and, in the agitation of her mind
and body, burst an internal blood-vessel. Even this she appeared to have
surmounted, until a few days afterwards, on the morning of the 26th
August (1788), when about to rise from her bed, a servant who had long
been with her endeavoured at dissuasion. The Duchess addressed her thus:
'I am not very well, but I _will_ rise. At your peril disobey me; I will
get up and walk about the room. Ring for the secretary to assist me.'
She was obeyed, dressed, and the secretary entered the chamber. The
Duchess then walked about, complained of thirst, and said, 'I could
drink a glass of my fine Madeira and eat a slice of toasted bread; I
shall be quite well afterwards; but let it be a large glass of wine.'
The attendant reluctantly brought and the Duchess drank the wine. She
then said, 'I knew the Madeira would do me good. My heart feels oddly; I
will have another glass.' She then walked a little about the room, and
afterwards said, 'I will lie on the couch.' She sat on the couch, a
female having hold of each hand. In this situation she soon appeared to
have fallen into a profound sleep, until the women found her hands
colder than ordinary; other domestics were rung for, and the Duchess was
found to have expired, as the wearied labourer sinks into the arms of
rest."
Was it a touch of final malice or of real regret that caused the old
lady, by codicil to her will dated May 10, 1787, to leave pearl earrings
and necklace to the Marquise de la Touche? Was it a token that she
forgave her the cruel book, "Les aventures trop amoureuses; ou,
Elizabeth Chudleigh," which she wrote, or caused to be written, for the
blackening of her rival, and the whitewashing of herself? Let us hope it
was so. The proviso in the Duke's will saved her from herself; but for
that she would have married an adventurer who called himself the
Chevalier de Wortha, a man who obtained great influence over her, and
finally died by his own hand.
Elizabeth Chudleigh's character and career have never been sketched by
friends; her enemies, those jealous of her fascinations, angry at her
success, discontented with not having been sufficiently considered in
her will, have given us their impressions of her, have poured out all
the evil they knew and imagined of her. She has been hardly used. The
only perfectly reliable authority for her history is the report of her
trial, and that covers only one portion of her story. The "Authentic
Detail" published by G. Kearsley, London, in 1788, is anonymous. It is
fairly reliable, but tinctured by animosity. The book "Les Aventures
trop Amoureuses, ou, Elizabeth Chudleigh, ex-duchesse douairière de
Kingston, aujourd'hui Comtesse de Bristol, et la Marquise de la Touche.
Londres, aux depens des Interessez, 1776," was composed for the
justification of Madame de la Touche, and with all the venom of a
discomfited and supplanted rival.
An utterly worthless book, "Histoire de la vie et des Aventures de la
Duchesse de Kingston, a Londres, et se trouve à Paris, Chez Quillot,
1789," is fiction. It pretends to be based on family papers. At the
commencement it gives a portion of the diary of Col. Thomas Chudleigh,
in which, among other impossibilities, he records his having reduced the
rents of his tenants on his estates twenty per cent. because the year
was bad. As it happened, Col. Thomas Chudleigh neither possessed an acre
of land, nor a tenant.
In 1813 appeared "La Duchesse de Kingston, memoires rédigés par M. de
Favolle," in two volumes; this is based solely on the preceding with
rich additions from the imagination of the author. Not a statement in it
can be trusted.
Some little reliable information may be found in the "Memoires de la
Baronne d'Oberkirch," Paris 1853.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] In Col. Vivian's "Visitations of the County of Devon," the pedigree
is not so complete. He was unaware who the wife of Thos. Chudleigh was,
and he had not seen the will of the duchess.
[5] Mrs. Chudleigh died in 1756, and her will mentions her daughter by
her maiden name.
[6] Mr. John Merrill died February 1767, and his burial was entered in
it. Mr. Bathurst, who had married his daughter, found the register book
in the hall, and handed it over to the rector, Mr. Kinchin. Nevertheless
it was not produced at the hearing of the case for jactitation in the
Consistory Court.
[7] This place still bears the name. It is on the main road through
Livland and Esthonia to St. Petersburg; about twenty miles from Narwa.
It also goes by the name of Fockenhof. The present mansion is more
modern, and belongs to the family of Von Wilcken.
General Mallet.
On the return of Napoleon to Paris from Moscow, he was depressed with
news that troubled him more than the loss of his legions. The news that
had reached him related to perhaps the most extraordinary conspiracy
that was ever devised, and which was within an ace of complete success.
It was the news of this conspiracy that induced him to desert the army
in the snows of Russia and hasten to Paris. The thoughts of this
conspiracy frustrated by an accident, as Alison says, "incessantly
occupied his mind during his long and solitary journey."
"Gentlemen," said Napoleon, when the report of the conspiracy was read
over to him, "we must no longer disbelieve in miracles."
Claude François Mallet belonged to a noble family in the Franche Comté.
He was born on June 28th, 1754, at Dole, and passed his early life in
the army, where he commanded one of the first battalions of the Jura at
the commencement of the Revolution. In May 1793, he was elevated to the
rank of adjutant-General, and in August 1799, made General of Brigade,
and commanded a division under Championnet. He was a man of
enthusiastically Republican views, and viewed the progress of Napoleon
with dissatisfaction mingled with envy. There can be no question as to
what his opinions were at first; whether he changed them afterwards is
not so certain. He was a reserved, hard, and bitter man, ambitious and
restless. Envy of Napoleon, jealousy of his success seems to have been
the ruling motive in his heart that made of him a conspirator, and not
genuine disgust at Cæsarism.
Bonaparte knew his political opinions; and though he did not fear the
man, he did not trust him. He became implicated in some illegal
exactions at Civita Vecchia, in the Roman States, and was in consequence
deprived of his command, and sent before a commission of enquiry at
Paris, in July 1807; and, in virtue of their sentence, he was confined
for a short while, and then again set at liberty and reinstated. In
1808, when the war in the Peninsula broke out, Mallet entered at Dijon
into a plot, along with some old anarchists, for the overthrow of the
Emperor, among them the ex-General Guillaume, who betrayed the plot, and
Mallet was arrested and imprisoned in La Force. Napoleon did not care
that conspiracies against himself and his throne should be made public,
and consequently he contented himself with the detention of Mallet
alone.
In prison, the General did not abandon his schemes, and he had the lack
of prudence to commit them to paper. This fell into the hands of the
Government. The minister regarded the scheme as chimerical and
unimportant. The papers were shown to Napoleon, who apparently regarded
the scheme or the man as really dangerous, and ordered him to perpetual
detention in prison.
Time passed, and Mallet and his schemes were forgotten. Who could
suppose that a solitary prisoner, without means, without the opportunity
of making confederates, could menace the safety of the Empire?
Then came the Russian campaign, in 1812. Mallet saw what Napoleon did
not; the inevitable failure that must attend it; and he immediately
renewed his attempts to form a plot against the Emperor.
But the prison of La Force was bad headquarters from which to work. He
pretended to be ill, and he was removed to a hospital, that of the
Doctor Belhomme near the Barrière du Trône. In this house were the two
brothers Polignac, a M. de Puyvert, and the Abbé Lafon, who in 1814
wrote and published an account of this conspiracy of Mallet. These men
were Royalists, and Mallet was a Republican. It did not matter so long
as Napoleon could be overthrown, how divergent their views might be as
to what form of Government was to take the place of the Empire.
They came to discussion, and the Royalists supposed that they had
succeeded in convincing Mallet. He, on his side, was content to
dissemble his real views, and to make use of these men as his agents.
The Polignac brothers were uneasy, they were afraid of the consequences,
and they mistrusted the man who tried to draw them into his plot.
Perhaps, also, they considered his scheme too daring to succeed.
Accordingly they withdrew from the hospital, to be out of his reach. It
was not so with the others. The Polignacs had been mixed up in the
enterprise of Georges, and had no wish to be again involved. Whether
there were many others in the plot we do not know, Lafon names only
four, and it does not seem that M. de Puyvert took a very active part in
it.
Mallet's new scheme was identical with the old one that had been taken
from him and shown to Napoleon. Napoleon had recognized its daring and
ability, and had not despised it. That no further fear of Mallet was
entertained is clear, or he would never have been transferred from the
prison to a private hospital, where he would be under very little
supervision.
In his hospital, Mallet drew up the following report of a Session of the
Senate, imagined by himself:
"SÉNAT CONSERVATEUR
"Session of 22 October, 1812.
"The Session was opened at 8 P.M., under the presidency of Senator
Sieyes.
"The occasion of this extraordinary Session was the receipt of the
news of the death of the Emperor Napoleon, under the walls of
Moscow, on the 8th of the month.
"The Senate, after mature consideration of the condition of affairs
caused by this event, named a Commission to consider the danger of
the situation, and to arrange for the maintenance of Government and
order. After having received the report of this Commission, the
following orders were passed by the Senate.
"That as the Imperial Government has failed to satisfy the
aspirations of the French people, and secure peace, it be decreed
annulled forthwith.
"That all such officers military and civil as shall use their
authority prejudicially to the re-establishment of the Republic,
shall be declared outlawed.
"That a Provisional Government be established, to consist of 13
members:--Moreau, President; Carnot, Vice-President; General
Augereau, Bigonet, Destutt-Tracy, Florent Guyot, Frochot; Mathieu
Montmorency, General Mallet, Noailles, Truguet; Volney, Garat.
"That this Provisional Government be required to watch over the
internal and external safety of the State, and to enter into
negociations with the military powers for the re-establishment of
peace.
"That a constitution shall be drawn up and submitted to the General
Assembly of the French realm.
"That the National Guard be reconstituted as formerly.
"That a general Amnesty be proclaimed for all political offences;
that all emigrants, exiles, be permitted to return.
"That the freedom of the Press be restored.
"That the command of the army of the Centre, and which consists of
50,000 men, and is stationed near Paris, be given to General
Lecombe.
"That General Mallet replaces General Hulin as commandant of Paris,
and in the first division. He will have the right to nominate the
officers in the general staff that will surround him."
There were many other orders, 19 in all, but these will suffice to
indicate the tendency of the document. It was signed by the President
and his Secretaries.
President, SIEYES.
Secretaries, LANJUINAIS, et GREGOIRE.
"Approved, and compared with a similar paper in my own hands,
Signed, MALLET,
General of Division, Commandant of the main army of
Paris, and of the forces of the First Division."
This document, which was designed to be shown to the troops, to the
officers and officials, was drawn up in a form so close to the genuine
form, and the signatures and seals were so accurately imitated, that the
document was not likely at the first glance to excite mistrust.
Moreover, Mallet had drawn up an order for the day, and a proclamation,
which was printed in many thousand copies.
On the 22nd October, 1812, at 10 o'clock at night, after he had been
playing cards with great composure in the hospital, Mallet made his
escape, along with four others, one was the Abbé Lafon, another a
corporal named Rateau, whom he had named as his aide-de-camp. Mallet had
just twelve francs in his pocket, and so furnished he embarked on his
undertaking to upset the throne of the Emperor. He at once went to a
Spanish monk, whose acquaintance he had made in prison; and in his rooms
found his general's uniform which had been brought there by a woman the
evening before. Uniforms and swords for his confederates were also
ready. But it rained that night--it rained in torrents, and the streets
of Paris ran with water. It has been remarked that rain in Paris has a
very sobering effect on political agitations, and acts even better than
bayonets in preventing a disturbance of the public peace.
Mallet and his confederates could not leave their shelter till after
midnight, and some of them did not appear at the place of rendezvous
till 6 o'clock in the morning. Indisputably this had much to do with the
defeat of the plot.
The success of the undertaking depended on darkness, on the sudden
bewilderment of minds, and the paralysis of the government through the
assassination of some of the ministers. About 2 A.M. Mallet appeared in
his general's uniform, attended by some of his confederates also in
uniform, at the Popincour barracks, and demanded to see the Commandant
Soulier at once, giving his name as Lamothe. Soulier was in bed asleep.
He was also unwell. He was roused from his slumbers, hastily dressed
himself, and received a sealed letter, which he broke open, and read:
"To the General of Division, Commandant-in-Chief of the troops
under arms in Paris, and the troops of the First Division, Soulier,
Commandant of the 10th Cohort."
"General Headquarters,
"Place Vendôme.
"23_rd_ Oct., 1812, 10 o'clock a.m.
"M. LE COMMANDANT,--I have given orders to the General Lamothe with
a police commissioner to attend at your barracks, and to read
before you and your Cohort the decree of the senate consequent on
the receipt of the news of the death of the Emperor, and the
cessation of the Imperial Government. The said general will
communicate to you the Order for the Day, which you will be pleased
to further to the General of Brigade. You are required to get the
troops under arms with all possible despatch and quietness. By
daybreak, the officers who are in barracks will be sent to the
Place de Grève, there to await their companies, which will there
assemble, after the instructions which General Lamothe will furnish
have been carried out."
Then ensued a series of dispositions for the troops, and the whole was
signed by Mallet.
When Soulier had read this letter, Mallet, who pretended to be General
Lamothe, handed him the document already given, relating to the assembly
of the Senate, and its decisions. Then he gave him the Order for the
Day, for the 23rd and 24th October.
Colonel Soulier, raised from sleep, out of health, bewildered, did not
for a moment mistrust the messenger, or the documents handed to him. He
hastened at once to put in execution the orders he had received.
The same proceedings were gone through in the barracks of Les Minimes,
and of Picpus; the decree of the Senate, the Order of the Day, and a
Proclamation, were read by torchlight.
Everywhere the same success. The officers had not the smallest doubt as
to the authenticity of the papers presented to them. Everywhere also the
Proclamation announcing the death of the Emperor, the cessation of the
Empire, and the establishment of the Provisional Government was being
placarded about.
At 6 A.M., at the head of a troop, Mallet, still acting as General
Lamothe, marched before the prison of La Force, and the Governor was
ordered to open the gates. The Decree of the Senate and the Order of the
Day were read to him, and he was required at once to discharge three
state prisoners he held, General Guidal, Lahorie, and a Corsican,
Bocchejampe, together with certain officers there confined. He did as
required, and Mallet separated his troops into four detachments, keeping
one under his own command, and placing the others under the orders of
Guidal, Lahorie and Bocchejampe.
Guidal and Lahorie, by his orders, now marched to the Ministry of
Police, where they arrested Savary, Duke of Rovigo, Minister of Police.
At the same time Boutreux, another confederate, had gone to the
prefecture of the Paris police, had arrested the prefect, Pasquier, and
sent him to be confined in La Force.
Mallet, now at the head of 150 men, went to the État-Major de-la-place,
to go through the same farce with the Commandant-de-place, and get him
to subscribe the Order for the Day. Count Hullin refused. Mallet
presented a pistol at his head, fired, and Hullin fell covered with
blood to the ground. Mallet left him for dead, but fortunately only his
jaw was broken. By means of a forged order addressed to the commandant
of one of the regiments of the paid guard of Paris, he occupied the
National Bank, in which, at the time, there was a considerable treasure
in specie.
The État-Major of Paris was a post of the highest importance, as it was
the headquarters of the whole military authority in Paris. Before Mallet
approached it, he sent a packet to the Adjutant-General Doucet, of a
similar tenor to that given to Soulier and the other colonels, and
containing his nomination as general of brigade, and a treasury order
for a hundred thousand francs.
Soulier, Colonel of the 10th Cohort, obeying the orders he had received,
the authenticity of which he did not for a moment dispute, had in the
meantime made himself master of the Hôtel-de-Ville, and had stationed a
strong force in the square before the building. Frochot, Prefect of the
Seine, was riding into Paris from his country house at half-past eight
in the morning, when he was met by his servants, in great excitement,
with a note from Mallet, on the outside of which were written the
ominous words "Fuit Imperator." Now it so happened that no tidings of
the Emperor had been received for twenty-five days, and much uneasiness
was felt concerning him. When Frochot therefore received this notice, he
believed it, and hurried to the Hôtel-de-Ville. There he received a
despatch from Mallet, under the title of Governor of Paris, ordering him
to make ready the principal apartment in the building for the use of
the Provisional Government. Not for a moment did Frochot remember
that--even if the Emperor were dead, there was the young Napoleon, to
whom his allegiance was due; he at once obeyed the orders he had
received, and began to make the Hôtel ready for the meeting of the
Provisional Government. Afterwards when he was reminded that there was a
son to Napoleon, and that his duty was to support him, Frochot answered,
"Ah! I forgot that. I was distracted with the news."
By means of the forged orders despatched everywhere, all the barriers of
Paris had been seized and were closed, and positive orders were issued
that no one was to be allowed to enter or leave Paris.
Mallet now drew up before the État-Major-Général, still accompanied and
obeyed by the officer and detachment. Nothing was wanting now but the
command of the adjutant-general's office to give to Mallet the entire
direction of the military force of Paris, with command of the telegraph,
and with it of all France. With that, and with the treasury already
seized, he would be master of the situation. In another ten minutes
Paris would be in his hand, and with Paris the whole of France.
An accident--an accident only--at that moment saved the throne of
Napoleon. Doucet was a little suspicious about the orders--or allowed it
afterwards to be supposed that he was. He read them, and stood in
perplexity. He would have put what doubts presented themselves aside,
had it not been for his aide-de-camp, Laborde. It happened that Laborde
had had charge of Mallet in La Force, and had seen him there quite
recently. He came down to enter the room where was Doucet, standing in
doubt before Mallet. Mallet's guard was before the door, and would have
prevented him from entering; however, he peremptorily called to them to
suffer him to pass, and the men, accustomed to obey his voice, allowed
him to enter. The moment he saw Mallet in his general's uniform, he
recognised him and said, "But--how the devil!-- That is my prisoner. How
came he to escape?" Doucet still hesitated, and attempted to explain,
when Laborde cut his superior officer short with, "There is something
wrong here. Arrest the fellow, and I will go at once to the minister of
police."
Mallet put his hand in his pocket to draw out the pistol with which he
had shot Hullin, when the gesture was observed in a mirror opposite, and
before he had time to draw and cock the pistol, Doucet and Laborde were
on him, and had disarmed him.
Laborde, with great promptitude, threw open the door, and announced to
the soldiers the deceit that had been practised on them, and assured
them that the tidings of the death of the Emperor were false.
The arrest of Mallet disconcerted the whole conspiracy. Had Generals
Lahorie and Guidal been men of decision and resolution they might still
have saved it, but this they were not; though at the head of
considerable bodies of men, the moment they saw that their chief had met
with a hitch in carrying out his plan, they concluded that all was lost,
and made the best of their way from their posts to places of
concealment.
It was not till 8 o'clock that Saulnier, General Secretary of Police,
heard of the arrest and imprisonment of his chief, Savary, Duke of
Rovigo. He at once hastened to Cambaçérès, the President of the Ministry
in the absence of the Emperor, and astonished and alarmed him with the
tidings. Then Saulnier hastened to Hullin, whom he found weltering in
his blood, and unable to speak.
Baron Pasquier, released from La Force, attempted to return to his
prefecture. The soldiers posted before it refused to admit him, and
threatened to shoot him, believing that he had escaped from prison, and
he was obliged to take refuge in an adjoining house. Laborde, who about
noon came there, was arrested by the soldiers, and conducted by them as
a prisoner to the État-Major-Gênéral, to deliver him over to General
Mallet; and it was with difficulty that they could be persuaded that
they had been deceived, and that Mallet was himself, at that moment, in
irons.
Savary, released from La Force, had Mallet and the rest of the
conspirators brought before him. Soulier also, for having given too
ready a credence to the forged orders, was also placed under arrest, to
be tried along with the organisers and carriers out of the plot.
Mallet confessed with great composure that he had planned the whole, but
he peremptorily refused to say whether he had aiders or sympathisers
elsewhere.
Lahorie could not deny that he had taken an active part, but declared
that it was against his will, his whole intention being to make a run
for the United States, there to spend the rest of his days in
tranquillity. He asserted that he had really believed that the Emperor
was dead.
Guidal tried to pass the whole off as a joke; but when he saw that he
was being tried for his life, he became greatly and abjectly alarmed.
Next day the generals and those in the army who were under charge were
brought before a military commission. Saulnier had an interesting
interview with Mallet that day. He passed through the hall where Mallet
was dining, when the prisoner complained that he was not allowed the use
of a knife. Saulnier at once ordered that he might be permitted one; and
this consideration seems to have touched Mallet, for he spoke with more
frankness to Saulnier than he did before his judges. When the General
Secretary of Police asked him how he could dream of success attending
such a mad enterprise, Mallet replied, "I had already three regiments of
infantry on my side. Very shortly I would have been surrounded by the
thousands who are weary of the Napoleonic yoke, and are longing for a
change of order. Now, I was convinced that the moment the news of my
success in Paris reached him, Napoleon would leave his army and fly
home, I would have been prepared for him at Mayence, and have had him
shot there. If it had not been for the cowardice of Guidal and Lahorie,
my plot would have succeeded. I had resolved to collect 50,000 men at
Chalons sur Marne to cover Paris. The promise I would have made to send
all the conscripts to their homes, the moment the crisis was over, would
have rallied all the soldiers to my side."
On October 23, the prisoners to the number of twenty-four were tried,
and fourteen were condemned to be shot, among these, Mallet, Guidai,
Lahorie, and the unfortunate Soulier. Mallet at the trial behaved with
great intrepidity. "Who are your accomplices?" asked the President. "The
whole of France," answered Mallet, "and if I had succeeded, you yourself
at their head. One who openly attacks a government by force, if he
fails, expects to die." When he was asked to make his defence,
"Monsieur," he said, "a man who has constituted himself defender of the
rights of his Fatherland, needs no defence."
Soulier put in as an apology, that the news of the death of the Emperor
had produced such a sudorific effect on him, that he had been obliged to
change his shirt four times in a quarter of an hour. This was not
considered sufficient to establish his attachment to the Imperial
government.
In the afternoon of the same day the fourteen were conveyed to the plain
of Grenelle to be shot, when pardon was accorded by the Empress Regent
to two of the condemned, the Corporal Rateau, and Colonel Rabbe. When
the procession passed through the Rue Grenelle, Mallet saw a group of
students looking on; "Young men," he called to them, "remember the 23rd
October." Arrived on the place of execution, some of the condemned cried
out, "Vive l'empereur!" only a few "Vive la République."
Mallet requested that his eyes might not be bandaged, and maintained the
utmost coolness. He received permission, at his own desire, to give the
requisite orders to the soldiers drawn up to shoot him and his party.
"Peloton! Present!" The soldiers, moved by the tragic catastrophe,
obeyed, but not promptly. "That is bad!" called Mallet, "imagine you are
before the foe. Once again--Attention!--Present!" This time it was
better. "Not so bad this time, but still not well," said the General;
"now pay attention, and mind, when I say Fire, that all your guns are
discharged as one. It is a good lesson for you to see how brave men die.
Now then, again, Attention!" For a quarter of an hour he put the men
through their drill, till he observed that his comrades were in the most
deplorable condition. Some had fainted, some were in convulsions. Then
he gave the command: Fire! the guns rattled and the ten fell to the
ground, never to rise again. Mallet alone reeled, for a moment or two
maintaining his feet, and then he also fell over, without a sound, and
was dead.
"But for the singular accident," says Savary, "which caused the arrest
of the Minister of War to fail, Mallet, in a few moments, would have
been master of almost everything; and in a country so much influenced by
the contagion of example, there is no saying where his success would
have stopped. He would have had possession of the treasury, then
extremely rich; the post office, the telegraph, and the command of the
hundred cohorts of the National Guard. He would soon have learned the
alarming situation in Russia; and nothing could have prevented him from
making prisoner of the Emperor himself if he returned alone, or from
marching to meet him, if he had come at the head of his shattered
forces."
As Alison says, "When the news reached Napoleon, one only idea took
possession of his imagination--that in this crisis the succession of his
son was, by common consent, set aside; one only truth was ever present
to his mind--that the Imperial Crown rested on himself alone. The fatal
truth was brought home to him that the Revolution had destroyed the
foundations of hereditary succession; and that the greatest achievements
by him who wore the diadem afforded no security that it would descend to
his progeny. These reflections, which seem to have burst on Napoleon all
at once, when the news of this extraordinary affair reached him in
Russia, weighed him down more than all the disasters of the Moscow
retreat."
Schweinichen's Memoirs.
Memoirs, says Addison, in the Tatler, are so untrustworthy, so stuffed
with lies, that, "I do hereby give notice to all booksellers and
translators whatsoever, that the word _memoir_ is French for a novel;
and to require of them, that they sell and translate it accordingly."
There are, however, some memoirs that are trustworthy and dull, and
others, again, that are conspicuously trustworthy, and yet are as
entertaining as a novel, and to this latter category belong the memoirs
of Hans von Schweinichen, the Silesian Knight, Marshal and Chamberlain
to the Dukes of Liegnitz and Brieg at the close of the 16th century.
Scherr, a well known writer on German Culture, and a scrupulous observer
and annotator of all that is ugly and unseemly in the past, says of the
diary of Schweinichen: "It carries us into a noble family at the end of
the 16th century and reveals boorish meanness, coarseness and lack of
culture." That is, in a measure, true, but, as is invariably the case
with Scherr, he leaves out of sight all the redeeming elements, and
there are many, that this transparently sincere diarist discloses.
The MS. was first discovered and published in 1823, by Büsching; it was
republished in 1878 at Breslau by Oesterley. The diary extends to the
year 1602, and Schweinichen begins with an account of his birth in 1552,
and his childish years. But we are wrong in saying that he begins with
his birth--characteristic of the protestant theological spirit of his
times, he begins with a confession of his faith.
As a picture of the manners and customs of the highest classes in the
age just after the Reformation it is unrivalled for its minuteness, and
for its interest. The writer, who had not an idea that his diary would
be printed, wrote for his own amusement, and, without intending it, drew
a perfect portraiture of himself, without exaggeration of his virtues
and observation of his faults; indeed the virtues we admire in him, he
hardly recognised as virtues, and scarcely considered as serious the
faults we deplore. In reading his truthful record we are angry with him,
and yet, he makes us love and respect him, and acknowledge what sterling
goodness, integrity, fidelity and honour were in the man.
Hans was son of George, Knight of Schweinichen and Mertschütz, and was
born in the Castle of Gröditzberg belonging to the Dukes of Silesia, of
which his father was castellan, and warden of the Ducal Estates
thereabouts. The Schweinichens were a very ancient noble Silesian
family, and Hans could prove his purity of blood through the sixteen
descents, eight paternal and eight maternal.
In 1559, Duke Frederick III. was summoned before the Emperor Ferdinand
I. at Breslau, to answer the accusations of extravagance and oppression
brought against him by the Silesian Estates, and was deposed,
imprisoned, and his son Henry XI. given the Ducal crown instead. The
deposition of the Duke obliged the father of our hero to leave
Gröditzberg and retire to his own estates, where Hans was given the
village notary as teacher in reading and writing for a couple of years,
and was then sent, young noble though he was, to keep the geese for the
family. However, as he played tricks with the geese, put spills into
their beaks, pegging them open, the flock was then withdrawn from his
charge. This reminds us of Grettir the Strong, the Icelandic hero, who
also as a boy was sent to drive the family geese to pasture, and who
maltreated his charge.
His father sent Hans to be page to the imprisoned Duke Frederick at
Liegnitz, where also he was to study with the Duke's younger son,
afterwards Frederick IV. Hans tells us he did not get as many whippings
as his companion, because he slipped his money-allowance into the
tutor's palm, and so his delinquencies were passed over. As page, he had
to serve the Duke at table. A certain measure of wine was allowed the
imprisoned Duke daily by his son, the reigning Duke; what he did not
drink every day, Hans was required to empty into a cask, and when the
cask was full, the Duke invited some good topers to him, and they sat
and drank the cask out, then rolled over on the floor. All night Hans
had to sit or lie on the floor and watch the drunken Duke.
Duke Frederick took a dislike to the chaplain, and scribbled a lampoon
on him, which may be thus rendered, without injustice to the original:--
"All the mischief ever done
Twixt the old Duke and his son,
Comes from that curs't snuffy one
Franconian Parson Cut-and-run."
The Duke ordered Hans to pin this to the pulpit cushion, and he did so.
When the pastor ascended the pulpit he saw the paper, and instead of a
text read it out. The reigning Duke Henry was very angry, and Hans was
made the scape-goat, and sent home in disgrace to his father.
In 1564, Hans attended his father, himself as page, his father as
Marshal, when Duke Henry and his Duchess visited Stuttgard and Dresden.
Pages were not then allowed to sit astride a horse, they stood in a sort
of stirrup slung to the pommel, to which they held. At Dresden old
Schweinichen ran a tilt in a tournament with the elector Augustus and
unhorsed him, but had sufficient courtesy to at once throw himself off
his own horse, as though he also had been cast by the elector. This so
gratified the latter, that he sent old Schweinichen a gold chain, and a
double florin worth about 4 shillings to the young one.
When Hans was fifteen, he went to the marriage of Duke Wenceslas of
Teschen with the daughter of Duke Franz of Saxony, and received from his
father a present of a sword, which, he tells us, cost his father a
little under a pound. One of the interesting features of this diary is
that Hans enters the value of everything. For instance, we are given the
price of wheat, barley, rye, oats, meat, &c., in 1562, and we learn from
this that all kinds of grain cost one fifth or one sixth of what it
costs now, and that meat--mutton, was one eighteenth or one twentieth
the present cost. For a thaler, 3 shillings, in 1562 as much food could
be purchased as would now cost from 25 to 30 shillings. Hans tells us
what pocket money he received from his parents; he put a value on every
present he was given, and tells what everything cost him which he give
away.
In the early spring of 1569 Duke Henry XI. went to Lublin in Poland to a
diet. King Sigismund was old, and the Duke hoped to get elected to the
kingdom of Poland on his death. This was a costly expedition, as the
Duke had to make many presents, and to go in great state. Hans went with
him, and gives an infinitely droll account of their reception, the
miserable housing, his own dress, one leg black, the other yellow, and
how many ells of ribbon went to make the bows on his jacket. His father
and he, and a nobleman called Zedlitz and his son were put in a garret
under the tiles in bitter frost--and "faith," says Hans, "our pigs at
home are warmer in their styes."
This expedition which led to no such result as the Duke hoped, exhausted
his treasury, and exasperated the Silesian Estates. All the nobles had
to stand surety for their Duke, Schweinichen and the rest to the amount
of--in modern money £100,000.
When Hans was aged eighteen he was drunk for the first time in his life,
so drunk that he lay like a dead man for two days and two nights, and
his life was in danger.
Portia characterised the German as a drunkard, she liked him "very
vilely in the morning, when he is sober; and most vilely in the
afternoon, when he is drunk. Set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the
contrary casket: for, if the devil be within, and that temptation
without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I
will be married to a sponge."
How true this characterisation was of the old German noble,
Schweinichen's memoirs show; it is a record of drunken bouts at small
intervals. There was no escape, he who would live at court must drink
and get drunken.
At the age of nineteen old Schweinichen made his son keep the accounts
at home, and look after the mill; he had the charge of the fish-ponds,
and attended to the thrashing of the corn, and the feeding of the horses
and cattle.
Once Hans was invited to a wedding, and met at it four sisters from
Glogau, two were widows and two unmarried. Their maiden name was Von
Schaben. Hans, aged twenty, danced with the youngest a good deal, and
before leaving invited the four sisters to pay his father and him a
visit. A friend of his called Eicholz galloped ahead to forewarn old
Schweinichen. Some hours later up drove Hans in a waggon with the four
sisters; but he did not dare to bring them in till he had seen his
father, so he went into the house, and was at once saluted with a burst
of laughter, and the shout, "Here comes the bridegroom," and Eicholz
sang at the top of his voice an improvised verse:
"Rosie von Schaben
Hans er will haben."
"Where are the ladies?" asked the old knight.
"In the waggon outside," answered Hans.
"Send for the fiddlers, bring them in. We will eat, drink, dance and be
merry," said the old man.
But Hans was offended at being boisterously saluted as bridegroom, and
he now kept Rosie at a distance. Somewhat later, the Duke tried to get
him to marry a charming young heiress called Hese von Promnitz, and very
amusing is Hans' account of how he kept himself clear of engagement.
When he first met her at court she was aged fourteen, and was
passionately fond of sugar. Hans says he spent as much as £3 in our
modern money on sweets for her, but he would make no proposal, because,
as he concluded, she was too young to be able "to cook a bowl of soup."
Two years passed, and then an old fellow called Geisler, "looking more
like a Jew than a gentleman," who offered Hese a box of sweets every
day, proposed for her. Hese would not answer till she knew the
intentions of Hans, and she frankly asked him whether he meant to
propose for her hand or not. "My heart's best love, Hese," answered
Schweinichen, "at the right time, and when God wills I shall marry, but
I do not think I can do that for three years. So follow your own
desires, take the old Jew, or wait, as you like."
Hese said she would wait any number of years for Hans. This made Hans
the colder. The Duke determined that the matter should be settled one
way or other at once, so he sent a crown of gold roses to Hans, and said
it was to be Hese's bridal wreath, if he desired that she should wear it
for him, he was to lay hold of it; Hans thereupon put his hands behind
his back. Then he went to his Schweinichen coat-of-arms and painted
under it the motto, "I bide my time, when the old man dies, I'll get the
prize." This Geisler read, and--says Hans, didn't like.
Hans was now installed as gentleman-in-waiting to the Duke, and was
henceforth always about his person. He got for his service free bed and
board, a gala coat that cost in our modern money about £36, and an every
day livery costing £18. His father made him a small allowance, but pay
in addition to liveries and keep he got none. The Duke's great amusement
consisted in mumming. For a whole year he rambled about every evening in
masquerade, dropping in on the burghers unexpectedly. Some were, we are
told, pleased to see and entertain him, others objected to these
impromptu visits. The special costume in which the Duke delighted to run
about the town making these visits was that of a Nun. Hans admits that
this was very distasteful to him, but he could not help himself, he was
obliged to accommodate himself to the whims of his master. He made an
effort to free himself from the service of the Duke, so as to go out of
the country to some other court--he felt intuitively that this
association would be fatal to his best interests, but the Duke at once
took him by his better side, pleaded with him to remain and be faithful
to him, his proper master and sovereign, and Hans with misgivings at
heart consented.
There was at Court an old lady, Frau von Kittlitz, who acted as
stewardess, and exercised great influence over the Duke, whom she had
known from a boy. The Duchess resented her managing ways, and
interference, and was jealous of her influence. One day in 1575 she
refused to come down from her room and dine with the Duke unless the old
Kittlitz were sent to sit at the table below the dais. This led to
words and hot blood on both sides. The Duchess used a gross expression
in reference to the stewardess, and the Duke who had already some wine
under his belt, struck the Duchess in the face, saying, "I'll teach you
not to call people names they do not deserve." Hans, who was present,
threw himself between the angry couple; the Duke stormed and struck
about. Hans entreated the Duchess to retire, and then he stood in her
door and prevented the Duke following, though he shouted, "She is my
wife, I can serve her as I like. Who are you to poke yourself in between
married folk?"
As soon as the Duchess had locked herself in, Hans escaped and fled; but
an hour after the Duke sent for him, and stormed at him again for his
meddlesomeness. Hans entreated the Duke to be quiet and get reconciled
to the Duchess, but he would not hear of it, and dismissed Schweinichen.
A quarter of an hour later another messenger came from his master, and
Hans returned to him, to find him in a better mood. "Hans," said his
Highness, "try if you can't get my wife to come round and come down to
table--all fun is at an end with this."
Hans went up and was admitted. The Duchess, in a towering rage, had
already written a letter to her brother the Margrave of Anspach, telling
him how her husband had struck her in the face and given her a black
eye, and she had already dispatched a messenger with the letter. After
much arguing, Hans wrung from her her consent to come down, on two
conditions, one that the Duke should visit her at once and beg her
pardon, the other that the old Kittlitz should sit at the table with
the pages. The Duke was now in a yielding mood and ate his leek humbly.
The Duchess consented to tell the Court that she had got her black eye
from striking her face against a lamp, and the Duke ordered ten
trumpeters and a kettledrum to make all the noise they could to
celebrate the reconciliation.
The Duchess in an aside to Schweinichen admitted that she had been rash
and unjust, and regretted having sent off that letter. An unlucky
letter--says our author--for it cost the duchy untold gold and years of
trouble.
The Duke had made several visits to Poland, chasing that Jack o'
lantern--the Polish crown, and it had cost him so much money that he had
quarrelled with his Estates, bullied and oppressed his subjects to
extort money, and at last the Estates appealed to the Emperor against
him, as they had against his father; and the Emperor summoned him to
Prague. The Duke had great difficulty in scraping together money enough
to convey him so far; and on reaching Prague, he begged permission of
the Kaiser to be allowed to visit the Electors and the Free Cities, and
see whether he could not obtain from them some relief from his
embarrassments, and money wherewith to pacify the angry Estates of the
Silesian Duchy. The consent required was given, and then the Duke with
his faithful Schweinichen, and several other retainers, started on a
grand begging and borrowing round of the Empire. Hans was constituted
treasurer, and he had in his purse about £400. The Duke took with him
five squires, two pages, three serving men, a cook, and several kitchen
boys, one carriage drawn by six horses, another by four. And not only
was this train to make the round of the Empire, but also to visit
Italy--and all on £400.
The first visit was paid, three days' journey from Prague, at Theusing
to a half-sister of the Duchess. She received him coolly, and lectured
him on his conduct to his wife. When the Duke asked her to lend him
money, she answered that she would pay his expenses home, if he chose to
go back to Liegnitz, but not one penny otherwise should he have. Not
content with this refusal, the Duke went on to Nurnberg, where he sent
Hans to the town council to invite them to lend him money; he asked for
4,000 florins. The council declined the honour. The two daughters of the
Duke were in the charge of the Margrave of Anspach, their mother's
brother. The Duke sent Hans to Anspach to urge the Margrave to send the
little girls to him, or invite him to visit Anspach to see them. He was
shy of visiting his brother-in-law uninvited, because of the box in the
ear and the black eye. He confided to Hans that if he got his children
at Nurnberg, he would not return them to their uncle, without a loan or
a honorarium.
This shabby transaction was not to Schweinichen's taste, but he was
obliged to undertake it. It proved unsuccessful, the Margrave refused to
give up the children till the Duke returned to his wife and duchy and
set a better example.
Whilst Hans was away, the Duke won a large sum of money at play, enough
to pay his own bill, but instead of doing this with it, he had it melted
up and made into silver cups. When he came to leave Nurnberg he was
unable to pay his inn bill, and obliged to leave in pawn with the
taverner a valuable jewel. Then he and his suite went to Augsburg and
settled into an inn till the town council could agree to lend him money.
One day, whilst there, Hans was invited to a wedding. The Duke wanted to
go also, but, as he was not invited, he went as Hans' servant, but got
so drunk that Hans was obliged to carry him home to the tavern, after
which he returned to the wedding. In the evening, when dancing began,
the Duke reappeared, he had slept off his drunkenness and was fresh for
more entertainment. He was now recognized, and according to etiquette,
two town councillors, in robes of office and gold chains, danced
solemnly before his Highness. Hans tells us that it was customary for
all dances to be led by two persons habited in scarlet with white
sleeves, and these called the dance and set the figures, no one might
execute any figure or do anything which had not been done by the
leaders. Now as Hans vows he never saw so many pretty girls anywhere as
on that evening, he tipped the leaders with half a thaler to kiss each
other, whereupon the two solemn dancing councillors had also to kiss
each other, and the Duke, nothing loth, his partner, and Hans, with
zest, his. That evening he gave plenty of kisses, and what with the many
lights, and the music and the dancing and the pretty girls he thought
himself in Paradise. Shortly after this, the Duke was invited to dine
with Fugger, the merchant prince, who showed him his treasury, gold to
the worth of a million, and one tower lined within from top half way
down with nothing but silver thalers. The Duke's mouth watered, and he
graciously invited Fugger to lend him £5,000; this the merchant
declined, but made him a present of 200 crowns and a good horse. The
town council consented to lend the Duke £1,200 on his I.O.U. for a year;
and then to pay his host he melted up his silver mugs again, pawned his
plate and gave him a promissory note for two months.
From Augsburg the Duke went about the abbeys, trying to squeeze loans
out of the abbots, but found that they had always the excuse ready, that
they would not lend to Lutheran princes. Then he stuck on in the abbeys,
eating up all their provisions and rioting in their guest-apartments,
till the abbots were fain to make him a present to be rid of him.
All at once an opening offered for the Duke to gain both renown and
money. Henry I. of Condé was at the court of the Elector Palatine at
Heidelsberg, soliciting assistance in behalf of the Huguenots against
the King of France. The Elector agreed to send a force under his son
John Casimir, and the Duke of Liegnitz offered his services, which were
readily accepted. He was to lead the rearguard, and to receive a liberal
pay for his services. Whilst he was collecting this force and getting
underway, John Casimir and the Prince of Condé marched through Lorraine
to Metz, and Hans went with John Casimir. He trusted he was now on his
way to fortune. But it was not so to be. The Duke, his master, insisted
that he should return to him, and Hans, on doing so, found him rioting
and gambling away, at Frankfort and Nassau, the money paid him in
advance for his useless services. Almost the first duty imposed on Hans,
on his return, was to negociate a loan for £5,000 with the magistrates
of Frankfort, which was peremptorily refused; whereupon the Duke went to
Cologne and stayed there seven months, endeavouring to cajole the town
council there into advancing him money.
But we can not follow any further the miserable story of the degradation
of the Silesian Duke, till at the beginning of the new year, 1577, the
Duke ran away from the town of Emmerich, leaving his servants to pay his
debts as best they could. Hans sold the horses and whatever was left,
and then, not sorry to be quit of such a master, returned on foot to his
Silesian home.
It is, perhaps, worth while quoting Duke Henry's letter, which Hans
found in the morning announcing his master's evasion.
"Dear Hans,--Here is a chain, do what you can with it. Weigh it and
sell it, also the horses for ready money; I will not pillow my head
in feathers till, by God's help, I have got some money, to enable
me to clear out of this vile land, and away from these people. Good
morning, best-loved Hans.
"With mine own hand, HENRY, DUKE."
As he neared home, sad news reached Hans. The Ducal creditors had come
down on his father, who had made himself responsible, and had seized the
family estates; whereat the old man's heart broke, and he had died in
January. When Hans heard this, he sat for two hours on a stone beside
the road, utterly unmanned, before he could recover himself sufficiently
to pursue his journey.
In the meantime an Imperial commission had sat on the Duke, deposed
him, and appointed his brother Frederick duke in his room.
Schweinichen's fidelity to Duke Henry ensured his disfavour with Duke
Frederick, and he was not summoned to court, but was left quietly at
Mertschütz to do his best along with his brother to bring the family
affairs into some sort of order. His old master did not, however, allow
him much rest. By the Imperial decision, he was to be provided with a
daily allowance of money, food and wine. This drew Duke Henry home, and
no sooner was he back in Silesia than he insisted on Hans returning to
his service, and for some years more he led the faithful soul a troubled
life, and involved him in miserable pecuniary perplexities. This was the
more trying to Hans as he had now fallen in love with Margaret von
Schellendorff, whom he married eventually. The tenderness and goodness
of Schweinichen's heart break out whenever he speaks of his dear
Margaretta, and of the children which came and were taken from him. His
sorrows as he lingered over the sick-beds of his little ones, and the
closeness with which he was drawn by domestic bereavements and pecuniary
distresses, to his Margaretta, come out clearly in his narrative. The
whole story is far too long to tell in its entirety. Hans was a
voluminous diarist. His memoirs cease at the year 1602, when he was
suffering from gout, but he lived on some years longer.
In the church of S. John at Liegnitz was at one time his monument, with
life-sized figure of Hans von Schweinichen, and above it his banner and
an inscription stating that he died on the 23rd Aug., 1616. Alas! the
hand of the destroyer has been there. The church and monument are
destroyed, and we can no longer see what manner of face Hans wore; but
of the inner man, of a good, faithful, God fearing, and loving soul,
strong and true, he has himself left us the most accurate portrait in
his precious memoirs.
The Locksmith Gamain.
Among the many episodes of the French Revolution there is one which
deserves to be somewhat closely examined, because of the gravity of the
accusation which it involves against the King and Queen, and because a
good deal of controversy has raged round it. The episode is that of the
locksmith Gamain, whom the King and Queen are charged with having
attempted to poison.
That the accusation was believed during "the Terror" goes without
saying; the heated heads and angry hearts at that time were in no
condition to sift evidence with impartiality. Afterwards, the charge was
regarded as preposterous, till the late M. Paul Lacroix--better known as
le Bibliophile Jacob--a student of history, very careful and diligent as
a collector, gave it a new spell of life in 1836, when he reformulated
the accusation in a _feuilleton_ of the _Siècle_. Not content to let it
sleep or die in the ephemeral pages of a newspaper, he republished the
whole story in 1838, in his "Dissertations sur quelques points curieux
de l'histoire de France." This he again reproduced in his "Curiosités de
l'histoire de France," in 1858. M. Louis Blanc, convinced that the case
was made out, has reasserted the charge in his work on the French
Revolution, and it has since been accepted by popular writers--as
Décembre-Alonnier--who seek to justify the execution of the King and
Queen, and to glorify the Revolution.
M. Thiers rejected the accusation; M. Eckard pointed out the
improbabilities in the story in the "Biographie Universelle," and M.
Mortimer-Ternaux has also shown its falsity in his "Histoire de la
Terreur;" and finally, M. Le Roy, librarian of Versailles, in 1867,
devoted his special attention to it, and completely disproved the
poisoning of Gamain. But in spite of disproval the slanderous accusation
does not die, and no doubt is still largely believed in Paris.
So tenacious of life is a lie--like the bacteria that can be steeped in
sulphuric acid without destroying their vitality--that the story has
been again recently raked up, and given to the public, from Lacroix, in
a number of the Cornhill Magazine (December, 1887); the writer of course
knew only Lacroix' myth, and had never seen how it had been disproved.
It is well now to review the whole story.
François Gamain was born at Versailles on August 29, 1751. He belonged
to an hereditary locksmith family. His father Nicolas had been in the
same trade, and had charge of the locks in the royal palaces in
Versailles and elsewhere.
The love of Louis XVI. for mechanical works is well known. He had a
little workshop at Versailles, where he amused himself making locks,
assisted by François Gamain, to whom he was much attached, and with whom
he spent many hours in projecting and executing mechanical contrivances.
The story is told of the Intendant Thierry, that when one day the King
showed him a lock he had made, he replied, "Sire, when kings occupy
themselves with the works of the common people, the common people will
assume the functions of kings," but the _mot_ was probably made after
the fact.
After the terrible days of the 5th and 6th of October, 1789, the King
was brought to Paris. Gamain remained at Versailles, which was his home,
and retained the King's full confidence.
When, later, the King was surrounded by enemies, and he felt the
necessity for having some secret place where he could conceal papers of
importance which might yet fall into the hands of the rabble if the
palace was again invaded, as it had been at Versailles, he sent for
Gamain to make for him an iron chest in a place of concealment, that
could only be opened by one knowing the secret of the lock.
Unfortunately, the man was not as trustworthy as Louis XVI. supposed.
Surrounded by those who had adopted the principles of the Revolution,
and being a man without strong mind, he followed the current, and in
1792 he was nominated member of the Council General of the Commune of
Versailles, and on September 24 he was one of the commissioners
appointed "to cause to disappear all such paintings, sculptures, and
inscriptions from the monuments of the Commune as might serve to recall
royalty and despotism."
The records of the debates of the Communal Council show that Gamain
attended regularly and took part in the discussions, which were often
tumultuous.
The Queen heard of Gamain's Jacobinism, and warned the King, who,
however, could not believe that Gamain would betray him. Marie
Antoinette insisted on the most important papers being removed from the
iron chest, and they were confided to Mme. de Campan.
When the trial of the King was begun, on November 20, Gamain went to
Roland, Minister of the Interior, and told him the secret of the iron
chest. Roland, alarmed at the consequences of such a discovery, hastened
to consult his wife, who was in reality more minister than himself.
From August 10, a commission had been appointed to collect all the
papers found in the Tuileries; this commission, therefore, ought to be
made acquainted with the discovery; but here lay the danger. Mme.
Roland, as an instrument of the Girondins, feared that among the papers
in the chest might be discovered some which would show in what close
relations the Girondins stood to the Court. She decided that her husband
should go to the Tuileries, accompanied by Gamain, an architect, and a
servant. The chest was opened by the locksmith, Roland removed all the
papers, tied them up in a napkin, and took them home. They were taken
the same day to the Convention; and the commission charged the minister
with having abstracted such papers as would have been inconvenient to
him to deliver up.
When Roland surrendered the papers he declared, without naming Gamain,
that they had been discovered in a hole in the wall closed by an iron
door, behind a wainscot panel, in so secret a place "that they could not
have been found had not the secret been disclosed by the workman who
had himself made the place of concealment."
On December 24 following, Gamain was summoned to Paris by the Convention
to give his evidence to prove that a key discovered in the desk of
Thierry de Ville-d'Avray fitted the iron chest.
After the execution of the King, on January 21, 1793, the Convention
sent deputies into all the departments "to stimulate the authorities to
act with the energy requisite under the circumstances." Crassous was
sent into the department of Seine-et-Oise; and not finding the
municipality of Versailles, of which Gamain was a member, "up to the
requisite pitch," he discharged them from office; and by a law of
September 17, all such discharged functionaries were declared to be
"suspected persons," who were liable to be brought before the
revolutionary tribunal on that charge alone.
Thus, in spite of all the proofs he had given of his fidelity to the
principles of the Revolution, Gamain was at any moment liable to arrest,
and to being brought before that terrible tribunal from which the only
exit was to the guillotine. Moreover, Gamain had lost his place and
emoluments as Court locksmith; he had fallen into great poverty, was
without work, and without health.
On April 27, 1794, he presented a petition to the Convention which was
supported by Musset, the deputy and constitutional curé. "It was not
enough," said Musset from the tribune, "that the last of our tyrants
should have delivered over thousands of citizens to be slain by the
sword of the enemy. You will see by the petition I am about to read
that he was familiarised with the most refined cruelty, and that he
himself administered poison to the father of a family, in the hopes
thereby of destroying evidence of his perfidy. You will see that his
ferocious mind had adopted the maxim that to a king everything is
permissible."
After this preamble Musset read the petition of Gamain, which is as
follows: "François Gamain, locksmith to the cabinets and to the
laboratory of the late King, and for three years member of the Council
General of the Commune of Versailles, declares that at the beginning of
May 1792 he was ordered to go to Paris. On reaching it, Capet required
him to make a cupboard in the thickness of one of the walls of his room,
and to fasten it with an iron door; and he further states that he was
thus engaged up to the 22nd of the said month, and that he worked in the
King's presence. When the chest was completed, Capet himself offered
citizen Gamain a large tumbler of wine, and asked him to drink it, as
he, the said Gamain, was very hot.
"_A few hours later_ he was attacked by a violent colic, which did not
abate till he had taken two spoonfuls of elixir, which made him vomit
all he had eaten and drunk that day. This was the prelude to a terrible
illness, which lasted fourteen months, during which he lost the use of
his limbs, and which has left him at present without hope of recovering
his full health, and of working so as to provide for the necessities of
his family."
After reading the petition Musset added: "I hold in my hands the
certificate of the doctors, that testifies to the bad state of the
health of the citizen petitioner.
"Citizens! If wickedness is common to kings, generosity is the
prerogative of the free people. I demand that this petition be referred
to the Committee of Public Assistance to be promptly dealt with. I
demand that after the request all the papers relating to it be deposed
in the national archives, as a monument of the atrocity of tyrants, and
be inserted in the bulletin, that all those who have supposed that Capet
did evil only at the instigation of others may know that crime was
rooted in his very heart." This proposition was decreed. On May 17,
1794, the representative Peyssard mounted the tribune, and read the
report of the Committee, which we must condense.
"Citizens! At the tribunal of liberty the crimes of the oppressors of
the human race stand to be judged. To paint a king in all his
hideousness I need name only Louis XVI. This name sums in itself all
crimes; it recalls a prodigy of iniquity and of perfidy. Hardly escaped
from infancy, the germs of the ferocious perversity which characterise a
despot appeared in him. His earliest sports were with blood, and his
brutality grew with his years, and he delighted in wreaking his ferocity
on all the animals he met. He was known to be cruel, treacherous, and
murderous. The object of this report is to exhibit him to France
cold-bloodedly offering a cup of poison to the unhappy artist whom he
had just employed to construct a cupboard in which to conceal the plots
of tyranny. It was no stranger he marked as his victim, but a workman
whom he had employed for five-and-twenty years, and the father of a
family, his own instructor in the locksmith's art. Monsters who thus
treat their chosen servants, how will they deal with the rest of men?"
The National Convention thereupon ordered that "François Gamain,
poisoned by Louis Capet on May 22, 1792, should enjoy an annual pension
of the sum of 1,200 livres, dating from the day on which he was
poisoned."
It will be noticed by the most careless reader that the evidence is
_nil_. Gamain does not feel the colic till some hours after he has drunk
the wine; he had eaten or drunk other things besides during the day; and
finally the testimony of the doctors is, not that he was poisoned, but
that, at the time of his presenting the petition, he was in a bad state
of health. Accordingly, all reasonable historians, unblinded by party
passion, have scouted the idea of an attempt on Gamain's life by the
King. Thus the matter would have remained had not M. Paul Lacroix taken
it up and propped the old slander on new legs. We will take his account,
which he pretends to have received from several persons to whom Gamain
related it repeatedly. This is his _mise en scène_.
"The old inhabitants of Versailles will remember with pity the man whom
they often encountered alone, bowed on his stick like one bent with
years. Gamain was aged only fifty-eight when he died, but he bore all
the marks of decrepitude."
Here is a blunder, to begin with; he died, as the Versailles registers
testify, on May 8, 1795, and was accordingly only forty-four years
old,--that is, he died _one_ year after the grant of the annuity. M.
Parrott, in his article on Gamain in the "Dictionnaire de la Révolution
Française," says that he died in 1799, five years after having received
his pension; but the Versailles registers are explicit.
M. Lacroix goes on: "His hair had fallen off, and the little that
remained had turned white over a brow furrowed deeply; the loss of his
teeth made his cheeks hollow; his dull eyes only glared with sombre fire
when the name of Louis XVI was pronounced. Sometimes even tears then
filled them. Gamain lived very quietly with his family on his humble
pension, which, notwithstanding the many changes of government, was
always accorded him. It was not suppressed, lest the reason of its being
granted should again be raked up before the public."
As we have seen, Gamain died under the Government which granted the
pension. M. Lacroix goes on to say "that the old locksmith bore to his
dying day an implacable hatred of Louis XVI., whom he accused of having
been guilty of an abominable act of treachery."
"This act of treachery was the fixed and sole idea in Gamain's head, he
recurred to it incessantly, and poured forth a flood of bitter and
savage recriminations against the King. It was Gamain who disclosed the
secret of the iron chest in the Tuileries, and the papers it contained,
which furnished the chief accusation against Louis XVI.; it was he,
therefore, who had, so to speak, prepared the guillotine for the royal
head; it was he, finally, who provoked the decree of the Convention
which blackened the memory of the King as that of a vulgar murderer. But
this did not suffice the hate of Gamain, who went about everywhere
pursuing the dead beyond the tomb, with his charge of having attempted
murder as payment of life-long and devoted service. Gamain ordinarily
passed his evenings in a cafe at Versailles, the name of which I have
been told, but which I do not divulge lest I should make a mistake. He
was generally in the society of two old notaries, who are still alive
(in 1836), and of the doctor Lameyran, who attended him when he was
poisoned. These three persons were prepared to attest all the
particulars of the poisoning which had been proved at the _procès
verbal_. Gamain, indeed, lacked witnesses to establish the incidents of
the 22nd May, 1792, at the Tuileries; but his air of veracity and
expression of pain, his accent of conviction, his face full of
suffering, his burning eyes, his pathetic pantomime, were the guarantees
of good faith."
These three men, the notaries and the doctor, which latter M. Lacroix
hints was living when he wrote, were his authorities for what follows.
The notaries he does not name, nor the café where they met. His account
published in the _Siècle_ at once attracted attention, and M. Lacroix
was challenged to produce his witnesses. As for M. Lameyran, the doctor,
he had died in 1811; consequently his testimony was not to be had in
1836. The other doctor who had attended Gamain was M. Voisin, who died
in 1823, but M. Le Roy asserts positively that in 1813 M. Voisin told
him, "Never was Gamain poisoned. Lameyran and I had long attended him
for chronic malady of the stomach. This is all we testified to in our
certificate, when he applied for a pension. In our certificate we stated
that he was in weak health--not a word was in it about poisoning, which
existed only in his fancy."
These certificates are no longer in existence. They were not preserved
in the archives of the Convention. Even this fact is taken as evidence
in favour of the attempt. M. Emile Bonnet, in an article on Gamain in
the "Intermédiaire des Chercheurs," declares that they have been
substracted since the Restoration of Charles;[8] but there is no trace
in the archives of them ever having been there. Moreover, we have M. Le
Roy's word that M. Voisin assured him he had not testified to poisoning,
and, what is more important, we have Musset's declaration before the
Convention that the certificate of the doctors "asserted the ill-health
of the claimant." If there had been a word about poison in it, he would
assuredly have said so.
M. Lacroix was asked to name his authorities--the two advocates who, as
M. Lameyran was dead, were alive and would testify to the fact that they
had heard the story from the lips of Gamain. He remained silent. He
would not even name the café where they met, and which might lead to the
identification. M. Eckard, who wrote the notice on Gamain in the
"Biographie Universelle," consulted the family of the locksmith on the
case, and was assured by them that the bad health of Gamain was due to
no other cause than disappointment at the loss of his fortune, the
privations he underwent, and, above all, his terror for his life after
his dismissal from the Communal Council.
We will now continue M. Lacroix's account, which he proceeds, not a
little disingenuously, to put into the mouth of Gamain himself, so that
the accusation may not be charged on the author.
"On May 21, 1792," says Gamain, according to the "Bibliophile Jacob,"
"whilst I was working in my shop, a horseman drew up at my door and
called me out. His disguise as a carter did not prevent me from
recognising Durey, the King's forge assistant. I refused. I
congratulated myself that evening at having done so, as the rumour
spread in Versailles that the Tuileries had been attacked by the mob,
but this did not really take place till a month later. Next morning
Durey returned and showed me a note in the King's own hand, entreating
me to lend my assistance in a difficult job past his unaided powers. My
pride was flattered. I embraced my wife and children, without telling
them whither I was going, but I promised to return that night. It was
not without anxiety that they saw me depart with a stranger for Paris."
We need merely point out that Durey was no stranger to the family: he
had been for years associated daily with Gamain.
"Durey conducted me to the Tuileries, where the King was guarded as in a
prison. We went at once to the royal workshop, where Durey left me,
whilst he went to announce my arrival. Whilst I was alone, I observed an
iron door, recently forged, a mortise lock, well executed, and a little
iron box with a secret spring which I did not at once discover. Then in
came Durey with the King. 'The times are bad,' said Louis XVI., 'and I
do not know how matters will end.' Then he showed me the works I had
noticed, and said, 'What do you say to my skill? It took me ten days to
execute these things. I am your apprentice, Gamain.' I protested my
entire devotion. Then the King assured me that he always had confidence
in me, and that he did not scruple to trust the fate of himself and his
family in my hands. Thereupon he conducted me into the dark passage that
led from his room to the chamber of the Dauphin. Durey lit a taper, and
removed a panel in the passage, behind which I perceived a round hole,
about two feet in diameter, bored in the wall. The King told me he
intended to secrete his money in it, and that Durey, who had helped to
make it, threw the dust and chips into the river during the night. Then
the King told me that he was unable to fit the iron door to the hole
unassisted. I went to work immediately. I went over all the parts of the
lock, and got them into working order; then I fashioned a key to the
lock, then made hinges and fastened them into the wall as firmly as I
could, without letting the hammering be heard. The King helped as well
as he was able, entreating me every moment to strike with less noise,
and to be quicker over my work. The key was put in the little iron
casket, and this casket was concealed under a slab of pavement in the
corridor."
It will be seen that this story does not agree with the account in the
petition made by Gamain to the Convention. In that he said he was
summoned to Paris at the beginning of the month of May, and that "Capet
ordered him to make a cupboard in the thickness of the wall of his
apartment, and to close it with an iron door, the whole of which was not
accomplished till the 22nd of the same month." He was three weeks over
the job, not a few hours. "I had been working," continues Gamain, or M.
Lacroix for him, "for eight consecutive hours. The sweat poured from my
brow; I was impatient to repose, and faint with hunger, as I had eaten
nothing since I got up."
But, according to his account before the Convention, the elixir made him
throw up "all he had eaten and drunk during the day."
"I seated myself a moment in the King's chamber, and he asked me to
count for him two thousand double louis and tie them up in four leather
bags. Whilst so doing I observed that Durey was carrying some bundles of
papers which I conjectured were destined for the secret closet; and,
indeed, the money-counting was designed to distract my attention from
what Durey was about."
What a clumsy story! Why were not the papers hidden after Gamain was
gone? Was it necessary that this should be done in his presence, and he
set to count money, so as not to observe what was going on?
"As I was about to leave, the Queen suddenly entered by a masked door at
the foot of the King's bed, holding in her hands a plate, in which was a
cake (brioche) and a glass of wine. She came up to me, and I saluted her
with surprise, because the King had assured me that she knew nothing
about the fabrication of the chest. 'My dear Gamain,' said she in a
caressing tone, 'how hot you are! Drink this tumbler of wine and eat
this cake, and they will sustain you on your journey home.' I thanked
her, confounded by this consideration for a poor workman, and I emptied
the tumbler to her health. I put the cake in my pocket, intending to
take it home to my children."
Here again is a discrepancy. In his petition Gamain says that the King
gave him a glass of wine, and makes no mention of the Queen.
On leaving the Tuileries, Gamain set out on foot for Versailles, but was
attacked by a violent colic in the Champs Elysées. His agonies
increased; he was no longer able to walk; he fell, and rolled on the
ground, uttering cries and moans. A carriage that was passing stopped,
and an English gentleman got out--wonderful to relate!--extraordinary
coincidence!--a physician, and an acquaintance.
"The Englishman took me to his carriage, and ordered the coachman to
drive at full gallop to an apothecary's shop. The conveyance halted at
last before one in the Rue de Bac; the Englishman left me alone, whilst
he prepared an elixir which might counteract the withering power of the
poison. When I had swallowed this draught I ejected the venomous
substances. An hour later nothing could have saved me. I recovered in
part my sight and hearing; the cold that circulated in my veins was
dissipated by degrees, and the Englishman judged that I might be safely
removed to Versailles, which we reached at two o'clock in the morning. A
physician, M. de Lameyran, and a surgeon, M. Voisin, were called in;
they recognised the unequivocal tokens of poison.
"After three days of fever, delirium, and inconceivable suffering, I
triumphed over the poison, but suffered ever after from a paralysis
almost complete, and a general inflammation of the digestive organs.
"A few days after this catastrophe the servant maid, whilst cleaning my
coat, which I had worn on the occasion of my accident, found my
handkerchief, stained black, and the cake. She took a bite of the
latter, and threw the rest into the yard, where a dog ate it and died.
The girl, who had consumed only a morsel of the cake, fell dangerously
ill. The dog was opened by M. Voisin, and a chemical analysis disclosed
the presence of poison, both on my kerchief stained by my vomit, and in
the cake. The cake alone contained enough corrosive sublimate to kill
ten persons."
So--the poison was found. But how is it that in Gamain's petition none
of this occurs? According to that document, Gamain was offered a goblet
of wine by the King himself. "A few hours later he was attacked by a
violent colic. This was the prelude to a terrible illness." Only a vague
hint as to poison, no specific statement that he had been poisoned, and
that the kind of poison had been determined.
Now, corrosive sublimate, when put in red wine, forms a violet
precipitate, and alters the taste of the wine, giving it a
characteristic metallic, harsh flavour, so disagreeable that it insures
its immediate rejection. Gamain tasted nothing. Again, the action of
corrosive sublimate is immediate or very nearly so; but Gamain was not
affected till several hours after having drunk the wine.
According to the petition, Gamain asserted that he was paralysed in all
his limbs for fourteen months, from May 22, 1792; but the Communal
registers of Versailles show that he attended a session of the Council
and took part in the discussion on June 4 following, that is, less than
a fortnight after; that he was present at the sessions of June 8, 17,
20, and on August 22, and that he was sufficiently hearty and active to
be elected on the commission which was to obliterate the insignia of
monarchy on September 24 following, which certainly would not have been
the case had he been a sick man paralysed in all his members.
Why, we may further inquire, did not Louis the XVI. or Queen Marie
Antoinette attempt to poison Durey also, if they desired to make away
with all those who knew the secret of the iron locker?
Now, Durey was alive in 1800, and Eckard, who wrote the article on
Gamain in the "Biographie Universelle," knew him and saw him at that
date, and Durey told him that Gamain's story was a lie; the iron safe
was made, not in 1792, but in May, 1791; and this is probable, as it
would have been easier for the King to have the locker made before his
escape to Varennes, than in 1792, when he was under the closest
supervision.
According to the version attributed to Gamain by M. Paul Lacroix, Gamain
was paralysed for five months only. Why this change? Because either M.
Lacroix or the locksmith had discovered that it was an anachronism for
him to appear in November before Roland, and assist him in opening the
case which he had made in May--five months before, and afterwards to
declare that he was paralysed in all his members from May till the year
following. We think this correction is due to the Bibliophile. But he
was not acquainted with the Versailles archives proving him to have been
at a session a few days after the pretended poisoning.
There is not much difficulty in discovering Gamain's motive for
formulating the accusation against the King. He betrayed his king, who
trusted him, and then, to excuse his meanness, invented an odious
calumny against him.
But what was M. Lacroix's object in revivifying the base charge? We are
not sure that he comes cleaner out of the slough than the despicable
locksmith. He gave the story a new spell of life; he based his "facts"
on testimonies, who, he said, were ready at any moment to vouch for the
truth. When challenged to produce them he would not do so. His "facts"
were proved again and again to be fables, and yet he dared to republish
his slanderous story again and again, without a word of apology,
explanation, or retractation. M. Lacroix died only a year or two ago,
and it may seem ungenerous to attack a dead man, but one is forced to do
this in defence of the honour of a dead Queen whom he grossly
calumniated. The calumny was ingeniously put. M. Lacroix set it in the
mouth of Gamain, thinking thereby to free himself from responsibility,
but the responsibility sticks when he refuses to withdraw what has been
demonstrated to be false.
There is something offensive to the last degree in the pose of M.
Lacroix as he opens his charge. "For some years I have kept by me, with
a sort of terror, the materials for an historic revelation, without
venturing to use them, and yet the fact, now almost unknown, on which I
purpose casting a sinister light, is one that has been the object of my
most active preoccupations. For long I condemned myself to silence and
to fresh research, hitherto fruitless, hoping that the truth would come
to light.... Well! now, at the moment of lifting the veil which covers a
half-effaced page of history, with the documents I have consulted and
the evidence I have gleaned lying before me, surrounded by a crowd of
witnesses, one sustaining the testimony of the other, relying on my
conscience and on my sentiments as a man of honour--still I hesitate to
open my mouth and call up the remembrance of an event monstrous in
itself, that has not found an echo even in the writings of the blindest
partisans of a hideous epoch. Yes, I feel a certain repugnance in
seeming to associate in thought, though not in act, with the enemies of
Louis XVI. I have just re-read the sublime death of this unhappy
political martyr; I have felt my eyes moisten with tears at the
contemplation of the picture of the death inflicted by an inexorable
state necessity, and I felt I must break my pen lest I should mix my ink
with the yet warm blood of the innocent victim. Let my hand wither
rather than rob Louis XVI. of the mantle of probity and goodness, which
the outrages of '93 succeeded neither in staining nor in rending to
rags." And so on--M. Lacroix is only acting under a high sense of the
sacred duty of seeking the truth, "of forcing the disclosure of facts,
before it be too late," which may establish the innocence of Louis XVI.
Now, be it noted that M. Lacroix is the first to accuse the Queen of
attempting the murder; his assault is on her as much as, more than, on
the poor King--in the sacred interests of historic truth!
What are his evidences, his crowd of witnesses, his documents that he
has collected? What proof is there of his active preoccupations and
fresh researches? He produced nothing that can be called proof, and
refused the names of his witnesses when asked for them. We can quite
understand that the Bibliophile Jacob may have heard some gossiping
story such as he narrates, and may have believed it when he wrote the
story; but then, where are the high sense of honour, the tender
conscience, the enthusiasm for truth, when his story is proved to be a
tissue of improbabilities and impossibilities, that permit him to
republish, and again republish at intervals of years, this cruel and
calumnious fabrication?
FOOTNOTE:
[8] Le Bibliophile Jacob says the same: "Les--pièces--détournées
maladroitement par la Restauration."
Abram the Usurer.[9]
In the reign of Heraclius, when Sergius was patriarch of Constantinople,
there lived in Byzantium a merchant named Theodore, a good man and just,
fearing God, and serving him with all his heart. He went on a voyage to
the ports of Syria and Palestine with his wares, in a large well-laden
vessel, sold his goods to profit, and turned his ship's head homewards
with a good lading of silks and spices, the former some of the produce
of the looms of distant China, brought in caravans through Persia and
Syria to the emporiums on the Mediterranean.
It was late in the year when Theodore began his voyage home, the
equinoctial gales had begun to blow, and prudence would have suggested
that he should winter in Cyprus; but he was eager to return to Byzantium
to his beloved wife, and to prepare for another adventure in the ensuing
spring.
But he was overtaken by a storm as he was sailing up the Propontis, and
to save the vessel he was obliged to throw all the lading overboard. He
reached Constantinople in safety, but with the loss of his goods. His
grief and despair were excessive. His wife was unable to console him. He
declared that he was weary of the world, his loss was sent him as a
warning from heaven not to set his heart on Mammon, and that he was
resolved to enter a monastery, and spend the rest of his days in
devotion.
"Hasten, husband mine," said the wife, "put this scheme into execution
at once; for if you delay you may change your mind."
The manifest impatience of his wife to get rid of him somewhat cooled
the ardour of Theodore for the monastic profession, and before taking
the irrevocable step, he consulted a friend. "I think, dearest brother,
nay, I am certain, that this misfortune came on me as the indication of
the finger of Providence that I should give up merchandise and care only
for the saving of my soul."
"My friend," answered the other, "I do not see this in the same light as
you. Every merchant must expect loss. It is one of the ordinary risks of
sailors. It is absurd to despair. Go to your friends and borrow of them
sufficient to load your vessel again, and try your luck once more. You
are known as a merchant, and trusted as an honest man, and will have no
difficulty in raising the sum requisite."
Theodore rushed home, and announced to his wife that he had already
changed his mind, and that he was going to borrow money.
"Whatever pleases you is right in my eyes," said the lady.
Theodore then went the round of his acquaintances, told them of his
misfortune, and then asked them to lend him enough to restock his
vessel, promising to pay them a good percentage on the money lent. But
the autumn had been fatal to more vessels than that of Theodore, and he
found that no one was disposed to advance him the large sum he required.
He went from door to door, but a cold refusal met him everywhere.
Disappointed, and sick at heart, distressed at finding friends so
unfriendly, he returned home, and said to his wife, "Woman! the world is
hard and heartless, I will have nothing more to do with it. I will
become a monk."
"Dearest husband, do so by all means, and I shall be well pleased,"
answered the wife.
Theodore tossed on his bed all night, unable to sleep; before dawn an
idea struck him. There was a Jew named Abram who had often importuned
him to trade with his money, but whom he had invariably refused. He
would try this man as a last resource.
So when morning came, Theodore rose and went to the shop of Abram. The
Hebrew listened attentively to his story, and then said, smiling,
"Master Theodore, when thou wast rich, I often asked thee to take my
money and trade with it in foreign parts, so that I might turn it over
with advantage. But I always met with refusal. And now that thou art
poor, with only an empty ship, thou comest to me to ask for a loan. What
if again tempest should fall on thee, and wreck and ruin be thy lot,
where should I look for my money? Thou art poor. If I were to sell thy
house it would not fetch much. Nay, if I am to lend thee money thou must
provide a surety, to whom I may apply, and who will repay me, should
accident befall thee. Go, find security, and I will find the money."
So Theodore went to his best friend, and told him the circumstances, and
asked him to stand surety for him to the Jew.
"Dear friend," answered he, "I should be most happy to oblige you; but I
am a poor man, I have not as much money in the world as would suffice.
The Hebrew would not accept me as surety, he knows the state of my
affairs too well. But I will do for you what little I can. We will go
together to some merchants, and together beseech them to stand security
for you to the Jew."
So the two friends went to a rich merchant with whom they were
acquainted, and told him what they wanted; but he blustered and turned
red, and said, "Away with you, fellows; who ever heard of such insolence
as that two needy beggars should ask a man of substance like me to go
with them to the den of a cursed infidel Jew. God be thanked! I have no
dealings with Jews. I never have spoken to one in my life, and never
give them a greeting when I pass any in street or market-place. A man
who goes to the Jews to-day, goes to the dogs to-morrow, and to the
devil the day after."
The friends visited other merchants, but with like ill-success. Theodore
had spent the day fasting, and he went supperless to bed, very hopeless,
and with the prospect growing more distinct of being obliged to put on
the cowl of the monk, a prospect which somehow or other he did not
relish.
Next morning he started from home to tell Abram his failure. His way
was through the great square called the Copper-Market before the
Imperial palace. Now there stood there a porch consisting of four
pillars, which supported a dome covered with brazen tiles, the whole
surmounted by a cross, on the east side of which, looking down on the
square, and across over the sparkling Bosphorus to the hills of Asia,
was a large, solemn figure of the Crucified. This porch and cross had
been set up by Constantine the Great,[10] and had been restored by
Anastasius.
As Theodore sped through the Copper-Market in the morning, he looked up;
the sky was of the deepest gentian blue. Against it, glittering like
gold in the early sun, above the blazing, brazen tiles, stood the great
cross with the holy form thereon. Theodore halted, in his desolation,
doubt and despair, and looked up at the figure. It was in the old, grave
Byzantine style, very solemn, without the pain expressed in Mediæval
crucifixes, and like so many early figures of the sort was probably
vested and crowned.
A sudden inspiration took hold of the ruined man. He fell on his knees,
stretched his hands towards the shining form, and cried, "Lord Jesus
Christ! the hope of the whole earth, the only succour of all who are
cast down, the sure confidence of those that look to Thee! All on whom I
could lean have failed me. I have none on earth on whom I can call. Do
Thou, Lord, be surety for me, though I am unworthy to ask it." Then
filled with confidence he rose from his knees, and ran to the house of
Abram, and bursting in on him said, "Be of good cheer, I have found a
Surety very great and noble and mighty. Trust thy money, He will keep it
safe."
Abram answered, "Let the man come, and sign the deed and see the money
paid over."
"Nay, my brother," said Theodore; "come thou with me. I have hurried in
thus to bring thee to him."
Then Abram went with Theodore, who led him to the Copper-Market, and
bade him be seated, and then raising his finger, he pointed to the
sacred form hanging on the cross, and, full of confidence, said to the
Hebrew, "There, friend, thou could'st not have a better security than
the Lord of heaven and earth. I have besought Him to stand for me, and I
know He is so good that He will not deny me."
The Jew was perplexed. He said nothing for a moment or two, and then,
wondering at the man's faith, answered, "Friend, dost thou not know the
difference between the faith of a Christian and of a Hebrew? How can'st
thou ask me to accept as thy surety, One whom thou believest my people
to have rejected and crucified? However, I will trust thee, for thou art
a God-fearing and an honest man, and I will risk my money."
So they twain returned to the Jew's quarters, and Abram counted out
fifty pounds of gold, in our money about £2,400. He tied the money up in
bags, and bade his servants bear it after Theodore. And Abram and the
glad merchant came to the Copper-Market, and then the Jew ordered that
the money bags should be set down under the Tetrastyle where was the
great crucifix. Then said the Hebrew usurer, "See, Theodore, I make over
to thee the loan here before thy God." And there, in the face of the
great image of his Saviour, Theodore received the loan, and swore to
deal faithfully by the Jew, and to restore the money to him with usury.
After this, the merchant bought a cargo for his vessel, and hired
sailors, and set sail for Syria. He put into port at Tyre and Sidon, and
traded with his goods, and bought in place of them many rich Oriental
stuffs, with spices and gums, and when his ship was well laden, he
sailed for Constantinople.
But again misfortune befell him. A storm arose, and the sailors were
constrained to throw the bales of silk, and bags of costly gums, and
vessels of Oriental chasing into the greedy waves. But as the ship began
to fill, they were obliged to get into the boat and escape to land. The
ship keeled over and drifted into shallow water. When the storm abated
they got to her, succeeded in floating her, and made the best of their
way in the battered ship to Constantinople, thankful that they had
preserved their lives. But Theodore was in sad distress, chiefly because
he had lost Abram's money. "How shall I dare to face the man who dealt
so generously by me?" he said to himself. "What shall I say, when he
reproaches me? What answer can I make to my Surety for having lost the
money entrusted to me?"
Now when Abram heard that Theodore had arrived in Constantinople in his
wrecked vessel with the loss of all his cargo, he went to him at once,
and found the man prostrate in his chamber, the pavement wet with his
tears of shame and disappointment. Abram laid his hand gently on his
shoulder, and said, in a kind voice, "Rise, my brother, do not be
downcast; give glory to God who rules all things as He wills, and follow
me home. God will order all for the best."
Then the merchant rose, and followed the Jew, but he would not lift his
eyes from the ground, for he was ashamed to look him in the face. Abram
was troubled at the distress of his friend, and he said to him, as he
shut the door of his house, "Let not thy heart be broken with overmuch
grief, dearest friend, for it is the mark of a wise man to bear all
things with firm mind. See! I am ready again to lend thee fifty pounds
of gold, and may better fortune attend thee this time. I trust that our
God will bless the money and multiply it, so that in the end we shall
lose nothing by our former misadventure."
"Then," said Theodore, "Christ shall again stand security for me. Bring
the money to the Tetrastyle."
Therefore again the bags of gold were brought before the cross, and when
they had then been made over to the merchant, Abram said, "Accept,
Master Theodore, this sum of fifty pounds of gold, paid over to thee
before thy Surety, and go in peace. And may the Lord God prosper thee
on thy journey, and make plain the way before thee. And remember, that
before this thy Surety thou art bound to me for a hundred pounds of
gold."
Having thus spoken, Abram returned home. Theodore repaired and reloaded
his ship, engaged mariners and made ready to sail. But on the day that
he was about to depart, he went into the Copper-Market, and kneeling
down, with his face towards the cross, he prayed the Lord to be his
companion and captain, and to guide him on his journey, and bring him
safe through all perils with his goods back to Byzantium once more.
Then he went on to the house of Abram to bid him farewell. And the Jew
said to him, "Keep thyself safe, brother, and beware now of trusting thy
ship to the sea at the time of equinoctial gales. Thou hast twice
experienced the risk, run not into it again. Winter at the place whither
thou goest, and that I may know how thou farest, if thou hast the
opportunity, send me some of the money by a sure hand. Then there is
less chance of total ruin, for if one portion fails, the other is likely
to be secure."
Theodore approved of this advice, and promised to follow it; so then the
Jew and the Christian parted with much affection and mutual respect, for
each knew the other to be a good and true man, fearing God, and seeking
to do that which is right. This time Theodore turned his ship's head
towards the West, intending to carry his wares to the markets of Spain.
He passed safely through the Straits of Hercules, and sailed North. Then
a succession of steady strong breezes blew from the South and swept him
on so that he could not get into harbour till he reached Britain. He
anchored in a bay on the rugged Cornish coast, in the very emporium of
tin and lead, in the Cassiterides famed of old for supplying ore
precious in the manufacture of bronze. He readily disposed of all his
merchandise, and bought as much tin and lead as his ship would hold. His
goods had sold so well, and tin and lead were so cheap that he found he
had fifty pounds in gold in addition to the cargo.
The voyage back from Britain to Byzantium was long and dangerous, and
Theodore was uneasy. He found no other ships from Constantinople where
he was, and no means presented themselves for sending back the money in
part, as he had promised. He was a conscientious man, and he wished to
keep his word.
He set sail from Cornwall before the summer was over, passed safely
through the straits into the Mediterranean, but saw no chance of
reaching Constantinople before winter. He would not again risk his
vessel in the gales of the equinox, and he resolved to winter in Sicily.
He arrived too late in the year to be able to send a message and the
money to Abram. His promise troubled him, and he cast about in his mind
how to keep his word.
At last, in the simple faith which coloured the whole life of the man,
he made a very solid wooden box and tarred it well internally and
externally. Then he inclosed in it the fifty pounds of gold he had made
by his goods in Britain over and above his lading of lead and tin, and
with the money he put a letter, couched in these terms:
"In the name of my heir and God, my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ who is
also my Surety for a large sum of money, I, Theodore, humbly address my
master Abram, who, with God, is my benefactor and creditor.
"I would have thee know, Master Abram, that we all, by the mercy of God,
are in good health. God has verily prospered us well and brought our
merchandise to a good market. And now, see! I send thee fifty pounds of
gold, which I commit to the care of my Surety, and He will convey the
money safely to thy hands. Receive it from me and do not forget us.
Farewell."
Then he fastened up the box, and raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed
to God, saying: "O Lord Jesus Christ, Mediator between God and Man, Who
dwellest in Heaven, but hast respect unto the lowly; hear the voice of
thy servant this day; because Thou hast proved Thyself to me a good and
kind Surety, I trust to Thee to return to my benefactor and creditor,
Abram, the money I promised to send him. Trusting in Thee, Lord, I
commit this little box to the sea!"
So saying he flung the case containing the gold and the letter into the
waves; and standing on a cliff watched it floating on the waters, rising
and falling on the glittering wavelets, gradually drifting further and
further out to sea, till it was lost to his sight, and then, nothing
doubting but that the Lord Christ would look after the little box and
guide it over the waste of waters to its proper destination, he went
back to his lodging, and told the ship pilot what he had done. The
sailor remained silent wondering in his mind at the great faith of his
master. Then his rough heart softened, and he knelt down and blessed and
praised God.
That night Theodore had a dream, and in the morning he told it to the
pilot.
"I thought," said he, "that I was back in Byzantium, and standing in the
Copper-Market before the great cross with Christ on it. And I fancied in
my dream that Abram was at my side. And I looked, and saw him hold up
his hands, and receive the box in them, and the great figure of Christ
said, 'See, Abram, I give thee what Theodore committed to my trust.'
And, thereupon, I awoke trembling. So now I am quite satisfied that the
gold is in safe keeping, and will infallibly reach its destination."
The summer passed, the storms of autumn had swept over the grey sea, and
torn away from the trees the last russet leaves; winter had set in; yet
Abram had received no news of Theodore.
He did not doubt the good faith of his friend, but he began to fear that
ill-luck attended him. He had risked a large sum, and would feel the
loss severely should this cargo be lost like the former one. He talked
the matter over with his steward, and considered it from every
imaginable point of view. His anxiety took him constantly to the shore
to watch the ships that arrived, hoping to hear news by some of them,
and to recover part of his money. He hardly expected the return of
Theodore after the injunctions he had given him not to risk his vessel
in a stormy season.
One day he was walking with his steward by the sea-side, when the waves
were more boisterous than usual. Not a ship was visible. All were in
winter quarters. Abram drew off his sandals, and began to wash his feet
in the sea water. Whilst so doing he observed something floating at a
little distance. With the assistance of his steward he fished out a box
black with tar, firmly fastened up, like a solid cube of wood. Moved by
curiosity he carried the box home, and succeeded with a little
difficulty in forcing it open. Inside he found a letter, not directed,
but marked with three crosses, and a bag of gold. It need hardly be said
that this was the box Theodore had entrusted to Christ, and his Surety
had fulfilled His trust and conveyed it to the hands of the creditor.
Next spring Theodore returned to Constantinople in safety. As soon as he
had disembarked, he hastened to the house of Abram to tell him the
results of his voyage.
The Jewish usurer, wishing to prove him, feigned not to understand, when
Theodore related how he had sent him fifty pounds of gold, and made as
though he had not received the money. But the merchant was full of
confidence, and he said, "I cannot understand this, brother, for I
enclosed the money in a box along with a letter, and committed it to the
custody of my Saviour Christ, Who has acted as Surety for me unworthy.
But as thou sayest that thou hast not received it, come with me, and let
us go together before the crucifix, and say before it that thou hast not
had the money conveyed to thee, and then I will believe thy word."
Abram promised to accompany his friend, and rising from their seats,
they went together to the Copper-Market. And when they came to the
Tetrastyle, Theodore raised his hands to the Crucified, and said, "My
Saviour and Surety, didst Thou not restore the gold to Abram that I
entrusted to Thee for that purpose?"
There was something so wonderful, so beautiful, in the man's faith, that
Abram was overpowered; and withal there was the evidence that it was not
misplaced so clear to the Jew, that the light of conviction like a
dazzling sunbeam darted into his soul, and Theodore saw the Hebrew
usurer fall prostrate on the pavement, half fainting with the emotion
which oppressed him.
Theodore ran and fetched water in his hands and sprinkled his face, and
brought the usurer round. And Abram said, "As God liveth, my friend, I
will not enter into my house till I have taken thy Lord and Surety for
my Master." A crowd began to gather, and it was bruited abroad that the
Jewish usurer sought baptism. And when the story reached the ears of the
Emperor Heraclius, he glorified God. So Abram was put under instruction,
and was baptised by the patriarch Sergius.[11]
And after seven days a solemn procession was instituted through the
streets of Constantinople to the Copper-Market, in which walked the
emperor and the patriarch, and all the clergy of the city; and the box
which had contained the money was conveyed by them to the Tetrastyle
and laid up, along with the gold and the letter before the image, to be
a memorial of what had taken place to all generations. And thenceforth
the crucifix received the common appellation of Antiphonetos, or the
Surety.
As for the tin and lead with which the vessel of Theodore was freighted,
it sold for a great price, so that both he and Abram realised a large
sum by the transaction. But neither would keep to himself any portion of
it, but gave it all to the Church of S. Sophia, and therewith a part of
the sanctuary was overlaid with silver. Then Theodore and his wife, with
mutual consent, gave up the world and retired into monastic
institutions.
Abram afterwards built and endowed an oratory near the Tetrastyle, and
Sergius ordained him priest and his two sons deacons.
Thus ends this strange and very beautiful story, which I have merely
condensed from the somewhat prolix narrative of the Byzantine preacher.
The reader will probably agree with me that if sermons in the 19th
century were as entertaining as this of the 10th, fewer people would be
found to go to sleep during their delivery.
I have told the tale as related by the preacher. But there are reasons
which awaken suspicion that he somewhat erred as to his dates; but that,
nevertheless the story is really not without a foundation of fact.
Towards the close of the oration the preacher points to the ambone, and
the thusiasterion, and bids his hearers remark how they are overlaid
with silver, and this he says was the silver that Abram, the wealthy
Jewish usurer, and Theodore, the merchant, gave to the Church of S.
Sophia.
Now it happens that we have got a contemporary record of this overlaying
of the sanctuary with silver; we know from the pen of Procopius of Gaza
that it took place in the reign of Justinian in A.D. 537.[12]
This was preparatory to the dedication of the great Church, when the
Emperor and the wealthy citizens of Byzantium were lavishly contributing
to the adornment of the glorious building.
We can quite understand how that the new convert and the grateful
merchant were carried away by the current of the general enthusiasm, and
gave all their silver to the plating of the sanctuary of the new Church.
Procopius tells us that forty thousand pounds of silver were spent in
this work. Not all of this, however, could have been given by Abram and
Theodore.
If this then were the date of the conversion of Abram, for Heraclius we
must read Justinian, and for Sergius we must substitute Mennas. As the
sermon was not preached till four hundred years after, the error can be
accounted for, one imperial benefactor of the Church was mistaken for
another.
Now about the time of Justinian, we know from other sources that there
was a converted Jew named Abram who founded and built a church and
monastery in Constantinople, and which in after times was known as the
Abramite Monastery. We are told this by John Moschus. We can not fix the
exact date of the foundation, Moschus heard about A.D. 600 from the
abbot John Rutilus, who had heard it from Stephen the Moabite, that the
Monastery of the Abramites had been constructed by Abram who afterwards
was raised to the metropolitan See of Ephesus. We may put then the
foundation of the monastery at about A.D. 540.
Now Abram of Ephesus succeeded Procopius who was bishop in 560; and his
successor was Rufinus in 597. The date of the elevation of Abram to the
metropolitan throne of Ephesus is not known exactly, but it was probably
about 565.
There is, of course, much conjecture in thus identifying the usurer
Abram with Abram, Bishop of Ephesus; but there is certainly a
probability that they were identical; and if so, then one more pretty
story of the good man survives. After having built the monastery in
Constantinople, Moschus tells us that Abram went to Jerusalem, the home
to which a Jewish heart naturally turns, and there he set to work to
erect another monastery. Now there was among the workmen engaged on the
building a mason who ate but sparingly, conversed with none, but worked
diligently, and prayed much in his hours of relaxation from labour.
Abram became interested in the man, and called him to him, and learned
from him his story. It was this. The mason had been a monk in the
Theodorian Monastery along with his brother. The brother weary of the
life, had left and fallen into grave moral disorders. Then this one now
acting as mason had gone after him, laid aside his cowl and undertaken
the same daily toil as the erring brother, that he might be with him,
waiting his time when by means of advice or example he might draw the
young man from his life of sin. But though he had laid aside the outward
emblems of his monastic profession, he kept the rule of life as closely
as he was able, cultivating prayer and silence and fasting. Then Abram
deeply moved, said to the monk-mason: "God will look on thy fraternal
charity; be of good courage, He will give thee thy brother at thy
petition."
FOOTNOTES:
[9] This account is taken from a sermon preached in the Church of St.
Sophia at Constantinople on Orthodoxy Sunday, printed by Combefisius
(Auctuarium novum, pars post. col. 644), from a MS. in the National
Library at Paris. Another copy of the sermon is in the Library at Turin.
The probable date of the composition is the tenth century. Orthodoxy
Sunday was not instituted till 842.
[10] This famous figure was cast down and broken by Leo the Isaurian in
730, a riot ensued, the market-women interfering with the soldiers, who
were engaged on pulling down the figure, they shook the ladders and
threw down one who was engaged in hacking the face of the figure. This
led to the execution of ten persons, among them Gregory, head of the
bodyguard, and Mary, a lady of the Imperial family. The Empress Irene
set up a mosaic figure in its place. This was again destroyed by Leo the
Armenian, and again restored after his death by Theophilus in 829.
[11] Sergius was patriarch of Constantinople between 610 and 638. He
embraced the Monothelite heresy.
[12] Fabricius, Bibl. Græca, Ed. Harles, T.X. p. 124, 125.
Sophie Apitzsch.
"Some are born great," said Malvolio, strutting in yellow stockings,
cross-gartered, before Olivia, "some achieve greatness," and with a
smile, "some have greatness thrust upon them."
Of the latter was Sophie Sabine Apitzsch. She was not born great, she
was the daughter of an armourer. She hardly can be said to have achieved
greatness, though she did attain to notoriety; what greatness she had
was thrust on her, not altogether reluctant to receive it. But the
greatness was not much, and was of an ambiguous description. She was
treated for a while as a prince in disguise, and then became the theme
of an opera, of a drama, and of a novel. For a hundred years her
top-boots were preserved as historical relics in the archives of the
House of Saxony, till in 1813 a Cossack of the Russian army passing
through Augustenburg, saw, desired, tried on, and marched off with them;
and her boots entered Paris with the Allies.
About five-and-twenty miles from Dresden lived in 1714 a couple of
landed proprietors, the one called Volkmar, and the other von Günther,
who fumed with fiery hostility against each other, and the cause of
disagreement was, that the latter wrote himself von Günther. Now, to get
a _von_ before the name makes a great deal of difference: it purifies,
nay, it alters the colour of the blood, turning it from red to blue. No
one in Germany can prefix _von_ to his name as any one in England can
append Esq. to his. He must receive authorisation by diploma of nobility
from his sovereign.
George von Günther had been, not long before, plain George Günther, but
in 1712 he had obtained from the Emperor Charles VI. a patent of
nobility, or gentility, they are the same abroad, and the motive that
moved his sacred apostolic majesty to grant the patent was--as set forth
therein--that an ancestor of George Günther of the same name "had sat
down to table with the elector John George II. of Saxony;" and it was
inconceivable that a mere citizen could have been suffered to do this,
unless there were some nobility in him. George von Günther possessed an
estate which was a manor, a knight's fee, at Jägerhof, and he was
moreover upper Forester and Master of the Fisheries to the King-elector
of Saxony, and Sheriff of Chemnitz and Frankenberg. He managed to marry
his daughters to men blessed with _von_ before their names, one to von
Bretschneider, Privy-Councillor of War, the other to a Major von
Wöllner.
Now, all this was gall and wormwood to Councillor-of-Agriculture, Daniel
Volkmar, who lived on his paternal acres at Hetzdorf, of which he was
hereditary chief magistrate by virtue of his lordship of the acres. This
man had made vain efforts to be ennobled. He could not find that any
ancestor of his had sat at table with an elector; and, perhaps, he could
not scrape together sufficient money to induce his sacred apostolic
majesty to overlook this defect. As he could not get his diploma, he
sought how he might injure his more fortunate neighbour, and this he did
by spying out his acts, watching for neglect of his duties to the fishes
or the game, and reporting him anonymously to head-quarters. Günther
knew well enough who it was that sought to injure him, and, as Volkmar
believed, had invited some of the gamekeepers to shoot him; accordingly,
Volkmar never rode or walked in the neighbourhood of the royal forests
and fish-ponds unarmed, and without servants carrying loaded muskets.
One day a brother magistrate, Pöckel by name, came over to see him about
a matter that puzzled him. There had appeared in the district under his
jurisdiction a young man, tall, well-built, handsome, but slightly
small-pox-pitted, who had been arrested by the police for blowing a
hunting-horn. Now ignoble lips might not touch a hunting-horn, and for
any other than breath that issued out of noble lungs to sound a note on
such a horn was against the laws.
"Oh," said Volkmar, "if he has done this, and is not a gentleman--lock
him up. What is his name?"
"He calls himself Karl Marbitz."
"But I, even I, may not blow a blast on a horn--that scoundrel Günther
may. Deal with the fellow Marbitz with the utmost severity."
"But--suppose he may have the necessary qualification?"
"How can he without a von before his name?"
"Suppose he be a nobleman, or something even higher, in disguise?"
"What, in disguise? Travelling incognito? Our Crown Prince is not at
Dresden."[13]
"Exactly. All kinds of rumours are afloat concerning this young man, who
is, indeed, about the Crown Prince's age; he has been lodging with a
baker at Aue, and there blowing the horn."
"I'll go with you and see him. I will stand bail for him. Let him come
to me. Hah-hah! George von Günther, hah-hah!"
So Volkmar, already more than half disposed to believe that the
horn-blower was a prince in disguise, rode over to the place where he
was in confinement, saw him, and lost what little doubt he had. The
upright carriage, the aristocratic cast of features, the stand-off
manners, all betokened the purest of blue blood--all were glimmerings of
that halo which surrounds sovereignty.
The Crown Prince of Saxony was away--it was alleged, in France--making
the grand tour, but, was it not more likely that he was going the round
of the duchy of Saxony, inquiring into the wants and wrongs of the
people? If so, who could better assist him to the knowledge of these
things, than he, Volkmar, and who could better open his eyes to the
delinquencies of high-placed, high-salaried officials--notably of the
fisheries and forests?
"There is one thing shakes my faith," said Pöckel: "our Crown Prince is
not small-pox marked."
"That is nothing," answered Volkmar eagerly. "His Serenity has caught
the infection in making his studies among the people."
"And then--he is so shabbily dressed."
"That is nothing--it is the perfection of disguise."
Volkmar carried off the young man to his house, and showed him the
greatest respect, insisted on his sitting in the carriage facing the
horses, and would on no account take a place at his side, but seated
himself deferentially opposite him.
On reaching Hetzdorf, Volkmar introduced his wife and his daughter
Joanna to the distinguished prince, who behaved to them very graciously,
and with the most courtly air expressed himself charmed with the room
prepared for him.
Dinner was served, and politics were discussed; the reserve with which
the guest treated such subjects, the caution with which he expressed an
opinion, served to deepen in Volkmar's mind the conviction that he had
caught the Crown Prince travelling incog. After the servants had
withdrawn, and when a good deal of wine--the best in the cellar--had
been drunk, the host said confidentially in a whisper, "I see clearly
enough what you are."
"Indeed," answered the guest, "I can tell you what I am--by trade an
armourer."
"Ah, ha! but by birth--what?" said Volkmar, slyly, holding up his glass
and winking over it.
"Well," answered the guest, "I will admit this--I am not what I appear."
"And may I further ask your--I mean you--where you are at home?"
"I am a child of Saxony," was the answer.
Afterwards, at the trial, the defendant insisted that this was exactly
the reply made, whereas Volkmar asserted that the words were, "I am a
child of the House of Saxony." But there can be no doubt that his
imagination supplemented the actual words used with those he wished to
hear.
"The small-pox has altered you since you left home," said Volkmar.
"Very likely. I have had the small-pox since I left my home."
Volkmar at once placed his house, his servants, his purse, at the
disposal of his guest, and his offer was readily accepted.
It is now advisable to turn back and explain the situation, by relating
the early history of this person, who passed under the name of Karl
Marbitz, an armourer; but whom a good number of people suspected of
being something other than what he gave himself out to be, though only
Volkmar and Pöckel and one or two others supposed him to be the Crown
Prince of Saxony.
Sophie Sabine Apitzsch was born at Lunzenau in Saxony in 1692, was well
brought up, kept to school, and learned to write orthographically, and
to have a fair general knowledge of history and geography. When she left
school she was employed by her father in his trade, which was that of an
armourer. She was tall and handsome, somewhat masculine--in after years
a Cossack got into her boots--had the small-pox, which, however, only
slightly disfigured her. In 1710 she had a suitor, a gamekeeper,
Melchior Leonhart. But Sophie entertained a rooted dislike to marriage,
and she kept her lover off for three years, till her father peremptorily
ordered her to marry Melchior, and fixed the day for the wedding. Then
Sophie one night got out of her own clothing, stepped into her father's
best suit, and walked away in the garments of a man, and shortly
afterwards appeared in Anspach under a feigned name, as a barber's
assistant. Here she got into difficulties with the police, as she had no
papers of legitimation, and to escape them, enlisted. She carried a
musket for a month only, deserted, and resumed her vagabond life in
civil attire, as a barber's assistant, and came to Leipzig, where she
lodged at the Golden Cock. How she acquired the art, and how those liked
it on whose faces she made her experiments with the razor, we are not
told.
At the Golden Cock lodged an athletic lady of the name of Anna Franke,
stout, muscular, and able to lift great weights with her teeth, and with
a jerk throw them over her shoulders. Anna Franke gave daily exhibitions
of her powers, and on the proceeds maintained herself and her daughter,
a girl of seventeen. The stout and muscular lady also danced on a tight
rope, which with her bounces acted like a taut bowstring, projecting the
athlete high into the air.
The Fräulein Franke very speedily fell in love with the fine young
barber, and proposed to her mother that Herr Karl should be taken into
the concern, as he would be useful to stretch the ropes, and go round
for coppers. Sophie was nothing loth to have her inn bill paid on these
terms, but when finally the bouncing mother announced that her
daughter's hand was at the disposal of Karl, then the situation became
even more embarrassing than that at home from which Sophie had run away.
The barber maintained her place as long as she could, but at last, when
the endearments of the daughter became oppressive, and the urgency of
the mother for speedy nuptials became vexatious, she pretended that the
father, who was represented as a well-to-do citizen of Hamburg, must
first be consulted. On this plea Sophie borrowed of Mother Franke the
requisite money for her journey and departed, promising to return in a
few weeks. Instead of fulfilling her promise, Sophie wrote to ask for a
further advance of money, and when this was refused, disappeared
altogether from the knowledge of the athlete and her daughter.
On this second flight from marriage, Sophie Apitzsch met with an
armourer named Karl Marbitz, and by some means or other contrived to get
possession of his pass, leaving him instead a paper of legitimation made
out under the name of Karl Gottfried, which old Mother Franke had
induced the police to grant to the young barber who was engaged to marry
her daughter.
In June 1714, under the name of Marbitz, Sophie appeared among the
Erz-Gebirge, the chain of mountains that separate Saxony from Bohemia,
and begged her way from place to place, pretending to be a schoolmaster
out of employ. After rambling about for some time, she took up her
quarters with a baker at Elterlein. Here it was that for the first time
a suspicion was aroused that she was a person of greater consequence
than she gave out. The rumour reached the nearest magistrate that there
was a mysterious stranger there who wore a ribbon and star of some
order, and he at once went to the place to make inquiries, but found
that Sophie had neither ribbon nor order, and that her papers declared
in proper form who and what she was. At this time she fell ill at the
baker's house, and the man, perhaps moved by the reports abroad
concerning her, was ready to advance her money to the amount of £6 or
£7. When recovered, she left the village where she had been ill, and
went to another one, where she took up her abode with another baker,
named Fischer, whom she helped in his trade, or went about practising
upon the huntsman's horn.
This amusement it was which brought her into trouble. Possibly she may
not have known that the horn was a reserved instrument that might not be
played by the ignoble.
At the time that Volkmar took her out of the lockup, and carried her off
to his mansion in his carriage, she was absolutely without money, in
threadbare black coat, stockings ill darned, and her hair very much in
want of powder.
Hitherto her associates had been of the lowest classes; she had been
superior to them in education, in morals, and in character, and had to
some extent imposed on
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