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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 68, No. 417, July, 1850

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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 68, No. 417, July, 1850

Author: Various


        
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOLUME 68, NO. 417, JULY, 1850 ***

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       *       *       *       *       *




  BLACKWOOD'S

  Edinburgh

  MAGAZINE.

  VOL. LXVIII.

  JULY-DECEMBER, 1850.

  [Illustration]

  WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH;

  AND

  37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

  1850.




BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

  NO. CCCCXVII.       JULY, 1850.       VOL. LXVIII.




CONTENTS.


  THE HOUSE OF GUISE,                                          1

  MY PENINSULAR MEDAL. BY AN OLD PENINSULAR. CONCLUSION,      20

  CHATEAUBRIAND'S MEMOIRS,                                    33

  THE GREEN HAND--A "SHORT" YARN. PART XI.,                   48

  THE JEW BILL,                                               73

  THE PICTURES OF THE SEASON,                                 77

  THE YEAR OF SORROW.--IRELAND--1849,                         93

  LONDON AND EDINBURGH CHESS MATCH,                           97

  THE INDUSTRY OF THE PEOPLE,                                106


EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET; AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW,
LONDON.

_To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed._

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.




BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

  NO. CCCCXVII.       JULY, 1850.       VOL. LXVIII.




THE HOUSE OF GUISE.[1]

  [1] _Histoire des Ducs de Guise._ Par RÉNÉ DE BOUILLÉ, ancien
  ministre plénipotentiaire. Volume the First. Paris: 1849.


Upon the page of history are inscribed the names of many great men,
uncrowned, but more illustrious than most kings, whose biography
essentially involves the records of their country and times. The
cases are very rare in which this occurs of an entire lineage;
when through several successive generations the same extraordinary
qualities are transmitted, and the hero or statesman who perished
yesterday, to-day and to-morrow seems to start again to life in the
persons of descendants who rival and even eclipse his fame. These
remarkable and most unfrequent instances are exemplified in the
house of Guise, those puissant nobles of Lorraine, immigrant into
and naturalised in France, who for eighty years led the armies and
directed the councils of their adopted country. Great warriors, bold
and profound politicians, unscrupulous and interested champions of
Rome, alternately defenders of and competitors for thrones, they
upheld their power and pretensions by the double lever of religious
enthusiasm, and of skilful appeals to the sympathy of the people.
Rich in glory, in wealth, in popularity, they were alternately
indispensable and formidable to their sovereigns, and were virtually
the last representatives of that energetic, able, and arrogant
aristocracy, whose services to the state were often limited by
the jealousy their power inspired, and whose patriotism was not
unfrequently tarnished by their factious temper and unbounded
ambition. From an early period of the sixteenth century, the
influence of Guise was felt in France, for the most part paramount
to that of royalty itself; until the might and glory of the house
sank and disappeared beneath the daggers of assassins, and before
the conquering sword of the Fourth Henry.

The history of France during the sixteenth century necessarily
comprises the public acts of the family of Guise, and the memoirs
of the time abound in personal details of the members of that
renowned house; but a work especially devoted to them was still
a desideratum, until the appearance of that which M. Réné de
Bouillé has just produced. One of the chief difficulties of his
task must have been to avoid including the history of the century
in that of the extraordinary men so intimately connected with its
chief events. Whilst confining himself as much as possible to his
immediate subject, he has yet, as he himself says, found his horizon
of necessity extensive. And in order to assemble in one frame the
various members of that celebrated family, he has been compelled
to admit with them a host of other personages, who in their turn
have brought a retinue, and have insisted on at least a corner of
the canvass being allotted to their deeds. The manner in which M. de
Bouillé has treated this great historical picture, whose magnitude
and difficulty must have deterred a less zealous and persevering
artist, is most judicious. "I have been as sparing as possible of
discussion," he says, "prodigal perhaps, on the other hand, of
cotemporary evidence, of faithful quotations, of such details as
bring facts into a stronger light, exhibit the actors on the stage
in a more animated manner, and display and make known, of and by
themselves, the personages, parties, manners and spirit of the
times, and the character of the situations." M. de Bouillé claims,
as a matter of justice, credit for conscientious application, and
declares his whole aim will have been attained if his work be
admitted to possess historical interest and utility. No impartial
critic will refuse it these qualities. It is at once substantial
and agreeable; valuable to the student, and attractive to those who
consider histories of the Middle Ages as fascinating collections of
strange adventures and romantic enterprises.

Réné the Second, reigning duke of Lorraine--the same who fought and
conquered with the Swiss at Morat, and defeated Charles the Bold at
Nancy--desired to see one of his sons settled in France. He selected
the fifth, Claude, to whom he left by will his various lordships in
Normandy, Picardy, and other French provinces, causing him to be
naturalised a Frenchman, and sending him at a very early age to the
court of France, where he was presented as Count de Guise, a title
derived from one of his domains. The young count found immediate
favour with Louis XII., to the hand of whose daughter Renée he was
considered a likely aspirant. But he fell in love with Antoinette
de Bourbon, daughter of Count de Vendôme, (the great-grandfather of
Henry IV.,) asked and obtained her in marriage, and celebrated his
wedding, when he was but sixteen years of age, in 1513, at Paris,
in presence of the whole French court. The following year another
wedding occurred, but this time youth was on one side only. In his
infirm and declining age, Louis XII. took to wife the blooming
sister of Harry VIII. of England, and honoured Guise by selecting
him to go, in company with the Duke of Angoulême and other princes
of the blood, to receive his bride at Boulogne. The wedding was
quickly followed by a funeral, and Francis I. sat upon the throne.
This chivalrous and warlike monarch at once took his young cousin of
Guise into high favour, to which he had a fair claim, not only by
reason of his birth, and of his alliance with the house of Bourbon,
but on account of his eminent capacity, and of the martial qualities
whose future utility Francis doubtless foresaw. To his triumphs in
the field, Guise preluded by others less sanguinary, but in their
kind as brilliant, in the lists and in the drawing room. His grace
and magnificence were celebrated even at a court of which those were
the distinguishing characteristics, thronged as it was with princes
and nobles, most of them, like the king himself, in the first flush
of youth, and with keen appetites for those enjoyments which their
wealth gave them ample means to command. He gained great credit by
his prowess at the jousts and tournament held at Paris on occasion
of the coronation, and his conduct in another circumstance secured
him the favour of the ladies of that gallant and voluptuous court.
"One night," says his historian, "he accompanied Francis I. to the
queen's circle, composed of those ladies most distinguished by their
charms and amiability. Struck by the brilliancy and fascination of
the scene, unusual at a time when custom, by assigning to women a
sort of inferior position, or at least of reserve, interdicted their
mingling in the conversation, and to a certain extent in the society
of men, Guise communicated his impression to the king, who received
it favourably, and at once decided that, throughout the whole
kingdom, women should be freed from this unjust and undesirable
constraint." It will easily be conceived that such an emancipation
insured Guise the suffrages of the fair and influential class who
benefited by it. From his first arrival at the French court he seems
to have made it his study to win universal favour; and he was so
promptly successful that, at the end of a very few months, he had
conquered the goodwill of both nobility and army. He took pains to
study and adapt his conduct to the character of all with whom he
came in contact, thus laying the foundation of the long popularity
which he and his successors enjoyed in France.

But courtly pleasures and diversions were quickly to be succeeded
by the sterner business of war. At his death, Louis XII. had left
all things prepared for an Italian campaign; and Francis, eager
to signalise his accession by the recovery of the Milanese, moved
southwards in the month of August 1515, at the head of the finest
troops that had yet crossed the boundary line between France and
Italy. His army consisted of fifteen thousand excellent cavalry,
twenty-two thousand lansquenets, fourteen thousand French and
Gascon infantry, besides pioneers and a numerous artillery. The
Constable of Bourbon led the van, the Duke of Alençon commanded the
rear; Francis himself headed the main body, accompanied by Duke
Anthony of Lorraine, (eldest brother of Guise,) with Bayard for his
lieutenant, and by the Duke of Gueldres, captain-general of the
lansquenets, whose lieutenant was the Count de Guise. If the army
was good, none, assuredly, ever reckoned greater warriors amongst
its leaders. Guise, during the passage of the Alps--accomplished by
extraordinary labour, and which completely surprised the enemy--made
himself remarkable by his constancy and activity, by the wisdom of
his counsels, and by his generosity to the soldiers, thus further
augmenting the affection they already bore him. Bayard and other
illustrious officers formed his habitual society; and in him they
found the most cordial and affable of comrades, as well as the most
zealous advocate of their interests with the king. Devoted to his
sovereign, Guise, when Francis somewhat over-hastily promised the
Swiss an exorbitant sum of money as the price of the Milanese, nobly
offered to contribute to it to the extent of all he possessed. The
treaty, however, was broken by the Swiss. Steel, not gold, was to
settle the dispute; and the plains of Marignano already trembled at
the approach of the hostile armies. At the age of eighteen, Guise
found himself general-in-chief of twenty thousand men. The Duke of
Gueldres, having been recalled to his dominions by an invasion of
the Brabanters, transferred his command to his young lieutenant, at
the unanimous entreaty of the lansquenets, and in preference to all
the French princes there present. In the quickly ensuing battle,
Guise showed himself worthy of his high post. In the course of the
combat, when the Swiss, with lowered pikes and in stern silence,
made one of those deadly charges which in the wars of the previous
century had more than once disordered the array of Burgundy's
chivalry, the lansquenets, who covered the French artillery, gave
way. Claude of Lorraine, immovable in the front rank, shamed them
by his example; they rallied; the guns, already nearly captured,
were saved; the battle continued with greater fierceness than
before, and ceased only with darkness. Daybreak was the signal
for its resumption, and at last the Swiss were defeated. After
breaking their battalions, Guise, over eager in pursuit, and already
twice wounded, had his horse killed under him, was surrounded,
overmatched, and left for dead, with twenty-two wounds. Nor would
these have been all, but for the devotedness of an esquire, whose
name Brantôme has handed down as a model of fidelity. Adam Fouvert
of Nuremberg threw himself on his master's body, and was slain,
serving as his shield. After the action, Guise was dragged out
from amongst the dead, and conveyed by a Scottish gentleman to the
tent of the Duke of Lorraine. He was scarcely recognisable, by
reason of his wounds; he gave no sign of life, and his recovery was
deemed hopeless. He did recover, however, thanks to great care,
and still more to the vigorous constitution and energetic vitality
which distinguished all of his house, and without which the career
of most of them would have been very short. Scarcely one of the
prominent members of that family but received, in the martial
ardour of his youth, wounds whose severity made their cure resemble
a miracle. A month after the battle of Marignano, Guise, although
still suffering, was able to accompany Francis I. on his triumphant
entry into Milan, "as captain-general of the lansquenets, with four
lieutenants, all dressed in cloth of gold and white velvet." One
of his arms was in a scarf, one of his thighs had to be supported
by an esquire, but still, by his manly beauty and martial fame, he
attracted the admiring gaze of both army and people. Francis, in his
report to his mother of the battle, named Guise amongst the bravest,
as well he might; and thenceforward his great esteem for the young
hero was testified in various ways--amongst others, by intrusting to
him several important and delicate diplomatic missions. At Bologna,
on occasion of the interview between Francis and Leo X., the Pope
addressed to Guise the most flattering eulogiums. "Your holiness,"
replied the ardent soldier, in a prophetic spirit, "shall see that
I am of Lorraine, if ever I have the happiness to draw sword in the
Church's quarrel."

Master of the Milanese, Francis I. returned to France and beheld
his alliance courted by all the powers of Europe, when suddenly the
death of the Emperor Maximilian (15th January 1519) proved a brand
of discord. Francis and Charles were the only serious candidates
for the vacant dignity. Guise, with a secret view, perhaps, to
the crown of Jerusalem for himself, strained every nerve, exerted
all his influence, on behalf of the French King. But Charles, the
more skilful intriguer, prevailed; and Francis, deeply wounded and
humiliated by his failure, revolved in his mind projects of war.
In these the king did not lose sight of the great assistance he
might expect from Guise, brave, skilful, and prudent as he was; and
the esteem in which the young chief was held at court increased so
greatly, that the French nobles came to consider him almost the
equal of the members of the royal family. Guise, on the other hand,
by reason of his enormous fortune and high birth, and in his quality
of a foreign prince, spared no effort to place himself on the
footing of an ally rather than of a subject of the King of France.

Pretexts for hostilities were not wanting; and soon we find Guise,
at the head of his lansquenets, fighting victoriously over the
very same ground upon which, in our day, French armies contended
with very different results. Maya, Fontarabia, and the banks of
the Bidassoa witnessed his prowess; he himself, a half-pike in his
hand, led his men through the river, with water to his armpits,
dislodging the enemy by the mere terror his audacity inspired. When
he returned to Compiègne, where the court then was, the King hurried
forth from his chamber to meet him, embraced him warmly, and gaily
said, "that it was but fair he should go out to meet his old friend,
who, on his part, always made such haste to meet and revenge him
on his enemies." His summer triumphs in the Pyrenees were followed
by a winter campaign in Picardy, where he succeeded in preventing
the junction of the English and Imperialists, besides obtaining
some advantages over the former, and harassing their retreat to the
coast. He thus added to his popularity with the army, and acquired
strong claims to the gratitude of the Parisians, deeply alarmed by
the proximity of the enemy to the capital, and who viewed him as
their saviour.

The year 1523 opened under menacing auspices. Germany, Italy,
England, were leagued against France, whose sole allies were
Scotland, the Swiss, (the adhesion of these depending entirely
on regular subsidies,) and the Duke of Savoy, whose chief merit
was that he could facilitate the passage of the Alps. Undeterred,
almost foolhardy, Francis, instead of prudently standing on the
defensive, beheld, in each new opponent, only a fresh source of
glory. Unhappily for him, at the very moment he had greatest need
of skilful captains, the Constable of Bourbon, irritated and
persecuted in France, courted and seduced by the astute Charles V.,
entered into a treasonable combination with the Imperialists. It was
discovered; he fled, and effected his escape. Out of France, he
was but one man the less, but that man was such a leader as could
hardly be replaced, and Charles gave him command of his troops in
the Milanese. The Constable's misconduct brought disfavour on the
princes of the house of Bourbon, (of that of Valois none remained,)
and this further increased the credit and importance of the Count
of Guise. He was already governor of Champagne and Burgundy,
provinces the Emperor was likely to attack. This command, however,
was not the object of his desires; he would rather have gone to
Italy, and applied to do so; but the King, rendered suspicious by
the Constable's defection, began to consider, with some slight
uneasiness, the position acquired by the Count of Guise; and it
was probably on this account only that he would not confer on the
Lorraine prince the direction of the Italian war. The glory of Guise
lost nothing by the refusal, although that of France grievously
suffered by the army of Italy being confided to the less capable
hands of Admiral Bonnivet. Fortune soon afforded the younger general
one of those opportunities of high distinction, of which no leader
ever was more covetous or better knew how to take advantage. A large
body of Imperialist infantry having made an irruption into Burgundy,
he assembled the nobility of the province and about nine hundred
men-at-arms, with which force he deemed himself able to keep the
field against the twelve thousand lansquenets that Count Furstemberg
led to meet him. By an odd accident, he had no infantry, his
adversary no cavalry. By dividing his horsemen into small parties,
and maintaining an incessant harassing warfare, Guise prevented
the Germans from foraging; and at last, compelled by famine, they
prepared to recross the Meuse, abandoning two forts they had
captured, and carrying off a large amount of spoil. Thus encumbered,
and vigorously pursued, their rearguard was cut to pieces, and
their retreat converted into a rout. "With a feeling of chivalrous
gallantry," says M. de Bouillé, "Guise desired to procure the
duchess his sister-in-law, Antoinette de Bourbon, and the ladies of
the court of Lorraine, then assembled at Neufchâteau, the enjoyment
of this spectacle, (the battle), to them so new. Warned by him, and
stationed at windows, out of reach of danger, whence they looked out
upon the plain, they had the pastime, and were able to recompense,
by their applause and cries of joy, the courage of the troops whom
their presence animated."

But such partial successes, however glorious to him by whom they
were achieved, were all insufficient to turn the tide of disaster
that had set in against the French arms. The defeat of Bonnivet,
the invasion of Provence by the Constable, were succeeded by that
terrible day before the walls of Pavia, when Francis I., vanquished,
wounded, made prisoner by a rebellious subject, beheld his army
destroyed, and the battle-field strewn with the bodies of his best
generals, whilst, bleeding at his feet, slain in his defence, lay
Francis of Lorraine, a younger brother of the Count of Guise, the
second of that brave brotherhood who had fallen in arms under the
_fleur-de-lis_.[2] When the brave but most imprudent monarch was
carried into captivity, his mother, regent in his absence, placed
her chief trust and dependence in Guise. Of these he proved himself
worthy. He checked the ambition of the Duke of Vendôme, who, as
first prince of the blood, showed a disposition to seize upon the
regency; he advised the ransoming of the French prisoners taken
at Pavia, and exercised altogether a most salutary influence upon
the circumstances of that critical time. His good sword, as well
as his precocious wisdom, was soon in request. A large body of
German fanatics, proclaiming the doctrine of absolute equality,
and the abolition of all human superiority, had swept over Suabia,
Wurtemberg, and Franconia, burning churches and slaying priests, and
threatened to carry the like excesses into Lorraine and Burgundy.
By aid of his brothers, at much expense and with great difficulty,
Guise got together ten thousand men, four thousand of whom were
cavalry. The double cross was the rallying sign of this little
army. The time was come for Guise to perform his promise to Pope
Leo, to fight stoutly in defence of the Church. And truly his hand
was heavy upon the unfortunate and half frantic Lutherans, although
to a certain extent he tempered its weight with mercy. Besieged
in Saverne, the fanatics put to death the herald who summoned
them to surrender. Learning that reinforcements from Germany were
at hand, Guise hurried to meet them with three thousand men, and
encountered them at the village of Lupstein, into which the Germans
retreated, after a terrible conflict outside the place, and threw
up a barricade as best they could, of carts, casks, and gabions.
From the cover of these, and of the adjacent hedges, they kept up
so obstinate a defence, that Guise, whose men fell fast, caused
fire to be applied to the houses. But hardly had the flames begun
their ravages, when the Count, seized with compassion, threw himself
from his horse to assist in extinguishing them, and succeeded, at
imminent risk to his own life, in saving upwards of four thousand
persons of all ages. Nearly double that number perished; as many
more at Saverne and in the mountains, to which the unfortunate
Germans fled; and about fifteen thousand in a final engagement
at Chenouville, which broke the strength of the fanatic host,
and finally closed the campaign. During one of these battles,
the soldiers of Guise beheld in the air the image of the Saviour
attached to the cross, a phenomenon in which they saw assurance of
victory.

  [2] Francis of Lorraine was eighteen years old when slain at Pavia.
  One of his brothers had fallen, at about the same age, at the battle
  of Marignano.

"Once more," says M. de Bouillé, "Guise had rendered a most
important service to the kingdom; he had also assumed a peculiar
and marked position, and had fixed a point of departure for himself
and his descendants, by striking, of his own accord, and without
instructions from the Government, the first blows that Protestantism
received in France: a circumstance often recalled, with more or less
exultation, by the panegyrists of that family, and which procured
Claude de Lorraine the nickname of the _Great Butcher_, given him
by the heretics, who were exasperated by the loss of nearly forty
thousand men, caused them by his arms in that fatal expedition."

Determined foes to the Reformed faith as both of them were, a
distinction must yet be made between the Count of Guise assailing
and slaughtering, with far inferior forces, a formidable body of
armed and aggressive foreigners, and the fierce _Balafré_, wielding
a murderous sword against his defenceless and inoffensive Huguenot
countrymen, on the terrible night of St Bartholomew. If the amount
of bloodshed at Saverne and Chenouville appears excessive, and
implies that little quarter was given, it must yet be remembered
that greater clemency to the vanquished might have had the most
disastrous consequences to the handful of conquerors. The Council
of Regency disapproved of Guise's conduct in the affair; taxing him
with rashness in risking the whole of the small number of regular
troops disposable for the defence of the kingdom. But there could
hardly have been more pressing occasion to expose them; and Francis
I., on returning from exile, recognised and rewarded that and other
good services by elevating the county of Guise into a duchy and
peerage--further enriching the newly-made duke with a portion of
the crown domains. Such honours and advantages had previously been
almost exclusively reserved for persons of the blood-royal. The
Parliament remonstrated in vain; but Francis himself, before very
long, repented what he had done. He took umbrage at the increasing
popularity of the Duke of Guise, and gave ear to the calumnies
and insinuations of the French nobles, who were irritated by the
haughty bearing, great prosperity, and ambitious views of the house
of Lorraine. The manner in which Francis testified his jealousy and
distrust was unworthy of a monarch who has left a great name in
history. He showed himself indulgent to those of his courtiers and
officers who organised resistance to the influence and pretensions
of the Guises. "One time, amongst others," says M. de Bouillé, "the
Duke of Guise, governor of Burgundy, wishing to visit the castle
of Auxonne, whose governorship was a charge distinct from that of
the province, the titulary, Rouvray, a French gentleman, refused
him admittance, which he would not have dared to do had Guise been
recognised as prince. When the Duke complained of this treatment,
the King, delighted, whilst taking advantage of his services, to see
his pride and ambition thwarted, lauded the conduct of Rouvray, and
laughed at him who had wished to play the prince of royal blood."
For annoyances of this kind Guise sought compensation in popularity,
thus tracing out for his descendants the line they should most
advantageously follow.

The partial disfavour into which the Guises had fallen, during
an interval of peace when their services were not indispensable,
was dissipated by the zeal and talents exhibited by the Duke's
brother, John Cardinal of Lorraine, in a most difficult and delicate
negotiation with Charles V., and by the prompt good-will with
which, when negotiation failed and war broke out, the Duke hurried
to the relief of Peronne, accompanied by his eldest son, the Count
of Aumale, then scarcely nineteen years old. Peronne la Pucelle
was hard beset by the Count of Nassau, who pounded its ramparts
with seventy-two pieces of cannon, and was defended with equal
valour by Fleuranges, Marshal de la Marck, who repulsed an assault
made simultaneously by two breaches, and destroyed a mine on which
the enemy reckoned for his discomfiture. Want of supplies, and
especially of powder, must soon, however, have compelled him to
yield, but for a stratagem practised by Guise. That able commander
selected four hundred resolute soldiers, loaded each of them with
a bag containing ten pounds of powder, and set out, at six in the
evening, from his headquarters at Ham, with the Count of Aumale,
whose first experience of war this was, and to whom Guise, as he
wrote to the King, "intended soon to give up his sword, as capable
of doing better service in his young hands than in his own." Two
hundred horsemen escorted them as far as the edge of the marshes of
Peronne, and at midnight Guise, who had brought with him a large
number of drummers and trumpeters, distributed these at different
points around the besiegers' camp. Whilst they sounded and beat
the charge, and the Imperialist generals, believing themselves
attacked on all sides, hastily formed their troops for the combat,
the powder-bearers, guided by a soldier of the garrison who had
borne news of its distress from Fleuranges to Guise, crossed the
marshes by means of a number of little roads and bridges, which the
enemy himself had made to maintain his communications, and reached
the moat, whence by means of ropes and ladders they entered the
fortress. The last of them were just getting in when day broke, and
the Count of Nassau discovered the trick that had been played him,
and detached a body of cavalry to pursue Guise, then retreating with
his drums and trumpets, and whose steady array discouraged attack.
A few days later the Imperialists raised the siege, and Paris,
which had been in consternation at the danger of Peronne, its last
bulwark against the advancing foe, knew no bounds in its gratitude
to the man to whom it thus, for the second time, was indebted for
its salvation. Guise's great services in this and the following
campaign rendered Francis I. indulgent to his still-recurring
pretensions; to the arrogance which led him frequently to refuse
obeying orders that did not emanate directly from the King, and
to assume a sort of independence and irresponsibility in the
exercise of his government. Looking back, through the clarifying
medium of history, upon the character and conduct of Claude of
Lorraine, we are disinclined to think that Francis had ever serious
cause for mistrusting the loyalty of his powerful subject; whose
encroachments, however, it cannot be denied, were sufficient grounds
for jealousy and uneasiness. And on more than one occasion we find
the royal anger--perhaps complete disgrace--averted from him only
by the interest of his brother the Cardinal, to whom Francis could
refuse nothing.

As a diplomatist and patron of the arts, Cardinal John of
Lorraine occupies almost as elevated a pedestal in the gallery
of distinguished Frenchmen of the sixteenth century, as does his
brother Claude in his more active capacity of general of armies
and administrator of provinces. His courtly qualities, and a
congeniality of tastes--some of which, although they might be
held excusable in a king, were scarcely to be palliated in a
prelate, even in that age of lax morality--endeared him to Francis,
who associated with him on a footing of great familiarity. His
generosity and charity were on such a scale as at times to resemble
prodigality and ostentation; his love of pleasure and addiction
to gallantry were in like manner excessive. "He was," says M. de
Bouillé, "a very lettered prince, a splendid patron of learned men,
whom he treated as friends, and in whose labours he associated
himself. A writer named Bertrand de Vaux, having presented and
read to him a critical work, containing low personality, awaited,
notwithstanding its base character, the recompense which the
Cardinal always granted to those authors with whose productions he
was satisfied. The prelate accordingly handed him a golden etui.
'Take this, friend Bertrand,' he said; 'it is to pay the fatigue and
salary of the reader. The writer must seek payment from some more
malignant man than myself.'" The celebrated Erasmus, Clement Marot
the poet, and Rabelais the satirist, all benefited by the patronage
or enjoyed the intimacy of the Cardinal, who, conjointly with his
nephew the Cardinal Charles of Lorraine, is believed by some to
have been indicated by the witty priest of Meudon in the character
of Panurge. Passionately fond of art, the prelate-prince gathered
around him the men of genius whom the largesses and magnificence
of Francis I. seduced from Italy to France. He showed particular
favour to Benvenuto Cellini, who presented him with some of his
works and received from him costly gifts. "When in full blaze of
fortune and favour, he caused to be built and decorated, with blind
prodigality, after the designs of Primaticcio and by the pupils
of that famous artist, the superb chateau of Meudon, in whose
park was constructed, amongst other costly ornaments, a grotto,
'excellently fine and pleasant to save oneself from being wetted
by the rain.' He had musicians in his service, and Arcadelt, a
distinguished composer, some of whose works are still preserved and
esteemed, was his _maître de chapelle_." His charity, although often
too indiscriminate, sprang from real kindness of heart. Numerous
children, belonging to poor families, were educated at his expense
in the Paris schools. And his good grace in conferring favours
doubled their value. The farmer of his abbey of Fécamp, having made
the same receipt serve for three separate payments, and endeavouring
to make it pass a fourth time, the Cardinal's receivers refused
to admit it, and the case was referred to the prelate himself,
who, having examined and recognised his signature, merely said,
"Since John is there, John shall be believed," and ordered it to
be definitively admitted. When he went abroad, "he usually," says
Brantôme, "carried a great pouch, which his _valet-de-chambre_, who
had charge of the money for his petty expenses, failed not to fill
each morning with three or four hundred crowns: and as many poor
as he met he put his hand into the pouch and gave, without stint
or consideration, whatever he drew forth." The story is well known
of the blind mendicant, who, having implored an alms of him in the
streets of Rome, exclaimed, on receiving a handful of gold: "_O tu
sei Christo, o veramente il cardinal di Loriena_." By the light
which these details throw upon his character, it is not difficult
to discern that the magnificent cardinal must have been a welcome
courtier to the sumptuous Francis, who, during the period of his
favour, made him his constant companion and delighted to do him
honour. He sat upon the King's left hand on occasion of the _lit
de justice_ held at Paris on New Year's day 1537, at which Francis
declared Charles of Austria attainted of rebellion and felony, and
deprived of Artois, Flanders, and all the domains that he held _en
mouvance_ of the crown of France--a sentence more easily pronounced
than enforced, and which of course entailed a war. Peace again
concluded, in great measure by the diplomacy of the Cardinal, he it
was, according to Du Bellay, who alone accompanied the King and
Queen at dinner, on the day of Charles V.'s entrance into Paris.
The friendship borne him by Francis, was the cause of his being
charged to break to that monarch the death of his son, the Dauphin
of France. Of the familiarity with which the King treated him, M.
de Bouillé gives a specimen in a curious anecdote: "One day, at
mass, the Cardinal did not perceive that a thief, who had managed to
enter the chapel, had picked his pocket. The rogue, observing that
the King had his eyes fixed upon him, with extraordinary coolness
and audacity put his finger on his lips, looking at the same time
significantly at Francis I., who took the hint and said nothing,
in order not to spoil what he imagined to be an adroit practical
joke. Service over, however, he made an observation which induced
the Cardinal to put his hand in his pocket, when he discovered his
loss. When the King had amused himself at his surprise, he ordered
that what had been stolen should be restored; but the thief, who
was perfectly serious in his intentions, had made his escape, which
greatly increased the mirth of the monarch, thus cleverly duped. 'On
the word of a gentleman,' he exclaimed, 'the rogue has made me his
accomplice!'"

Powerfully supported at court by his brother, Claude of Lorraine
was no less ably seconded in the field by his son Francis, Count
of Aumale, a young hero destined ultimately to surpass even him in
glory, and to raise the name of Guise to its apogee of splendour.
The constantly-recurring wars with the Emperor yielded him abundant
opportunities to display his prowess. In the campaign of 1543 he did
good service, until, at the siege of Luxemburg, he was dangerously
wounded above the ankle by an arquebuse ball. "Carried, almost
without hopes--on account of the fracture of the bones and the
injury to the nerves--first to his tent and then to Longwy, five
leagues in rear, he owed his recovery to the attention of the King,
who sent him his own physicians, and to the care bestowed upon him
by his father. And nevertheless, when he suffered signs of pain
to escape him during the dressing, the Duke of Guise addressed
to him reproaches by which it will be seen that he subsequently
profited, saying to him--a noble and stoical maxim--'That persons
of his rank ought not to feel their wounds, but, on the contrary,
to take pleasure in building up their reputation on the ruin of
their bodies.'" It was in no feather-bed school that the Guises were
educated. Nearly at the same time that the Count d'Aumale was hit
before Luxemburg, Gaspard de Coligny-Châtillon, then his rival in
valour, and at a subsequent day his deadly foe, was severely wounded
in the throat at the siege of Binche.

In the war in which these incidents occurred, England was allied
with the Emperor against France. Personal motives combined with
political irritation to dispose the violent and uxorious Henry VIII.
to a rupture with Francis I. Mary of Lorraine, daughter of the Duke
of Guise, and widow of Louis of Orleans, duke of Longueville, had
been given in marriage to James V. of Scotland, in preference to
Henry, who, inflamed by the report of her beauty, had solicited her
hand as a pledge of perpetual alliance with France. Dazzling as
was the offer of so powerful a sovereign, his anti-catholic acts,
and his evil reputation as a husband, deterred the Guises from
entertaining it; and Francis I., obeying the dictates of feeling
rather than those of prudence, extricated them from a dilemma by
alleging a previous promise to the Scottish king. It is said that
Henry would then gladly have espoused Louisa, second daughter of the
Duke, and that, means being found to elude his pursuit, this second
disappointment further augmented his rancorous feelings towards
Francis and the house of Guise. However this may have been, the
war with England continued subsequently to the conclusion of peace
between Francis and Charles--chiefly in Picardy, around Boulogne,
which Henry held, and in whose neighbourhood his army was encamped.
Some severe skirmishes and partial engagements occurred, and in one
of these the Count of Aumale received a wound, probably the severest
ever survived by mortal man, from the lance of an English officer.
The weapon, according to the description of Ambrose Paré, entered
"above the right eye, declining towards the nose, and piercing
through on the other side, between the nape and the ear." So violent
was the blow that the weapon broke in the head, into which it had
penetrated more than half a foot, the entire lance-iron and two
fingers' breadth of the staff remaining in the wound. Paré explains
the possibility of such a wound, in an age when helmets and visors
were in use, by mentioning that the Count always went into action
with his face bare.

"Terrible as was the shock," says M. de Bouillé, "it did not unhorse
d'Aumale. He still made head against his foes, succeeded in forcing
a passage through them, aided by his young and valiant brother
Claude, and by de Vieilleville--who, alone of all, had not abandoned
him--and rode gloriously into camp. His appearance was frightful;
his face, armour, and clothes were deluged with blood. The surgeons,
stupified by the depth and gravity of the wound, despaired of cure,
and refused to inflict useless sufferings upon the patient. But
Ambrose Paré, the King's surgeon, sent by Francis with orders to
try every means of saving the hero's life, was not discouraged.
Confiding in his skill, and in the firmness of the wounded man, he
resolved to attempt an operation, terrible indeed, but admirable for
those days, and worthy alone to insure celebrity to him who imagined
it. The lance-head was broken off so short, that it was impossible
to grasp it with the hand. Taking then a blacksmith's pincers, to
draw it out with great force, and assisted, amongst others, by
Master Nicolle Lavernan, a very experienced surgeon, he asked the
Lorraine prince, in presence of a crowd of officers shuddering
with horror, if he would submit to the employment of such means,
and would suffer him to place his foot upon his face. 'I consent
to everything; proceed,' replied d'Aumale. Nor did his fortitude
abandon him for an instant during this cruel operation, which was
not effected without fracture of bones, nerves, veins, and arteries,
and other parts, and which he endured as if they had only pulled out
a hair. The agony extorted from him but the single exclamation--'Ah!
my God!' Transported afterwards in a litter to Pecquigny, he
remained for three days in a hopeless state: early on the fifth day
more favourable symptoms declared themselves, and nature made such
powerful efforts, that the cure was completed without leaving the
Count d'Aumale any trace of this astonishing wound, except a scar,
equally glorious for him and for Ambrose Paré. That skilful surgeon
was wont modestly to say, when speaking of the marvellous cure of
Francis of Lorraine--'I dressed it, and God healed it.' As soon as
he began to get better, the Count d'Aumale hastened to write to the
King, with a hand still unsteady, the following note, characterised
by a calmness remarkable in such circumstances:--'Sire, I take the
liberty to inform you that I find myself well, hoping not to lose an
eye. Your very humble servant, LE GUIZARD.'" Admiring his energy,
and in recompense of his services, Francis I. made him governor
of Dauphiny; whilst the numerous partisans of the house of Guise
attributed his cure to a miracle wrought by the prayers of his pious
mother, Antoinette of Bourbon. This princess carefully preserved
till her death the lance-point which had penetrated her son's head.
The extent of the wound, as described by Paré, would be scarcely
credible, but for the testimony of that learned and excellent man,
and of other cotemporary writers quoted by M. de Bouillé. In a
short time the heroic Count had forgotten his hurt, and was again
in arms against the English, with whom, however, peace was shortly
afterwards concluded.

Notwithstanding the frequent uneasiness occasioned him by the power
and ambition of the family of Guise, Francis I. continued, almost to
the close of his reign, to enrich and aggrandise them. The magnitude
of their services, and their many great qualities, at intervals
elicited his gratitude and generosity, to the oblivion of mistrust
and apprehension. Thus, only three years prior to his death, he
erected into a marquisate certain lands and lordships of the Duke
of Guise, and immediately afterwards elevated the marquisate to a
duchy, in consideration, said the letters patent, of the great,
virtuous, and commendable services that the Duke of Guise had long
rendered to king and country, without sparing his own person, his
children, or goods; "and also that our said cousin Duke of Guise
is of the house of Lorraine, descended by wife and alliance from
the house of Anjou, and from our predecessors, kings of France."
Thus was the title of Duke of Mayenne provided for a younger son of
Claude of Lorraine. Such laudatory declarations as the one above
cited were concurrent, however, with the systematic restriction of
the Guises' direct influence on state affairs. And on his deathbed,
when dividing his last hours upon earth between religious duties and
sage counsels to his son, Francis enjoined this prince not to recall
the Constable of Montmorency, or to admit to a share of government
the princes of the house of Guise. Montmorency had incurred disgrace
and banishment by exciting the King's conjugal jealousy. Henry II.
showed slight regard to his father's dying injunctions. Scarcely
had the earth closed over the deceased monarch, when those he had
recommended to his son's favour were removed from their posts;
Montmorency was recalled, and the Guises were taken into favour;
the Count of Aumale, and Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine, dividing
between them Henry's whole confidence. It must be admitted, that the
means to which they resorted to secure and preserve this favour,
were not of the most delicate description, although, doubtless,
they would be very differently estimated then and now. They
sustained their credit with Henry II. by their attentions to Diana
of Poitiers, his all-powerful mistress, whose eldest daughter one
of the brothers, Claude, Marquis of Mayenne, had just married. From
this discreditable alliance Châtillon, afterwards the Admiral de
Coligny, had tried to dissuade them, by pointing out, says Brantôme,
in his Life of the Admiral, "that it was not very honourable for
them, and that an inch of authority and favour with honour was
better than an armful without." The Count of Aumale, up to that
time the inseparable companion of Coligny, was but ill-pleased by
the freedom of this advice, which, he said, was less that of a
friend than of one envious of the good fortune such an alliance
insured to his family. This difference, however, cast but a slight
cloud over the intimacy which thereafter was exchanged for so
bitter an enmity. Meanwhile the royal favour, lavished on the young
Guises, was not extended to their father, who was excluded from the
government which his sons freely exercised, and who, immediately
after the coronation of Henry, left the court, to live in retirement
in his castle of Joinville. The prudence and moderation of the
elder Guise were probably less welcome to the young king than the
bolder and more impetuous counsels of his sons. There were six of
these, all pretty well provided for when Claude of Lorraine retired
into private life: Francis, Count of Aumale; Claude, Marquis of
Mayenne; Charles, Archbishop of Rheims; Louis, Bishop of Troyes, and
Francis, Chevalier of Lorraine, afterwards grand-prior and general
of the galleys of France. "During his stay at Paris, after the
campaign of 1544, the Duke of Guise frequently went, accompanied
by his six young sons, to pay his devoirs to the King, who always
graciously received and congratulated him, saying 'that he was six
times fortunate in seeing himself live again, before his death, in
a posterity of such great promise.' One day Charles, the second
brother, who was intended for the church, presented to Francis
I. some moral and theological theses, accompanying them with an
eloquent and tasteful harangue. His promotion to the archbishopric
of Rheims, the richest benefice in France, was, it is said, the
munificent reward of this precocious ability." Henry II. received
his crown from the hands of this youthful archbishop, upon whom the
Pope, five days after the ceremony, conferred a cardinal's hat.
Charles of Lorraine can have been but thirty or thirty-one years
old, when he thus attained to the highest dignities of the church.

A few days before the coronation, Henry II. sanctioned by his
presence the celebrated judicial duel--which gave rise to a proverb
still current in France--between Guy Chabot de Jarnac, and François
de Vivonne. It took place in lists erected near the chateau of St
Germains. Vivonne's second (or godfather, as it was then called)
was the Count of Aumale, who attracted universal attention by the
grandeur of his air and the lustre of his renown. "Towards half-past
seven in the morning," says M. de Bouillé, "d'Aumale pronounced
it time to bring the arms, and the combatants appeared in the
lists, Vivonne conducted by d'Aumale; and, after the customary
salutations and injunctions, the king-at-arms, Normandy, having
thrice exclaimed--_Laissez aller les bons combattants!_ the combat
commenced with skill and fury. In a few moments, however, by a
blow, since proverbial, dealt and repeated on the left ham, Vivonne
was prostrated by his adversary. The Count d'Aumale sprang to the
assistance of the vanquished man, and to calm the rage which made
him tear open his own wounds. But Vivonne survived only three
days, and, after his death, d'Aumale had the following inscription
engraved upon his tomb: 'A great prince _Lorrain et François_, much
grieved and afflicted by so unexpected an event, has dedicated
this to the manes of a brave knight of Poitou.' In these few words
was revealed a pretension constantly entertained by the house of
Guise, and which then appeared surprising, but which received a sort
of consecration from its silent toleration by the King." It was
doubtless this toleration, combined with the sentiment of growing
power and influence, which raised the arrogance of the Guises to
such a pitch that, on occasion of Henry II.'s solemn entrance into
Chambery, during a visit of inspection to his frontier fortresses,
we find the Count of Aumale placing himself on the same line with
the Duke of Vendôme, first prince of the blood, and afterwards King
of Navarre. The angry dispute to which this gave rise was terminated
by the King, who maintained Guise in the place he had audaciously
assumed. Like his father, Henry was nurturing a pride which was
afterwards to give him umbrage. Already d'Aumale's influence and
popularity were so great as to make him courted by all classes, even
to the highest, not excluding persons of blood-royal; and only a
few months after the dispute at Chambery, we find the same King of
Navarre thanking him, conjointly with the Cardinal of Bourbon, for
services he had rendered to friends of theirs. The first nobles of
the land had recourse to his protection and support, and strove to
propitiate him by presents and flattering letters. From all quarters
he received offerings of "wine, fruit, confections, ortolans,
horses, dogs, hawks, and gerfalcons, the letters accompanying
these very often containing a second paragraph, petitioning for
pensions or grants from the King, or for places, even down to that
of apothecary, or of barber to the Dauphin, &c." The memoirs and
manuscripts of the time furnish many curious particulars of this
kind, especially the MSS. Gaignières, often referred to by M. de
Bouillé. And they further show that d'Aumale, amidst his countless
occupations, found leisure to listen to all petitioners, and means
to content many. There exist the most flattering letters written to
him by the hand of kings; the humblest supplications addressed to
him by great state corporations, such as the parliaments of Paris,
Bordeaux, and other cities; testimony of the profoundest deference
from the nobles of the court--names such as Brézé and Brissac being
affixed to fulsome protestations of service and thanks for favour
shown. Such was the immense position of the Duke d'Aumale, (that
county also had become a duchy,) who now openly affected the state
and quality of prince of the blood. Then, as afterwards, (when he
was duke of Guise,) he always received the title of _monseigneur_,
(except from the princes of the blood, who called him _monsieur_,)
and that of _vostre excellence or vostre seigneurie_. And in 1548
the nuns of Bonneuil addressed him a supplication as _vostre haulte
et puissante majesté et seigneurie_. So great was his reputation for
magnanimity, so popular his rule, that those provinces rejoiced over
which he was appointed governor. And the affection borne him by the
French people became at last so great "that it may be said it was
carried to an excess, even to the point of making them forget their
fidelity to the King." For a time the favour and confidence of the
King kept pace with the love of the nation; and it was augmented by
the ability with which d'Aumale pacified several revolted provinces,
where his presence alone sufficed, for the most part, to calm angry
passions and revive the loyalty of the population. Soon after this
expedition, occurred his marriage with Anne d'Est, daughter of the
Duke of Ferrara, a beautiful, virtuous, and well-dowered princess
who had been sought in marriage by Sigismund, King of Poland,
but whom an innate sympathy for France, combined with the able
management of Cardinal de Guise, induced to give the preference to
the Duke d'Aumale.

In his castle of Joinville, on the 12th April 1550, Claude, first
duke of Guise, piously and resignedly terminated his illustrious and
honourable career. His duchess, Antoinette de Bourbon, one of the
most virtuous and amiable princesses of her time, his eldest son
and the Marquis of Elbeuf, were beside his dying bed; and during
his illness the King sent frequent expresses to inquire his state.
His premature death, at the age of fifty-three, after a short but
violent illness,--combined with some solemn and generous expressions
he used a few minutes before breathing his last, to the effect
that he heartily forgave the person, whosoever it might be, who
had given him "_le morceau pour mourir_,"--gave rise to a belief,
further accredited by his funeral oration and by the inscription on
his tomb, that he had perished by poison. History has difficulty
in confirming this popular notion, in support of which no evidence
was ever produced, nor anything beyond a vague supposition that the
author of the Duke's death was a Genoese, an agent of the Emperor,
then in France to watch the measures taken by that republic to
obtain from Henry II. means of resistance to the party of Ferdinand,
in opposition to whom there was little doubt that Guise would
advise the King to give his support to Genoa. Considering, however,
that Claude of Lorraine lived away from court, where his son had
succeeded to his influence, this is rather a far-fetched story;
and the probability is that the Duke died of some unusual malady,
misunderstood by, perhaps wholly unknown to, the imperfect medical
science of those days. But natural deaths were rare in the house of
Guise; and in the sixteenth century poison had no unimportant share
in the bills of mortality. Some indeed have hinted its possible
agency in the death of John, Cardinal of Lorraine, which occurred
within forty days of that of his brother Claude. This prelate was on
his way back from Rome, where he had been an unsuccessful aspirant
to the papal tiara, when he was suddenly informed, on his passage
through Lyons, of the Duke's decease. It was possibly the shock of
this intelligence that brought on an attack of apoplexy under which
he sank and shortly expired. "Providence," says M. de Bouillé, "had
perhaps resolved to consecrate, by an almost simultaneous death, the
union which had so constantly and advantageously existed between him
and his brother, and which the cotemporary writers characterise, in
their mythological style, by comparing the two princes to Castor
and Pollux. Their place was not to remain vacant, but was about to
be even more than filled by two brothers, also 'the happiest pair
of brothers that ever were seen;' one an accomplished warrior and
magnanimous hero, the other a skilful and enterprising prelate,
who, by renewing the example of a constant agreement of views, by
putting in practice that useful and remarkable combination of the
churchman and the man of the sword, peculiar to their family, and
efficaciously applied by them to politics and ambition, realised an
immense amount of favour and authority. The first generation of this
dynasty--if not sovereign, at least so brilliantly episodical--had
passed away, already almost surpassed in grandeur by its successor,
destined to elevate itself in the inverse ratio of the wearer of
that crown which gradually became almost illusory."

Certain it is that the figure of Francis, second Duke of Guise,
surnamed the Great, occupies, upon the canvass of French history,
a far more remarkable and important place than that of any one of
the three kings whose reigns were cotemporary with his power. Early
distinguished in arms, his generosity, urbanity, and irresistible
valour made him the idol of the army, whilst the prudence and
precocious wisdom he inherited from his father, rendered him
invaluable at the council board, and secured him the favour of his
sovereign; to such a point that Henry II. had no secrets from him,
but caused all important despatches to be communicated to him as
punctually as they were to himself. Nor was his brother Charles
inferior to him in talent, although their difference of profession
rendered its display less striking in the cardinal. Both possessed
of admirable tact and judgement in the conduct of public affairs,
the one was not more terrible in the battle-field than the other
was skilful and seductive in diplomatic negotiations, and in the
graceful intercourse of private life. The cardinal's learning
and eloquence, his fine countenance, his dignified bearing, his
richly-stored memory, combined to exercise a powerful fascination
upon all he met. "Had I the elegance of Monsieur le Cardinal de
Lorraine," said Theodore de Beze one day, when mounting his horse to
leave Rheims, where he had had a conference with the accomplished
prelate, "I should expect to convert half the persons in France to
the religion I profess."

At the date of the death of Claude of Lorraine, Charles V. was
the sole survivor of the three remarkable sovereigns who had
simultaneously filled the three most important European thrones.
With him the Duke and Cardinal now impelled Henry II. into a
war, which had for its real object the realisation of a bold and
extensive scheme greatly to increase the authority of France in
Europe, and at the same time to establish the omnipotence of the
Guises in France. One of the most remarkable events of this war was
the siege of Metz, in which large ill-fortified place the Duke,
with a small number of men, was exposed to the assaults of an army
consisting of one hundred thousand infantry, twenty-three thousand
horse, and one hundred and twenty pieces of artillery. Guise
displayed extraordinary skill and energy, leading sorties himself,
and even issuing forth at the head of a mere handful of men to
skirmish with the enemy. Fortunately he had had time to lay in good
store of provisions; but his cannon were few in number and for the
most part unserviceable, and he was fain to defend with falconets
and other small guns, the breaches which the Imperialists soon made
in his walls. In an action that occurred during the siege, in the
neighbourhood of Nancy, Claude de Guise--that brother of the Duke
who, when a mere youth, had powerfully and valiantly contributed
to deliver him, in front of Boulogne, from an overwhelming number
of assailants--was taken prisoner. Thrice wounded, and with his
horse killed under him, he had no choice but to yield or die. This
disaster deprived Metz of a gallant defender, and plunged Guise and
the whole army into deep affliction; the Duke, however, consoling
himself by the resolution to make the Emperor dearly pay for his
brother's ransom, and by the reflection that d'Aumale had not
yielded until he was knocked down and had a cocked pistol at his
throat. The sorties continued with great vigour, but at the expense
of many wounded men, of whom so large a proportion died, for want
of efficient medical assistance, that a rumour gained credit that
the drugs were poisoned. Guise begged the King to send him Ambrose
Paré with a stock of fresh medicaments, and, by the connivance of
an Italian officer in the Imperialist camp, that skilful leech was
introduced at midnight into the town, with the apothecary Daigue
and a horse-load of medical stores. Paré was bearer of a letter
from the King, thanking Guise and the other princes and nobles for
all they had done and were doing to preserve his town of Metz, and
assuring them he would remember and reward their services. Thus
encouraged, and confident in his troops, Guise wrote to the King,
with whom he found means constantly to correspond in cypher, that
Metz could hold out six months without succour. On the other hand
the Imperialists redoubled their efforts for success. The Emperor,
who lay at Thionville, sick of the gout and expectant of triumph,
at last judged his presence indispensable for the fortunate
conclusion of the siege, and made his appearance in the camp,
mounted on an Arab horse, "his face very pale and wasted, his eyes
sunken, his head and beard white." His coming was the signal for
so great a salvo of artillery and small arms, that the besieged
flew to arms, expecting a general attack. Until the neighbouring
castle of La Horgne could be prepared for his reception, he took
up his quarters in a small wooden house, hastily constructed with
the ruins of an abbey. "A fine palace," he said, "when I shall
receive in it the keys of Metz." But the keys were long in coming,
although the fierceness of the attack was redoubled--fourteen
thousand cannon-shots being fired against the ramparts in one day,
the noise of which was said to have been heard beyond the Rhine, at
forty leagues from Metz. The constancy of the besieged was a match
for the fury of the assailants. Breaches were diligently repaired,
and sorties continued--the French actually seeking the Imperialists
under their tents. Suddenly the latter changed the point of attack,
and directed their cannonade against one of the very strongest parts
of the rampart, behind which the besieged hastened to construct a
second wall, also of great strength. The sudden change of plan is
attributed by Ambrose Paré in his _Voyage à Metz_, to a stratagem
employed by Guise. The Duke, according to the learned physician and
chronicler, wrote a letter to Henry II. with the intention of its
being intercepted by the enemy, in which he said, that if Charles V.
persisted in his plan of attack, he would be compelled to raise the
siege, but that a very different result was to be apprehended, if
unfortunately the enemy directed his attention to a certain point,
cunningly indicated in the despatch. Sewn, with an affectation of
mystery, under the doublet of a clumsy peasant, this letter was
destined for the perusal of the Duke of Alva, one of whose patrols
did not fail to seize and search the unfortunate messenger, who
was forthwith hanged. Misled by the information thus obtained, the
besiegers changed the position of their batteries. In two days a
breach was effected, the old wall crumbling into the ditch, amidst
the acclamations of the assailants. But their joy was exchanged
for rage and disgust when, upon the subsidence of the dust, they
beheld a second wall in rear of the breach. The French began to
scoff and abuse them, but Guise commanded silence, under pain of
death, lest some traitor should take advantage of the tumult to
convey information to the enemy; whereupon his soldiers fastened
live cats to the end of their pikes, whose discordant cries mocked
the enemy. The enthusiasm of the besieged now knew no bounds. Men,
women, and young girls toiled day and night to strengthen the inner
wall. Guise's gay and encouraging words gave confidence to all.
Collecting his soldiers upon the breach, which was ninety feet
wide: "I rejoice," he said, "that the enemy have at last overthrown
this barrier, more useful to them than to you. You have so often
visited them in their camp, that it is only just they should have
an opportunity of reconnoitring the town upon whose capture they
so boastfully reckoned." Charles ordered the assault; but when his
troops saw the French crowning the breach, with Guise at their
head, they recoiled as if already attacked, and neither entreaties
nor threats could move them forward. "How is it," the Emperor had
exclaimed with a great oath, when he saw the gaping breach, "that
they do not enter? It is so large and level with the ditch; _vertu
de Dieu!_ what means this?" He had himself conveyed in a litter to
the foremost ranks, to animate the soldiers by his presence. When he
beheld their retreat, he mournfully desired to be carried back to
his quarters. "Formerly," he said, "I was followed to the fight, but
I see that I have now no men around me; I must bid adieu to empire
and immure myself in a monastery; before three years are over, I
will turn Franciscan." Finally, on the 26th December, provisions
running short, and his army weakened one-third by sickness and
the sword, Charles, with a sad heart, raised the siege, uttering,
in the bitterness of his shame and disappointment, the well-known
words, "I plainly see that Fortune, like a true woman, prefers a
young king to an old emperor." The imperial camp and artillery
crossed the Moselle, and in the night the Duke of Alva evacuated his
position, leaving behind a quantity of stores and tents. Guise, who
had expressed, that very evening, in a letter to his brother the
Cardinal, his conviction that the Emperor would never endure the
shame of abandoning the siege, was greatly astonished in the morning
to find that the enemy had decamped. His skill and constancy had
triumphed, and France was saved from invasion. When he reappeared
at court, the King embraced him with transport, and called him his
brother. "You have vanquished me as well as the Emperor," said
Henry, "by the obligations you have laid me under."

The Duke of Guise's humanity after the siege did him as much honour
as his bravery during it. A large number of sick men remained in
the Imperialist camp; the rearguard of the retreating army were in
a pitiable state, and, unable to proceed, yielded themselves ready
prisoners. The commander of a troop of Spanish cavalry, pursued
by the Prince of _la Roche-sur-Yon_, who would fain have brought
him to battle, suddenly faced about, exclaiming, "How should we
have strength to defend ourselves, when you see we have not enough
left to fly?" In the hospitals of Metz and Thionville, the sick
and wounded Imperialists were carefully tended by order of Guise;
non-combatant prisoners were sent back to the Duke of Alva, with
the offer of covered boats to transport his exhausted soldiers;
the bodies of the dead received suitable burial. The magnanimous
general's courtesy and humanity bore their fruits. In the following
campaign, when the town of Therouenne, in Picardy, was surprised by
the Imperialists, the Germans and Flemings were putting inhabitants
and garrison to the sword, without distinction of age or sex,
when the Spanish officers, with a lively and grateful remembrance
of the good treatment received from Guise and the French, united
their voices and efforts to check the carnage. "_Bonne guerre,
compagnons,_" they cried; "_souvenez-vous de la courtoisie de Metz!_"

It was during the following campaign (1554) that there occurred the
first marked manifestations of discord between the Duke of Guise
and the Admiral de Coligny. In the combat of Renty, near St Omer,
Coligny commanded the infantry, in his quality of colonel-general
of that arm. Victory declared itself for the French; already
many trophies had been taken, and heavy loss inflicted on the
Imperialists, who were on the brink of a general rout, when Guise
"feeling" says M. de Bouillé, "that he was not supported by
the Constable de Montmorency--the retreat also, according to a
report current at the time, having been sounded _by the breath of
envy_--was unable to follow up his advantage, and could but maintain
himself on the field, whilst the Imperialists, although defeated,
succeeded in entering the besieged fort." The chief merit of this
imperfect victory was attributed by the Constable to his nephew
Coligny, who, on his part, was said to have asserted that, during
the heat of the fight, Guise had not been in his right place. This
led, upon the evening of the action, to a violent altercation, which
would have ended with drawn swords but for the intervention of the
King, in whose tent it occurred. He compelled them to embrace; but
the reconciliation was only skin-deep, and from that day forwards a
rancorous dislike was substituted for the close intimacy which had
existed in their youth between these two great soldiers, and which
had been carried to such a point that they "could not live without
each other, wearing the same colours, and dressing in the same
manner." Henceforward they were constant antagonists, the chiefs
of two parties under whose banners nobles, soldiers, and courtiers
ranged themselves, according to the dictates of their sympathies
or interests. And soon their rivalry for fame and influence was
inflamed and envenomed by the ardour of religious passions, and of
combats for their respective creeds.

It is here impossible to trace, even in outline, the events that
crowded the reign of Henry II., and in which the Duke, the Cardinal,
and their brother d'Aumale played a most conspicuous part. It was
a constant succession of battles and intrigues, for the most part
terminating, in spite of formidable foes both in the field and at
court, to the advantage of the Guises. And when, a few weeks after
the battle of St Quintin, so disastrous to the French arms--where
the Constable de Montmorency, who had boasted beforehand of victory,
beheld his entire army slain or taken, and himself a prisoner--the
Duke of Guise returned from Italy, "to save the state," as the
King himself expressed it, he found himself at the utmost pinnacle
of power a subject could possibly attain. On the very day of his
arrival, Henry declared him lieutenant-general of the French armies,
in and out of the kingdom; a temporary dignity, it is true, but
one superior to that of Constable, and which usually was bestowed
only in times of regency and minority. That nothing should be
wanting to the exorbitant authority thus conferred upon the man
to whom sovereign and nation alike were wont to turn in the day
of danger and disaster, the King addressed to all the provincial
authorities particular injunctions to obey the orders of the Duke
of Guise as though they emanated from himself; and truly it was
remarked, says Dauvigny in his _Vies des Hommes Illustres_, that
never had monarch in France been obeyed more punctually and with
greater zeal. The whole business of the country now rested upon
the shoulders of Guise. But even whilst thus exalting him, Henry,
conscious of his own weakness, and haunted, perhaps, by his father's
dying injunction, was actually plotting how to lessen the power
of his great subject, so soon as the period of peril should have
passed, during which his services were indispensable. With strange
infatuation, the feeble monarch expected to be able to clip at
will the wings of that soaring influence, when victory over the
foreigner and the liberation of the country should have confirmed
its domination.

Invested with his new dignities, whose importance his sagacity fully
appreciated, Guise, with the least possible delay, set out for
Compiègne, which, since the recent disasters of the French arms,
was a frontier town. Those disasters, he felt, could be effectually
repaired only by a brilliant feat of arms, at once useful to the
state, and flattering to the national pride. Upon such a one he
resolved. Calais, now upwards of two centuries in possession of
the English, to the great humiliation of France, was the object
of destined attack. Skilled in the stratagems of war, the Duke
contrived, by a series of able manoeuvres, to avert suspicion of his
real design, until, on the 1st January 1558, he suddenly appeared
before the ramparts of Calais. The siege that ensued has been often
narrated. It terminated, after an obstinate resistance, in the
capitulation of the garrison, which had scarcely been executed, when
an English fleet appeared off the port, bearing succours that came
too late. The triumph excited indescribable astonishment and joy
throughout France. It was a splendid revenge for the defeat of St
Quintin, and produced a marked change in the sentiments of several
foreign potentates, who believed that reverse to have prostrated the
French power for some time to come. The Grand Signior offered the
co-operation of his fleet, and the German princes hastened, with
redoubled good-will, the levies that had been demanded of them. Pope
Paul IV., when congratulating the French ambassador, pronounced the
highest eulogiums on Guise, and declared the conquest of Calais
preferable to that of half England. At court, the partisans of the
Constable were in dismay, and tried to lessen the merit of the
victor by attributing its success to the adoption of a plan sketched
by Coligny. But even if this were true, the merit of the execution
was all the Duke's own. Upon the heels of this triumph, quickly
followed the capture of Guines and the evacuation by the English of
the castle of Hames, their last possession in the county of Oye. "In
less than a month," says M. de Bouillé, "Francis of Lorraine had
accomplished the patriotic but difficult enterprise so often and
fruitlessly attempted during two centuries, and had cancelled the
old proverb applied in France, in those days, to generals of slight
merit, of whom it was derisively said, 'He will never drive the
English out of France.'"

Henry II., accompanied by the Dauphin, the Cardinals of Lorraine and
Guise, and several nobles of the court, made a journey to Calais,
which he entered with great pomp. The object of this expedition was
to sustain the courage and zeal of the troops, who endured much
fatigue and hardship, in that inclement season and in the midst
of the marshes. The King also wished to testify his gratitude to
his lieutenant-general, showing him great confidence, referring to
him all who requested audience on business, and presenting him,
in the most flattering terms, with a house in Calais. The Duke
returned with Henry to Paris, where great feasts and rejoicings
were held in his honour, and, on occasion of the Dauphin's marriage
with Mary Queen of Scots, which shortly followed, Guise filled, in
the absence of Montmorency, the office of grand-master, which he
long had coveted. Concurrently, however, with this great apparent
favour, Henry was secretly uneasy at the power and pretensions of
the family of Guise, and maintained a constant and confidential
correspondence with their inveterate enemy the Constable de
Montmorency. On the other hand the Guises were on their guard,
labouring to countermine and defeat the intrigues levelled against
them. Urged on by his brother, and feeling that, in their position,
if they did not advance they must recede, the Duke directed all
his efforts to an effectual concentration in his own hands of the
entire military power of the kingdom. Should he fail in this, he at
least was resolved to leave none in those of his rivals. By this
time the progress of the Reformed religion in France had attracted
great attention. It was an abomination in the eyes of Henry; and of
this the Duke and Cardinal took advantage to work the downfall of
d'Andelot, brother of Coligny, and colonel-general of the French
infantry, the only military commander who at that moment caused
them any uneasiness. Accused of heresy, and summoned before the
King, who received him kindly, and, expecting he would so reply as
to disconcert his enemies, "commanded him to declare, in presence
of all the court, his belief with respect to the holy sacrifice of
mass; d'Andelot proudly replied that his gratitude for the King's
favours doubtless rendered entire devotedness incumbent upon him,
but that his soul belonged to God alone; that, enlightened by
the torch of Scripture, he approved the doctrines of Calvin, and
considered mass a horrible profanation and an abominable invention
of man." Furious at what he deemed a blasphemy, the King, who
was at supper, snatched a basin from the table and hurled it at
d'Andelot; but it struck the Dauphin. He was then tempted, says
one of his historians, to pierce the offender with his sword, but
finally contented himself with sending him to prison, and the post
of colonel-general was bestowed upon Montluc, an ex-page of Guise's
grandfather, and a devoted partisan of the house of Lorraine. This
brave Gascon officer at first scrupled to accept it, for he feared
to incur the hatred of the Colignys and the Constable. Wily and
wary, like most of his countrymen, he declared himself willing to
serve as a private soldier under the Duke, but modestly declined the
command offered him. The King insisting, he alleged a dysentery,
as rendering him incapable of the needful activity. This and other
objections being overruled, he took possession of his important
command, and speedily proved himself worthy to hold it--notably at
the siege of Thionville on the Moselle. This fortress, one of the
strongest the Imperialists owned, was defended by Jean de Caderebbe,
a brave gentleman of Brabant, at the head of three thousand picked
men. The Dukes of Guise and Nevers, and Marshal Strozzi, were the
leaders of the besieging army; Montluc joined them on the eve of
the opening of the batteries, and did excellent service. On the
fifteenth day of the siege, Guise was in the trenches, talking
to Strozzi, on whose shoulder his hand rested, when the Marshal
was struck by an arquebuse ball, a little above the heart. On
feeling himself hit, "_Ah! tête Dieu, Monsieur_," exclaimed this
brave and able general, "the King loses to-day a good servant,
and your Excellency also." He did himself no more than justice.
Guise was deeply affected, but, repressing his emotion, he tried
to fix Strozzi's thoughts on religion. The veteran's death was
less exemplary than his life; he died in profession of unbelief;
and Guise, much scandalised, but perhaps doubly furious at the
thought that the soul as well as the body of his old comrade had
perished by the sudden manner of his death, prosecuted the siege
with fresh ardour, eager for revenge, and suppressing for the
moment, as far as he was able, the disastrous news, which could not
but produce a most unfavourable impression. Valiantly seconded by
Montluc and Vieilleville, on the 22d June, two days after Strozzi's
death, he received the capitulation of the garrison. His triumph
was well earned. Besides the exhibition, throughout the siege, of
the genius and inventive resource that constitute a general of
the highest order, he had toiled and exposed himself like a mere
subaltern, constantly under fire, personally superintending the
pioneers and artillerymen, and rarely sleeping; so that it was no
wonder (considering he had not had a single night's rest during the
operations against Thionville) that on the 1st July, when preparing
for the siege of the rich little town of Arlon, he complained of
being very drowsy, and left Montluc to invest the place--himself
retiring to bed in a cottage, and giving orders to let him sleep
till he awoke of himself. "It is very quick work," he observed,
crossing himself, when he was the next day informed, in reply to
his inquiry whether the batteries had opened fire, that Montluc had
surprised and taken the place in the night.

Whilst Guise was thus not only rendering great services himself, but
bringing forward leaders whose exploits honoured the French arms,
in other quarters affairs went less favourably for France. Near
Dunkirk, Marshal Thermes was beaten and taken prisoner, and Guise,
whose frequent lot it was to repair the blunders or misfortunes
of less capable generals, marched to Picardy; on the frontier of
which province, at a grand review passed by Henry II., the Duke's
son and successor, Henry, Prince of Joinville, then but eight years
old, appeared for the first time in public, with his cousin, the
Count of St Vallier, son of the Duke d'Aumale. Accompanied by their
preceptors and some other gentlemen, and mounted on ponies, they
rode through the ranks, until they reached the troops commanded
by Montluc. "_Cà, çà_, my little princes," exclaimed that brave
captain, "dismount; for I was brought up in the house of which you
are issue, which is the house of Lorraine, where I was page, and
I will be the first to put arms in your hands." The two cousins
dismounted, and Montluc, taking off the little silken _robons_
that covered their shoulders, placed a pike in the hand of each of
them. "I hope," he said, "that God will give you grace to resemble
your fathers, and that I shall have brought you good fortune by
being the first to invest you with arms. To me they have hitherto
been favourable. May God render you as brave as you are handsome,
and sons of very good and generous fathers." After this species of
martial baptism, the two children, conducted by Montluc, passed
along the front of the troops, objects of the admiration and good
wishes of men and officers. A few months later, one of them was
dead; the other, heir to most of the great qualities, whether good
or bad, that distinguished his race, lived to prosecute, and at one
time almost to realise, the most ambitious designs his father and
grandfather had conceived. The fair-haired boy of the review at
Pierrepont, was the stern _Balafré_ of the wars of the League.

The spring of the year 1559 found the Guises in marked disfavour
with the King. The great services of the Duke, the capture of
Calais and Thionville, and the many other feats of arms by which he
had reduced the power of the enemy, at moments when it was about
to be fatal to France, were insufficient to counterbalance the
alarm felt by Henry II. at his and the Cardinal's influence and
ambition. The star of the Constable was in the ascendant. Chiefly
by his intervention, a disadvantageous peace was concluded, and,
at his request, d'Andelot was recalled to court. Montmorency and
Coligny triumphed. The efforts of the Protestants combined with
court intrigues to ruin the credit of the house of Lorraine. The
two brothers were attacked on all sides, and in every manner:
epigram and satire furiously assailed them, and they were denounced
as aspiring, one to the tiara, the other to the crown of France.
However doubtful--or at least remote from maturity--these projects
were, they were yet sufficiently probable for their denunciation to
produce the desired effect on the mind of Henry, already writhing
impatiently under the domination of the Guises, against whom he was
further prejudiced by his mistress, the Duchess de Valentinois,
(Diane de Poitiers,) still influential, in spite of her threescore
winters. Never had circumstances been so menacing to the fortunes of
the Guises; and perhaps it was only the subtle and temporising line
of conduct they adopted in this critical conjuncture, that saved
them from utter disgrace and downfall. Things had been but a short
time in this state, and already, from the skilful manoeuvres of the
Cardinal, their side of the balance acquired an upward inclination,
when the whole aspect of affairs was changed by the death of Henry
II. With the reign of his feeble successor, there commenced for the
restless princes of Lorraine a new epoch of power and renown.




MY PENINSULAR MEDAL.

BY AN OLD PENINSULAR.


PART VIII.--CHAPTER XIX.

Now for the fight. On the morning of the battle of Toulouse we left
Grenade. It was known amongst us that the battle was coming off; and
we started in the expectation of passing the night either in the
city itself, or in its immediate vicinity. We ascended towards the
city by the left bank of the Garonne, but reached a pontoon bridge,
which enabled us to cross to the right bank, where the main body of
our troops was posted. The fight had commenced. We heard the firing
as we advanced; and while we approached the scene of action, it
became gradually louder and more distinct. Immediately in the rear
of the British lines we halted, not knowing the ground, and withdrew
from the road into a field which was close at hand, in order that
our numerous party might not prove an obstacle to passing troops,
ammunition, or artillery. Our forces held the low ground, and
closed, in a sort of semicircle, around the heights occupied by the
French. As it so happened that I was not only at this battle, but
in it, I here beg leave to relate the circumstances which led to my
finding myself in a position where, as a civilian, I was so little
wanted, and so much out of my ordinary sphere of duty.

Sancho did it all. We were sitting upon our nags, speculating upon
the fight, and seeing all that could be seen, till we began to
think we knew something of what was going on. At this moment rode
up from the rear, coming across the fields, an old officer of rank,
a major-general, well known at headquarters, without aide-de-camp,
orderly, or any kind of attendant. He inquired eagerly, "Where are
the troops?--Where are the troops?" We pointed forward; little
was visible but trees. He looked rather at a loss, but turned his
horse's head in the direction we had indicated. That villain Sancho,
seeing another horse go on, snorted, and pulled at the bridle. He
was tired of standing still. I, ever indulgent to Sancho, followed
the old general, and soon overtook him. "I believe I know the
position of the troops, sir. Will you give me leave to show you?"

"Thank you, sir, thank you," said he; "I shall really be much
obliged."

We rode on till we reached a British regiment, drawn up in line.
With renewed acknowledgments he then took his leave. The air was
musical above our heads with whistling and humming missiles. I was
now fairly upon the ground, and didn't like to go back.

There was a lull in the fight. The spectacle was singular. Some
firing was kept up on both sides, but not sufficient to obscure
the view of the French position, which rose immediately in front,
a bare range of hills, crowned by their redoubts. The atmosphere
was bright; and though the skirmishers on the declivity were
discoverable only by small white jets of smoke, as they fired from
time to time, every movement of the enemy on the summit, with the
sky for its background, was perfectly visible. I noticed a single
horseman, probably an aide-de-camp bearing orders, as distinct
and diminutive as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
You might perceive the very action of his horse, that laborious
up-and-down gallop of the French manége, which throws away so much
of the animal's strength, and sacrifices speed without securing
elegance.

The combat, at this moment, was renewed, and our troops went to
work in earnest. The Spanish army ascended the hill to assault the
enemy's redoubts. This movement, at first, had all the regularity
of a review. But the redoubts opened their fire; as the Spaniards
moved up, the smoke rolled down; and, when the wind swept it away,
their broken bands were seen in precipitate retreat, followed by a
large body of the French, who swarmed out from their intrenchments.
Instantly, and just in front of me, our artillery opened upon the
pursuing foe. The round-shot plumped into their columns, knocking
up clods as high as a house; and the enemy, not relishing this
salutation, hastily fell back to their former position. Sancho
now became a dreadful plague. He had for some time been getting
unquiet, and, with the continual firing, he grew worse and worse. I
believe this was his first battle, as it was mine. Not content with
a little extra restiveness at every fresh discharge of artillery,
he had worked himself into a state of chronic excitement, and, at
intervals, attempted to bolt. It was clear I must get rid of Sancho,
or see no more of the fight; so I deposited him in a stable, under
care of a cottager, in the adjoining village.

Still moving towards the left, along the base of the hill, I reached
a part of the British position, where a number of our troops were
waiting to storm the heights, when the flank movement against the
enemy's right, which was his weakest point, should be sufficiently
advanced. All at once I plumped upon "Cousin Tom," whom I had not
met since he embarked, three years before, a raw subaltern, at
Portsmouth. There he now stood, as large as life, rough and ugly,
at the head of his regiment, a regular "Old Peninsular;" and on him
had devolved the duty, as he gave me to understand, of "taking those
fellows up the hill." This service, I thought, would have fallen
to some officer of higher rank; but Tom explained. The regiment
having been reduced, either by losses or detachment, its numbers in
the field were small, and he, being the senior officer present, of
course had to "carry them up." "Come," said he, "we are going to
take a look at those monsieurs above there; you may as well go with
us."

The proposal was coolly made, so I took it coolly. "With all my
heart," said I. "You know what is the feeling towards an amateur.
If he makes an ass of himself, he's laughed at; and if he gets hit,
they only say, it serves him right. If it's of any use, I'll go with
pleasure."

"Use?" said Tom; "the greatest use. Why, I want to ask you twenty
questions about friends in England. Besides, you know, if I am
knocked over, you can pick me up."

"Very well, then; and you can do the same for me."

"No, no," said cousin Tom; "I don't promise that. Got my men to
attend to. If I am hit, you must take care of me. If you are hit,
you must take care of yoursel----Oh, that's the signal. Come along."
Away we went, up the hill.

Rank and file--double-quick time--a capital pace for opening the
chest. Tom took it easy, trotting on at a steady pace, and assailing
me with a running fire of questions; while the row that had already
commenced above prevented my returning categorical replies. "Is
your father at sea now?"--Bang! from one of the big guns in the
French batteries right over our heads. "Got any brandy?"--A shout
from a thousand throats, in the rush and shock of a charge with
bayonets. "Had breakfast this morning?"--Pop! pop! pop! a running
fire of musketry. Pop! pop! pop! "Got any cigars?"--Bang! bang! the
big guns at it again. "When did you hear from your mother?" A new
sound, less loud and sudden, but, from its peculiarity, distinct
amidst the din; a spiteful, whirling, whizzing noise, ten thousand
skyrockets combined in one; not, though, like the skyrocket, first
loud, then less audible--quite the contrary. Commencing with a
faint and distant hiss, it grew louder and louder, came singing on,
nearer and nearer, till a shell dropped a few yards in front of our
column! The hiss was now an angry roar, like the blowing off of
steam. There lay the bottled demon, full in our path, threatening
instant destruction, and daring us to advance. Our column halted.
"Hurra! my lads," cried Cousin Tom, waving his sword. "Come along,
old Five-and-threepennies. Push by it at once, before it _spreads_."
The game old Five-and-threepennies gave a shout--rushed forward--got
by in time; each yelping and capering as he passed the fizzing foe.
Bang went the shell. For a few seconds I was stone deaf. Never felt
such an odd sensation. Not the deafness, but the return of hearing.
First, perfect silence in the midst of the turmoil--then the crack!
crack! bang! bang! as if you had suddenly flung open a door. Not a
man of us was hurt. "Got an English paper?" said Tom.

"I've got some intelligence for you, old chap, not in this morning's
_Times_. Just look up there, in front."

The view in front was striking and picturesque. Right above us,
dimly visible through the smoke, on the verge of the platform or
table-land which we were mounting to assault, appeared a regiment
of French infantry, enough of them to eat us up, advancing upon
us with an irregular fire, and led on by their colonel. He rode a
showy horse; and, hat in hand, waved them on, while his white hairs
streamed in the wind, and his whole bearing announced the brave old
soldier. "We must form line," said Tom. It was done forthwith, with
steadiness, order, and rapidity. "Make ready--present--fire." Crack!
went all the muskets together. I saw the gallant old colonel, with
outspread arms, tumbling from his horse.--"Charge!" We rushed upon
the foe; but, when the smoke had cleared away, found no foe to fight
withal. Nothing was visible, save their knapsacks in the distance,
poppling up and down in the smoke, as they scampered off. We still
continued advancing in pursuit, and now were fairly in for it, half
choked with dust and sulphur. If it be asked, how far I personally
contributed to the triumphs of that glorious day, I beg leave to
answer:--Unquestionably my arm performed prodigies of valour; of
that there neither is, nor can be, the shadow of a doubt. But as I
should have felt it extremely difficult to give a distinct account
of my exploits if questioned on the day, why, of course you won't
expect it now, after the lapse of six-and-thirty years. Suffice it
to say, we made good our footing on the platform, drove the enemy
from their position, occupied it ourselves, took possession of
their redoubts, and formed, with the rest of the British forces,
on the summit of the heights. The day was our own. But there was
one unfortunate circumstance to damp our exultation; Cousin Tom was
missing. A sergeant now informed me he was wounded, and had gone to
the rear.


CHAPTER XX. AND LAST.

As victory had crowned our efforts, and my valuable services were
now no longer required, I determined to look for Cousin Tom, and
walked down the hill for that purpose. At its base, I entered a long
thicket or shrubbery. There, amongst the trees, I found several
wounded men, whom their comrades were removing off the ground.
No one could give me the information that I sought; no one knew
anything of Cousin Tom. Saw a sergeant sitting on a bank, who, I
soon discovered, was also wounded. He knew no such officer; had seen
no one answering the description. "What's your injury, sergeant?"

"A musket-ball in my ankle, sir."

"Well, but hadn't I better help you to a place of shelter?"

"Much obliged to you, sir; but I couldn't walk, even with your
support. I'd rather wait till my turn comes to be carried, if you've
no objections, sir. Much obliged to you, equally all the same, sir."

"As you please. Can I render you any assistance? What can I do for
you?"

"If you'd have the kindness, sir, perhaps you'd be so good and take
off my gaiter. I can't take it off myself, sir, though I've tried;
it does hurt me so when I stoop forward. I'm afraid the bleeding
will spoil it, sir; and then I shall be forced to take out a new
pair."

Having performed this office, and administered a little brandy both
topically and constitutionally, I once more ascended the hill,
thinking it possible Cousin Tom might be somewhere nearer the scene
of action. I inquired and looked in every direction, but without
success. Where are you, Cousin Tom? This time my steps brought me
into one of the redoubts, which had been carried by our troops.
When I entered, there were not a dozen men in it. Sunset was near,
and everything over for the day. Yet just at that moment, for what
reason I know not, perhaps for a freak, the enemy thought fit to
open upon this all but unoccupied post, from their own lines nearer
the city, with a heavy fire of shot and shell. Bang went a shell,
knocking up bushels of earth and mire. Plump came a round-shot,
into the mud parapet of the redoubt. It was no use moving; one
place was as hot as another. So we had nothing to do for it but to
stand still and exchange grins till the pelting was over. I then
took my leave for the evening. The day indeed was drawing to a
close as I descended the hill; and happily I succeeded in reaching
the village, and finding the cottage where Sancho had been left in
charge, just after it became pitch-dark. A cheering light streamed
through the cottage window; and, on entering, I found comfortably
seated by the blazing hearth a veterinary surgeon, who was there in
charge of wounded horses. He very civilly informed me there were
two good beds, so all was right with respect to accommodation;
and, more civilly still, invited me to partake of his supper,
which was boiling on the fire. Not having eaten a morsel since my
early breakfast at Grenade, and having just discovered that I was
enormously hungry, I accepted the invitation with glee, took my
seat, and cast many a glance at the boiling, bubbling, and steaming
kettle. Presently the contents were turned out into a large,
old-fashioned tureen, and displayed to my eager gaze a compound of
various materials, the chief of which were a fowl, and--what d'ye
think?--a pig's heart. Supper excellent. Bed ditto.

Next day early I resumed my search for Cousin Tom, but still,
alas! without success. Went from village to village, inquired
from house to house, searched the whole neighbourhood. Lots of
wounded officers, but not the man I sought. Throughout the day my
search was unsuccessful. Towards night I was passing through a
street of scattered houses, a sort of hamlet, and was beginning to
think of securing a lodging and a dinner. Wolves rouse at sunset;
and I distinctly felt one gnawing at my stomach. At this painful
juncture, much to my satisfaction, at the door of a cottage I
discovered a jolly acquaintance, whom I beg to introduce as my "Fat
Friend." He was one of the smartest clerks amongst our civilians,
and probably the youngest; under, rather than over fifteen; in
short, a chubby boy, who somehow or other had broken away from his
mother's apron-strings, and obtained a post, which he filled in a
way that did him credit. In one respect he was precocious; namely,
that he soon proved himself up to all the waggery and villainy
of headquarters. Moreover, he had a vast idea of maintaining his
importance, and could take his own part; was touchy in anything
that affected his manhood; and, if you offended him, punched your
head; brushed up to fine women, with a marked preference for a
bouncer. Yet, after all, he was but an overgrown boy, and often
afforded us sport by his mannish airs. "Ah, Fatty, is that you? Glad
to see you. Got any room?"

"Plenty, plenty," said Fatty; "good entertainment for man and horse.
Glad to see you; and glad to see the pony. Here, Francisco, take
Sancho, and give him some corn. Come in, old fellow. Sit down, and
make yourself comfortable. Dreadful dull here--horrid! Left in
charge of the departmental boxes."

"I say, Fatty; have you dined?"

"Dined? We dined an hour ago." Fatty saw his advantage, and was
resolved to make the most of it.

"Well, what did you have for dinner? Got any cold beef?"

"Why, where have you been?" said Fatty; "haven't seen you these two
days. Oh, I suppose you got into Toulouse. Lots of fine gals?"

"Answer my question, and I'll answer yours."

"Come out, old fellow. Let's take a turn through village before it
gets dark. Dinner? Why, a turkey. Sorry you were not with us to
partake. Not a morsel left. Picked the old gobbler clean, drumsticks
and all."

"I wish you'd let me send your fellow for some beef."

"Oh yes," said Fatty, "send him by all means. Sorry to inform you
it's no use, though. Not a morsel of rations to be had; not a
biscuit. What, haven't you _dined_?" I saw he meant to have his
joke, so made no reply.

There was a dodge, though; my remedy was in my pocket. Brought out a
cigar, one of my choice grenadiers; struck a light, blew a fragrant
cloud, took it easy. The rich odour diffused itself through the
apartment.

Fatty, knowing in cigars, soon discovered that mine was no common
weed. He first drew a sniff; then gave utterance to his emotions in
a coaxing and admiring "Oh!" I took no notice.

"Come, old fellow," said Fatty; "hand out one of those."

"Lost your cigar-case?"

"No, no; nonsense. Come, give us one; that's a good chap."

Failing in his request, Fatty sat silent and fidgetty. The first
finished, I lit a second.

Fatty watched his opportunity; made a vicious grab at the case. I
was too quick for him--knew his ways. Down he sat again; tried all
the varieties of entreating, threatening, bullying, wheedling, till
cigar the second was burnt out. When I extracted the third, Fatty
could stand it no longer; made a rush, and commenced a ferocious
assault, pitching it in, right and left. The punches came so fierce
and fast, I was at length compelled, in self-defence, to administer
a slight persuader, and Fatty found it convenient to resume his
seat. He sat awhile, sulky and all but blubbering; then hastily
rose, and stalked out of the room in high dudgeon. I presently found
him stationed at the front door with his hands in his pocket, very
pensive and dignified. Shortly after, he slipped into the house;
Francisco appeared with the tablecloth and a bottle of wine; then
came half a turkey and the cold beef. After dinner we clubbed our
resources, and closed the evening with whisky punch and prime cigars.

Next morning early, started afresh in search of Cousin Tom. Near
Toulouse, fell in with Gingham--told him my difficulties. "Come up
the hill," said Gingham; "I'll go with you. There, no doubt, we
shall find your cousin's regiment." On reaching the summit of the
heights, we found our way in the first instance into the Colombette
redoubt; the same in which, on the day of the fight, the brave
Forty-second had been suddenly overwhelmed by a superior force,
and had lost four-fifths of its numbers. Within the redoubt were
standing two or three privates; they belonged to the Forty-second.
The uniform at once reminded me of Corporal Fraser, the trusty
companion of my march to headquarters. I asked one of the privates,
did he know the Corporal. "He joined about three weeks ago, sir."

"Hope he's well. Where is he now?"

"He's there, sir," said the man, pointing to the parapet of the
redoubt. I looked, but saw no one.

"The earth," said Gingham, "seems to have been recently stirred
there. That mound, I think, is not many days old." Then, addressing
the soldier, "your regiment suffered a heavy loss. Is that where you
buried after the action?"

"That's the place, sir." The man then walked away, as if little
disposed for conversation.

We did not pause to calculate how many bodies would fill a space
commensurate with the length, breadth, and altitude of the soil
displaced. There lay the slain of a gallant regiment, in the redoubt
they had so nobly won. There lay Corporal Fraser, who, in all the
difficulties of our march, had shown himself trustworthy, fearless,
intelligent, and energetic. He had longed to join ere the day of
combat, and had found a soldier's grave.

We discovered at length the sergeant who had informed me of my
cousin's wound. He now pointed to a large house, near the thicket at
the bottom of the hill. While searching for Cousin Tom on the day of
the fight, I was close to that same house, but without seeing it.
From our present elevated position it was distinctly visible, though
not from the low ground, amongst trees and underwood.

Our approach to the house led us through the thicket. While making
our way among the trees, we both, Gingham and I, came to a halt at
the same instant. The sight which arrested our steps was new to
Gingham, not to me. I saw, on that spot, an object that I had seen
two days before. The sergeant whom I had then found wounded was
still sitting there, on the same bank, in the same attitude! There
he had sat the whole time, overlooked by the bearers, and unable to
move. Viewed at the distance of a few paces, his aspect scarcely
appeared changed. It was the identical figure--I remembered him
at once. But on a nearer inspection, the alteration was but too
manifest. His eye was glazed, and half shut. His face was that of a
corpse. He sat up, like a dead man galvanised. "What, still here,
sergeant? Has nobody come to remove you yet."

He attempted to speak--paused--at length found utterance. "Sorry I
didn't accept your offer, sir." His voice was low and husky, but
distinct.

"Come," said Gingham, "you mustn't refuse this time. We'll soon
carry you into the house just by."

"Thank you, sir; thank you, gentlemen. Would you have the kindness
though--I should be sorry to lose my gaiter."

The gaiter secured, we prepared to lift the sufferer from his seat,
and he on his part made a feeble effort to rise. The attempt brought
on a gush of pain. For a moment, his features were distorted with
intolerable anguish; the next, he fainted in our arms.

"Now then," said Gingham, thrusting back into his sidepocket a small
flask which he had just drawn out. "Now then; away with him at once,
before he recovers. Come, Mr Y----; you take his shoulders, I'll
take his legs. It may save him further pain."

We bore the sufferer, still senseless, to the house. Gingham, not
having a hand to spare, banged at the door with his foot. It was
opened by Mr Staff-surgeon Pledget, who bowed on recognising us, but
looked rather perplexed at the unexpected addition to his duties.

Pledget gave instant directions for the accommodation of the wounded
man, and informed me, in reply to my inquiries for Cousin Tom, that
he had an officer under his care, answering to my description.
Pledget appeared bewildered, and stood with us in the passage a few
moments, without speaking. At length he opened the door of a small
chamber close by, and begged us to enter. He placed chairs for us,
and seated himself on the bed. "I'm rather exhausted," said he.

"I fear after such a fight," said Gingham, "your duties must be
heavy indeed."

"Oh yes," said Pledget, looking distressed and rather wild. "I have
had much work, and little assistance; a long spell, too."

"Why, you began, I suppose," replied Gingham, "early on the day of
the fight."

"Yes," said Pledget; "and I've been at it ever since. Let me see:
two days and two nights, isn't it? Yes, and now going on for the
third. Here have I been operating, bandaging, taking up arteries,
taking off arms and legs, night and day, without time to lie down,
almost without a moment to eat. In fact," said he, looking about the
room like a man lost, "this is the first time I've sat down these
eight-and-forty hours."

Pledget's look bore full testimony to his toils. Three weeks'
illness could hardly have wrought a greater change. Nor was his
appearance mended by his garb. He wore a sort of operating gown
similar to that employed in dissecting; a long pinafore with
sleeves, protecting the whole person from the chin to the feet, tied
round the middle, and closing with a fold behind. The front was
spotted in every part with jets of blood from wounded arteries. Some
of the stains had dried on, and blackened where they dried; others,
more recent, were still moist and crimson. Blood was on his unshaven
and haggard face; and on his hands, too, wore marks of blood.

Gingham eyed him with a look of deep concern. "I really fear," said
Gingham, "you've been quite overdone."

"I did hope, before this," replied Pledget, "to be relieved by other
gentlemen of my own department. I have but one medical assistant,
and he, at this moment, can afford me no help, for I have been
forced to leave him sitting with his finger on a wounded artery; and
if he takes it off but for a few seconds, the major's a dead man."

Pledget now looked like a man that can't remember what's next. "Oh,"
said he, in all absent tone, "so peace is really concluded. Come, Mr
Y----, suppose we go and look for your cousin. His case, I'm happy
to say, is not serious. The ball will be extracted this evening, and
then, I hope, he will do well."

Pledget spoke, but did not stir. "By the bye," he added, "you know
Captain Gabion? I think you do. Oh yes, I recollect; we were all
three fellow-passengers from Lisbon to Falmouth. No, no, what am
I saying? From Falmouth to Lisbon. His case is past hope. He can
hardly live through the night."

Gingham and I rose at once from our seats. For the moment, the
imminent danger of a man we so highly esteemed, expelled from my
thoughts even Cousin Tom. Pledget also rose, as if to lead the way,
but again lapsed into forgetfulness. His mind was evidently worn
out, as well as his body. "Well," said he, "I'm glad we've got
Toulouse.--Gentlemen, I beg your pardon. This way, if you please; up
stairs."

He led the way. Every open door, as we passed through the spacious
mansion, discovered a room crowded with wounded and dying men, in
beds, or on the ground. Or, if we saw not into the apartment, sounds
were heard, which told of anguish and laceration within. We were
conducted by Pledget into a large room on the first floor, filled,
like the others, with every form of suffering. Some, slightly
wounded, sat round the fire, on which cookery was proceeding in
kettles of every size and shape. One officer, bandaged round the
head, had become delirious. He alternately laughed and whimpered,
muttered and sang. Another sat near him, moaning, with his arm in
a sling. A spent cannon ball had smashed the bones from the elbow
to the wrist, without inflicting an external wound. Every bed had
an occupant; and many lay upon the floor, with only a blanket under
them. My eye glanced round the apartment, and lighted on the pinched
features and pallid visage of Captain Gabion.

He lay on his back in bed. Death was legible in his aspect. His eyes
were all but shut; but, from time to time, a convulsive twitching
of the muscles suddenly expanded them to their full width. To all
appearance, he was perfectly insensible. His breathing was irregular
and laborious; but the expression of his countenance, except when
disfigured by the spasms which occasionally shot through his frame,
and jerked him from head to foot, was, as in health, calm and
dignified. Strange indeed were the vicissitudes, strange was the
contrast, between the rigid tranquillity of one moment, and the
awful distortion of the next. Now, it was the quivering play of
features pulled by muscular contraction; now, the monumental repose
of marble.

"I fear," whispered Gingham to Pledget, "you view the case
unfavourably." Pledget hopelessly raised his eyes.

"The Captain has been insensible," said Pledget, "ever since he was
brought in; and probably will continue so till he expires."

We turned from this sad spectacle, without exchanging a syllable.
A handkerchief was whisked in my face. I looked round; there
was the man I wanted. In the next bed, tucked in, with smiling
face, little changed since we parted, a splendid specimen of the
ugly-handsome--those fellows that make the biggest holes in ladies'
hearts--lay Cousin Tom. Gingham, my object attained, forthwith
took a temporary leave--had urgent business in Toulouse--an
appointment--would return as soon as possible.

"Fine fellow, that" said Cousin Tom, craning round, and nodding at
Captain Gabion.

"Well, Tom," said I; "what's the matter with YOU? What brought YOU
here?"

"Oh, not much; nothing," replied Tom, curling out his lips
contemptuously, like a disappointed man; "only a musket-shot. It
won't get me a step, I'm afraid; no, nor a pension neither."

"Well, but how was it? When was it? We lost you in a moment."

"I'll tell you just how it happened," said Tom. "You saw the old
colonel knocked over. Ah! Don't touch the bed; that's a good fellow.
Well. Directly after, you know, we charged. I was running on; felt
a smart crack in the small of my leg. Thought it was a stone; took
no notice. A few paces further, though, found I couldn't walk. The
sergeant looked at my leg; said 'You're wounded, sir.' Wounded I
was, sure enough; and disabled, too. Got carried to the rear; placed
myself in the doctor's--"

Here Tom suddenly knit his brows. His colour changed in an instant
from florid to livid; his whole face was distorted with pain.
Clapping his handkerchief to his mouth, he chewed away at it with
all his might, while big drops of sweat started out on his forehead,
and he drew in breath till the bedclothes heaved. Next moment he was
himself again.

Once more Tom nodded at the next bed. "Known him long? The doctor
knows him."

"We came over from England, all three of us in a ship."

"Doctor was out, though, in one thing," said Cousin Tom. "Told you
he was insensible ever since he came in. No such thing; this morning
he revived; for about an hour seemed quite himself. Told me how he
got hit."

"Then tell me. I must communicate with his friends in England."

"Well," replied Tom, "the Captain wasn't on duty here at
headquarters; was doing some field-works on the left bank of the
river, to be ready for Soult in case of his bolting again for the
south. He heard, though, that the fight was coming off; so rode
in on the morning. Found out there was to be a flank movement to
the left; thought he might as well explore the line of march; went
forward alone. Passed through the thicket on foot; made his way
from one end to the other. When he reached the further extremity,
just where our men got such a pounding afterwards from the guns
on the heights, he looked out for the enemy's skirmishers; saw no
one; thought he might as well go a little further. Just then our
batteries at the right opened on the French position; some of our
shots flew too high, and came clean over the hill into the lane,
just exactly where he was standing."--Indeed! I thought of Captain
Gabion's dream.--"Well; he saw one coming; didn't trouble himself;
it seemed spent. Just when he thought it was going to stop, it
fetched a pitch; took him in the side. He was found when our troops
advanced, and brought in here." At this moment the pain returned.
Tom again made wry faces, took another chew at his handkerchief, and
soon recovered as before.

"Well, Tom; I'm a leisure man. What can I do for you? Is there
anything you want?--anything I can get you?"

Cousin Tom looked very much as if there was something he did want,
yet was backward to speak. "Why," said he, "I suppose by this time
you can get into Toulouse. I wish you would make inquiries; try
and find me some--But never mind; it's of no use. The ball will be
extracted this evening, and to-morrow I shall go in myself."

"Nonsense, nonsense; I'll go this instant."

"Don't be too sure of that, though," said Tom. "Yesterday morning
I tried it. Told the servant to have my mule ready; got my things
on while the doctor was sawing away on the other floor; slipped
down stairs; gave him the go-by. Mounted--rode to the top of the
hill--was riding down into the city--almost rode into a French
piquet."

"No fear of that now, Tom; the city is ours. I saw the French troops
marching out. Come, tell us, old fellow. What is it you fancy?
Anything the doctor sanctions, you know. A quarter of mutton?--a
dozen of pigeons?--some prime French sausages?--a bushel or so of
oysters? What do you say to a brace of biddies?"

"Oh, no!--oh, no!" said Tom, as if the very mention of biddies made
him sick. "We were always in advance; got fowls and turkeys till we
hated the sight of them."

"Any dish from a French cuisine, then?"

"Oh, no--oh, no! Nothing French, nothing Frenchified. What I
want, if it's to be got at all, is not to be got good, except in
England--or the West Indies."

"Well, but, you know, Bordeaux is open; West India produce has come
into the country by ship-loads. What is it? Come, just tell us, old
chap, and I'll go and get it for you at once, if it's to be had in
Toulouse."

Tom was not so well as he looked; and there was evidently something
for which, like other sick persons, he was inwardly pining. Now that
I had held out a prospect of its attainment, his cheek flushed, and
his eye gleamed with feverish eagerness.

"Well, then," said Tom, "I wish you would try and get me--but it's
no use; it's a shame to bother you.--I say, though, can you spare
the time? Have you really nothing to do? Upon your honour?--I've
been longing for them, day and night, ever since I got here. Oh, if
you could only get me--some tamarinds!"

His eye, while he spoke, fixed full on mine. He watched my
countenance with the anxiety of a dying man when he makes his last
request. "I'll be off and try this instant," said I, though really
fearing there was little chance of success.

"Oh, thank you--thank you!" cried Cousin Tom. I was going.
"Here--here! Come back! I want to speak to you!" I returned. "Old
fellow," said Tom, with a coaxing, eager grin, "make haste now, will
you? Bring 'em directly--that's a good chap."

"Well, but, you know--if tamarinds can't be had for love or money,
is there nothing else?"

"No, stupid--no! Tamarinds, I say; get me some tamarinds. What did
I tell you? Didn't I tell you tamarinds? Now then; what are you
waiting for? Cut away, and be hanged to you! Be off!--be off!"

I entered the ancient and very interesting city of Toulouse, and
rushed through streets choked with cars of wounded men, in search
of tamarinds. The search was tedious, and far from satisfactory.
I inquired at all the likeliest shops; found only two where
they professed to sell tamarinds. The samples were similar: a
made-up, sticky mess; a black, nauseous electuary, with a beastly
pharmaceutical odour, and barely the flavour of tamarinds.

It was no pleasant thought returning to poor Tom with a big gallipot
of this filthy compound stowed in each of my coat pockets. Yet,
though bad thus to baulk him, it was worse to keep him in suspense;
so I started on my return with all speed, and, in my speed, came
full butt against a passenger, who hugged me like a wrestler, to
prevent a mutual capsize.

"Well, Mr Y----! Glad to see you so active. Something of importance,
no doubt: official duty, I suppose."

It was Gingham! I told him my troubles, my pursuit in behalf of
Cousin Tom, and my disappointment. Had searched all Toulouse, and
could find no good tamarinds.

"Shall be happy to supply you," said Gingham, "in any quantity your
cousin can require. Got a whole kegful--capital. Always take some
with me when I visit the Continent. Got them on Fish-street Hill."
We walked off forthwith to Gingham's quarters.

I was speedily on my return to Cousin Tom, with Gingham for
my companion, and a good jar of prime, sweet, wholesome,
unsophisticated tamarinds. On approaching Tom's bed, I held up the
jar in triumph. Tom raised himself without saying a word, tucked his
handkerchief under his chin, and sat up, poor fellow, like a child,
with eyes half-closed and mouth half-open, eager to be fed. In went
a spoonful. The next instant--bolt!--it was gone! What a swallow! He
sat as before, ready for another. A second allowance vanished with
equal speed. Down it goes! Why, it's like feeding a young rook!--Tom
now laid himself down again, exhausted. "Here," said he; and made me
a present of a handful of tamarind stones. "Now put a good lot in
that jug, and fill it up with water."

While the drink was mixing, an unusual sound called our attention to
the adjoining bed. Captain Gabion was fast sinking. His respiration,
laborious from the first, had now become painfully audible; in
fact, he did not breathe, he gasped. The convulsive movements had
ceased. His face retained its natural expression; but there was that
in his look which told us he was a dying man. I felt at the moment
an impression,--He is not insensible! His lips moved. Surely he is
trying to speak! He strove to fix his eyes on us, but could not.
I stooped down, observing his lips again in motion. Yes, he was
speaking. I caught only the words--"On the platform."

"The Calvinet platform?" I whispered in reply. "Is that the spot
where you wish--?"

Feebly, tremulously he pressed my hand, which had just before taken
his. I had caught his last request, then; a grave on the summit of
Mount Rave, the key of the French position, where the table-land,
crowned with redoubts, had been carried by our troops. His breathing
became gradually feebler and less perceptible. The moment when it
ceased entirely, no one present could determine. This only was
evident:--a minute before, he had given signs of life; and now, he
had passed into another world!

Cousin Tom's bullet was extracted the same afternoon, with immediate
relief to the patient. During the operation I was present, by Tom's
request; and friendship, let me tell you, has more pleasing duties
than that of attending on such emergencies. Tom, however, made it as
agreeable as he could. Throughout the process he viciously stared
me full in the face, grinning most horribly from time to time, half
in agony, half in fun. When the forceps was produced, he caught a
glimpse of that terrific implement, and twisted his ugly mug into
such a comical grimace, that mine, spite of the solemnity of the
occasion, was screwed into a smile. Tom thereupon clenched his fist,
with a look that said ferociously, "Laugh again, and I'll punch your
eye."

The bullet, doctor, had lodged between the bones of the leg, a
little above the ankle, and, I need not inform you, came out
rather flattened. Tom kept it as a bijou, in a red morocco case
made express by an artist in Toulouse. Tom called it his pill-box.
Neither bone was broken; but the strain of this disagreeable
visitant wedged in between them, and rending them apart, had
occasioned from time to time those awful twinges, which Tom assuaged
by taking a chew at his handkerchief. The enemy removed, he not only
found himself in a state of comparative ease, but was relieved from
the constitutional irritation which had begun to manifest itself
by hardness of pulse, dryness of the mouth, parched lips, a dull,
hectic, brickdust-coloured patch on each cheek, a feverish lustre of
the eye, and an enormous appetite for tamarinds.

The operation, though, I ought to have said, was not performed
by Pledget, but by another army surgeon, who had arrived in the
course of the day, not before he was wanted. Poor Pledget was quite
done up. His powers, both mental and physical, had evidently been
over-taxed. He looked haggard and wild. Yet still, though relieved,
anxious about his cases, he wandered from room to room, and fidgeted
from one patient to another; standing a while in silence, with his
hands behind him, first by an amputation, then by a wounded artery,
then by a contusion, then by a broken head; while his care-worn
countenance expressed pleasure or pain, according to the symptoms.
As Cousin Tom was now in a dreadful fuss to be off for Toulouse,
Gingham and I applied to the newly-arrived surgeon, and consulted
him as to the removal.

"I think, gentlemen," said he, "if no bad symptoms supervene in the
night, it may safely be effected to-morrow; that is, of course, with
proper care and precautions."

"You are not afraid, sir," said Gingham, "that to-morrow may be too
early a day, then?"

"Why, sir, to say the truth," replied the doctor, "if we had more
room here, better accommodations, and a less vitiated atmosphere,
I should say a later day would be better. But, under existing
circumstances, less evil, I think, is likely to arise from the
patient's removal, than from his remaining. In his case, what we
now have most to look to, is the general health. Keep that right,
and the wound, I hope, will do well. Therefore the sooner he is
withdrawn from the bad air, and the associations which surround him
here, the better for him." The doctor paused.--"Pray, sir," said he,
looking Gingham full in the face, as though intuitively knowing he
spoke to a real good fellow, "pray, sir, if you will permit me to
ask the question, is Mr Pledget a friend of yours?"

"There are few men, sir," replied Gingham, "for whom I have a higher
regard, than for Mr Pledget."

"Well, sir," said the doctor, "I feel rather uneasy about him. It's
a delicate thing to speak about. But you yourself must have noticed
how changed he is, by the labours of the last three days. In short,
to speak plainly, he requires to be looked after; and just at this
time, with so many wounded upon our hands, I hardly know whether we
could possibly give him the attention here which his case requires.
If it is neglected now, it may become serious. Would it be asking
too much, if I requested you to take charge of him into Toulouse?"

"Take him with us this instant, sir," said Gingham; "or when you
please. If you approve, I'll have him with me in my own quarters."

"I really, sir, feel obliged to you," said the doctor. And the
doctor looked as if he spoke from his heart. "Hope you understand,
though, what it is you are taking on your shoulders. For a few
days--not longer, I hope--he will require vigilant superintendence,
and, possibly, slight control. His case demands firmness, and
indulgence at the same time."

"Yes, sir, I understand," said Gingham. "Shall he go with us now?"

"I would rather have him under my eye," said the doctor, "till
to-morrow morning. Perhaps a night's rest may effect a favourable
change. In the interval, too, I shall have time to prepare his mind
for the removal." So it was settled.

The next morning we returned to the chateau, for the purpose of
bringing in Pledget and Cousin Tom. Tom's patience, though, had not
lasted out till our arrival. At sunrise, again giving the doctor
the go-by, he had got on his things, crept down stairs, mounted his
mule, and taken himself off. In fact, he had got into Toulouse,
obtained a billet, and, snugly located in a respectable French
family, was prattling the vernacular, which he had at his fingers'
ends, before we arrived at the chateau to fetch him.

It only remained, therefore, to remove Pledget. He, poor man, though
all the better for a night's rest and a clean shirt, still looked
very unlike himself. He had rested, indeed, but he had not slept;
and his medical colleague hinted to Gingham, ere we departed, that
the case still required vigilance and care. The state of Pledget's
mind, at this time, was singular; he had all at once become
excessively ceremonious. When we reached the garden gate he drew up;
insisted that we should both precede him in going out. Had Gingham
and I been equally punctilious, we should not have reached Toulouse
by dinner-time.

Gingham had a matter upon his mind. Captain Gabion having expressed
a last wish respecting his funeral, Gingham had undertaken the whole
details, and some arrangements had been necessary at the chateau,
or our departed friend would speedily have been consigned, on the
spot, to a ready-made grave. Gingham mentioned the subject as we
rode along, and began stating what steps he had taken. Pledget, who
was ambling side by side with us on his mule, suddenly fell behind.
Coosey, previously admonished by Gingham, kept still further in the
rear. We waited till Pledget came up.

"Why, Mr Pledget," said Gingham, "I thought we had lost you, sir."

"Excuse me, sir," said Pledget, with gravity; "you are making a
confidential communication. Part of it I unintentionally overheard.
For this, an apology is due to both of you. Gentlemen, I most humbly
beg your pardon."

We rode on. Presently, Pledget edged up alongside of me, as though
he had something important to communicate.

"Mr Y----," said he, "I consider it the first duty which one
gentleman owes another, to avoid giving him needless offence." Not
exactly perceiving to what this observation tended, I could only bow
my acquiescence.

"But if," continued Pledget, "an offence is actually given, then I
conceive the next duty is to make reparation by a humble apology."
Apology, it was evident, was now the uppermost idea in poor
Pledget's mind.

"Well, sir," said I, seeking to divert his thoughts, "I think, in
such a case, regard should be had to the feelings of both parties.
And, judging by my own, I should say that, next to making an
apology, there are few things one would more wish to avoid than
receiving one."

"And accordingly," said Gingham, "in the intercourse of gentlemen,
it rarely, very rarely occurs, that an actual apology is deemed
requisite. To signify an intention, to express a willingness to
apologise, is in most cases thought amply satisfactory. Manly
feeling forbids the rest; and honour itself exacts no more." Pledget
rode on awhile, absorbed in thought.

"Mr Y----," he said at last, "I appreciate your sentiments, as well
as Mr Gingham's; and I perceive their drift. Allow me to say it,
your conduct is most generous. I really feel that you have just
cause to complain of mine; and, if it would pain you to receive
the apology, which is your due, allow me at least to express my
_willingness_, and, believe me, it was my _intention_, to apologise."

"Mr Pledget, my dear sir, what possible need of apology between
you and me? What offence has been given or received? I know of
none--never dreamt of any."

"Very handsome of you to say so, Mr Y----," replied Pledget. "But
what could be more inconsiderate than my conduct yesterday morning?
You _must_ have felt it; I know you did. You came to me with an
anxious inquiry respecting your wounded cousin; I spoke to you of
Captain Gabion. It was wrong, I own. Nay, not merely wrong, it was
unfeeling. I trust you will bear in mind my peculiar circumstances
at the time. I was overwhelmed, perplexed, bewildered, I----"

Gingham now saw it was high time to interpose, and with much
adroitness gave a new turn to the conversation. But ere we were
housed in Toulouse, Pledget, addressing us alternately, and
continually discovering fresh grounds of self-accusation, had made
two or three more apologies.

For a few days, sedulously and most kindly tended by Gingham, who
managed him admirably, and evinced equal tact and delicacy, Pledget
continued in a state of alternate depression and excitement, with
occasional hallucinations. He made apologies to all who came near
him; and, ere he quitted Gingham's quarters, had begged pardon,
again and again, of every servant in the household. From my first
conversation with Gingham on the steps of the hotel at Falmouth, I
always valued his acquaintance. But when I had seen him in this his
new character as Pledget's nurse, wise, thoughtful, vigilant, and
indulgent, I really grew proud of such a friend.

Within a week Pledget was almost himself again; and long before he
quitted Toulouse, to embark for England at Bordeaux, he was fully
and permanently restored.

Cousin Tom's, though, was a business of more time. He begged or
borrowed a formidable sapling, with a knob as big as his fist,
and was soon able to hobble about Toulouse, very much to his own
satisfaction. But the bones of his leg had been injured, though not
broken; and it was long before the wound got well, if it ever did.
I was with him many months after in London, when the Medical Board
sat to award gratuities and pensions to the wounded and disabled
officers of the Peninsular Army. Lucky, then, did the wight esteem
himself who had lost a limb or an eye. Tom was waiting for his
turn to go before the Board; I saw him two days previously. His, I
feared, was only a case for a gratuity; but Tom was determined to go
for a pension, and made sure of getting it. I ventured to express
my doubts; Tom whipped off his half-boot, turned down his sock, and
exclaimed triumphantly, "Look at that!" The wound was clean, but
looked fresh; much, indeed, as it appeared two days after the fight
when the bullet was extracted, and still big enough to re-admit
it. "If the Board don't give me a pension," cried Tom, "for such a
punch as that, why, all I can say is, they deserve to be punched
themselves." Saw him again after the inspection. "It's no go," said
Tom; "I tried hard for it, too. Got up early in the morning--slapped
twice round the Park at a swinging pace. When I went before them it
was red all about, a couple of inches. The flinty-hearted villains
gave me only a gratuity, though it bled while they were looking at
it."

At an early day after Pledget's and Tom's removal, we assembled
at the chateau, on an occasion in which we all felt a melancholy
interest--the funeral of Captain Gabion. The military arrangements,
of course, did not rest with us; Gingham had made every provision
which was left to his care with equal liberality and propriety.
Gingham also, no chaplain being present, officiated at the grave. He
read the service with great devoutness and solemnity. The procession
was joined, as we ascended the hill, by a mounted officer, a major
of the artillery, who, during the whole of the service, seemed lost
in thought, and stood with his eyes fixed upon the coffin till it
was lowered into the grave. The whole concluded, he approached and
shook hands with Gingham and myself, spoke a few hurried words, took
a hasty leave, mounted, and rode away. Gingham and I waited by the
grave till all was filled in and made right; we then walked down
together towards the city, both for some time silent. I spoke first.

"Wouldn't it be right to communicate with the friends? I think
they ought to know the exact position of the grave, and also the
particulars which I got from my cousin."

"Why, yes," said Gingham; "it would, I think, be as well to give
them all the information you can. I have already written to the
widow."




CHATEAUBRIAND'S MEMOIRS.

_Mémoires d'outre Tombe._ Par M. LE VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND. Tom.
v. vi. vii. viii. et ix. Paris: 1849.


The great and honourable feature of Chateaubriand's mind, amidst
some personal weaknesses, is its noble and disinterested character.
It differs from what we see around us, but it differs chiefly in
superior elevation. It united, to a degree which perhaps will
never again be witnessed, the lofty feelings of chivalry, with the
philanthropic visions of philosophy. In the tribune he was often a
Liberal of the modern school; but in action he was always a paladin
of the olden time. His fidelity was not to prosperity, but to
adversity; his bond was not to the powerful, but to the unfortunate;
reversing the revolutionary maxim, he brought the actions of public
men to the test, not of success, but of disaster. He often irritated
his friends when in power by the independence of his language,
but he never failed to command the respect of his enemies when in
adversity, by his constancy to misfortune. "Vive le roi quand-même,"
ever became his principle when the gales of adversity blew, and the
hollow-hearted support of the world began to fail. Prosperity often
saw him intrepid, perhaps imprudent in expression, but misfortune
never failed to exhibit him generous and faithful in action; and
his fidelity to the cause of royalty was never so strikingly
evinced as when that cause in France was most desperate. He was
the very antipodes of the hideous revolutionary tergiversation of
Fontainebleau. A pilgrim in this scene of trial, he was ever ready,
after having attained the summit of worldly grandeur, to descend
at the call of honour; and, resuming his staff and scrip, to set
out afresh on the path of duty. He was fitted to be the object of
jealousy and spite to kings and ministers in power, whose follies
he disdained to flatter or to overlook their vices, and of eternal
admiration to the great and the good in every future age, whose
hearts his deeds not less than his words will cause to throb. Such a
character might pass for fabulous or imaginary, were it not clearly
evinced, not only by words, but actions; not only in the thoughts of
genius, but in the deeds of honour. His life, and the feelings by
which it was regulated, are well worth examining, although we fear
he will find but few imitators in these days, and is more likely, in
a utilitarian and money-seeking age, to be classed with the mammoth
and mastodon, as a species of existence never again to be seen in
this world.

A character of this description naturally became enamoured of awful
or heartstirring events, and was ever ready to find a friend in
those capable of noble or heroic deeds in the ranks even of his
enemies. Both qualities are evinced in the following graphic account
of the appearance of the Grand Army when it arrived at Smolensko
during the Moscow retreat:--

     "On the 9th November, the troops at length reached Smolensko.
     An order of Buonaparte forbade any one to enter before the
     posts had been intrusted to the Imperial Guard. The soldiers
     on the outside were grouped in great numbers round the foot of
     the walls: those within were under cover. The air resounded
     with the imprecations of those who were shut out. Clothed in
     dirty Cossack cloaks, horse-cloths, and worn-out blankets, with
     their heads covered with old carpets, broken helmets, ragged
     shakos, for the most part torn by shot, stained with blood, or
     hacked in pieces by sabre-cuts--with haggard and yet ferocious
     countenances, they looked up to the top of the ramparts gnashing
     their teeth, with the expression of those prisoners who, under
     Louis the Fat, bore in their right hand their left cut off: you
     would have taken them for infuriated _masques_, or famished
     madmen escaped from Bedlam. At length the Old and Young Guard
     arrived, they were quickly admitted into the place which had
     been wasted by conflagration on occasion of our first passage.
     Loud cries of indignation were immediately raised against the
     privileged corps. 'Is the army to be left nothing but what it
     leaves?' was heard on all sides. Meanwhile the household troops,
     who had been admitted, rushed in tumultuous crowds to the
     magazines like an insurrection of spectres: the guards at the
     doors repulsed them; they fought in the streets: the dead, the
     wounded encumbered the pavements, the women, the children, the
     dying filled the waggons. The air was poisoned by the multitude
     of dead bodies; even old soldiers were seized with idiocy or
     madness; some whose hair stood on end with horror, blasphemed,
     or laughed with a ghastly air and fell dead. Napoleon let his
     wrath exhale in imprecations against a miserable commissary,
     none of the orders given to which had been executed.

     "The army, a hundred thousand strong when it left Moscow, now
     reduced to thirty thousand, was followed by a band of fifty
     thousand stragglers; there were not eighteen hundred horsemen
     mounted. Napoleon gave the command of them to M. de Latour
     Maubourg. That officer, who had led the cuirassiers to the
     assault of the great redoubt of Borodino, had had his head
     almost cleft asunder by the stroke of a sabre; he afterwards
     lost a leg at Dresden. Perceiving his servant in tears when
     the operation was over, he said to him, 'Why do you weep? you
     will have only one boot to clean.' That general, who remained
     faithful to misfortune, became the preceptor of Henry V. in the
     first years of the exile of that prince. I lift my hat in his
     presence, as in that of the Incarnation of Honour."--_Memoirs_,
     vi. p. 116, 118.

As Chateaubriand had declined office, and narrowly escaped death in
consequence, when Napoleon murdered the Duke d'Enghien, his life,
from that period to the Restoration of the Bourbons, was one of
retirement and observation. The important part which he took in
the Restoration, by the publication of his celebrated pamphlet _De
Buonaparte et des Bourbons_, restored him to political life. The
effect produced by that work was immense, and the placing of the
ancient race of monarchs on the throne was in a great degree owing
to it; for, at a crisis when the intentions of the Allies were yet
undecided, and Austria openly supported the strong party in France
which inclined for a regency with Marie Louise at its head, it
swelled immensely the numbers of the decided Royalists, and gave a
definite and tangible object to their hitherto vague and divided
aspirations. It was written with prodigious rapidity, and bears
marks of the haste of its composition in the vehemence of its ideas
and the occasional exaggeration of its assertions; but it was the
very thing required for a national crisis of unexampled importance,
when every hour was fraught with lasting consequences, and every
effort of genius was required for laying the foundation of a new
order in European society. Of the first conception and subsequent
completion of this remarkable work he gives the following account:--

     "I had been permitted to return to my solitary valley. The earth
     trembled under the footsteps of stranger armies: I wrote like
     the last Roman, amidst the din of barbarian invasion. During
     the day, I traced lines as agitated as the events which were
     passing: at night, when the roar of cannon was no longer heard
     in my solitary woods, I returned to the silence of the years
     which sleep in the tomb, and to the peace of my earlier life.
     The agitated pages which I wrote during the day, became, when
     put together, my pamphlet _On Buonaparte and the Bourbons_. I
     had so high an idea of the genius of Napoleon, and the valour of
     our soldiers, that the idea of a foreign invasion, successful
     in its ultimate results, never entered into my imagination; but
     I thought that such an invasion, by making the French see the
     dangers to which the ambition of Napoleon had exposed them,
     would lead to an interior movement, and that the deliverance of
     the French would be the work of their own hands. It was under
     that impression that I wrote my notes, in order that, if our
     political assemblies should arrest the march of the Allies,
     and separate themselves from a great man who had become their
     scourge, they should know to what haven to turn. The harbour
     of refuge appeared to me to be in the ancient authority, under
     which our ancestors had lived during eight centuries, but
     modified according to the changes of time. During a tempest,
     when one finds himself at the gate of an old edifice, albeit in
     ruins, he is glad to seek its shelter."--Vol. vi. p. 196, 197.

Madame de Chateaubriand, in a note, has described the circumstances
under which this memorable pamphlet was written, and the morbid
anxiety with which she was devoured during its composition:--

     "Had the pages of that pamphlet been seized by the police, the
     result could not have been a moment doubtful: the sentence
     was the scaffold. Nevertheless the author was inconceivably
     negligent about concealing it. Often, when he went out, he left
     the sheets on the table: at night he only placed them under his
     pillow, which he did in presence of his valet--an honest youth,
     it is true, but who might have betrayed him. For my part, I
     was in mortal agonies: whenever M. de Chateaubriand went out,
     I seized the manuscript, and concealed it on my person. One
     day, in crossing the Tuileries, I perceived I had it not upon
     me, and being sure I had it when I went out, I did not doubt
     that I had let it fall on the road. Already I beheld that fatal
     writing in the hands of the police, and M. de Chateaubriand
     arrested. I fell down in swoon in the garden, and some
     kind-hearted person carried me to my house, from which I had
     only got a short distance. What agony I endured when, ascending
     the stair, I floated between terror, which now amounted almost
     to a certainty, and a slight hope that I might have forgot the
     pamphlet. On reaching my husband's apartment, I felt again ready
     to faint: I approached the bed--I felt under the pillow; there
     was nothing there: I lifted the mattress, and there was the
     roll of paper! My heart still beats every time I think of it.
     Never in my life did I experience such a moment of joy. With
     truth can I say, my joy would not have been so great if I had
     been delivered at the foot of the scaffold, for it was one who
     was more dear to me than life itself whom I saw rescued from
     destruction."--Vol. vi. p. 206, 207.

On the entrance of Louis XVIII. into Paris, on the 3d May 1814, the
Allied sovereigns, from a feeling of delicacy to that monarch, gave
orders that none but French troops should appear in the procession.
The Old Guard lined the streets next the palace, and Chateaubriand
gives the following account of the way in which they received him:--

     "A regiment of infantry of the Old Guard kept the ground, from
     the Pont Neuf to Notre Dame, along the Quai des Orfures. I
     do not believe that human figures ever expressed anything so
     menacing and so terrible. These grenadiers, covered with wounds,
     so long the terror of Europe, who had seen so many thousand
     bullets fly over their heads, who seemed to smell of fire and
     powder--these very men, deprived of their leader, were forced
     to salute an old king, enfeebled by time and not combats,
     guarded by an army of Russians, Austrians, and Prussians, in the
     conquered capital of Napoleon! Some, shaking their heads, made
     their huge bearskins fall down over their eyes, so as not to
     see what was passing: others lowered the extremities of their
     mouths, to express their contempt and rage: others, through
     their mustaches, let their teeth be seen, which they gnashed
     like tigers. When they presented arms, it was with a gesture
     of fury, as if they brought them down to the charge. The sound
     they made with the recover was like thunder. Never, it must be
     admitted, had men been subjected to such a trial, or suffered
     such a punishment. If, in that moment, they had been called
     to vengeance, they would have exterminated the last man, or
     perished in the attempt.

     "At the extremity of the line was a young hussar on horseback,
     with his drawn sabre in his hand; his whole body literally
     quivered with a convulsive movement of wrath. He was deadly
     pale; his eyes rolled round in the most frightful manner; he
     opened his mouth alternately and shut it, grinding his teeth,
     and uttering inarticulate cries of rage. He cast his eyes on a
     Russian officer: no words can express the look which he gave
     him. When the carriage of the King passed before him, he made
     his horse leap forward, it was easy to see that he withstood
     with difficulty the temptation to precipitate himself on his
     sovereign.[3]

     "The Restoration, at its very outset, committed an irreparable
     fault. It should have disbanded the army, preserving only the
     marshals, generals, military governors, and officers, in their
     rank, pay, and appointments. The soldiers, in this manner, would
     have gradually re-entered their ranks, as they have since done
     into the Royal Guard; but they would have done so isolated from
     each other. The legitimate monarch would no longer have had
     arrayed against him the soldiers of the empire in regiments and
     brigades, as they had been during the days of their glory, for
     ever talking to each other of times past, and comparing the
     conquests of Napoleon with their inglorious inactivity under
     their new master.

     "The miserable attempt to reconstruct the _Maison Rouge_, that
     mixture of the military men of the old monarchy and the soldiers
     of the new empire, only augmented the evil. To suppose that
     veterans famous on a hundred fields of battle should not be
     shocked at seeing young men--brave without doubt, but for the
     most part unaccustomed to the use of arms--to see them wear,
     without having earned or deserved, the marks of high military
     rank, was to be ignorant of the first principles of human
     nature."--Vol. vi. p. 311-313.

  [3] Having ourselves seen the Old Guard on this trying occasion,
  we can vouch for the general fidelity of Chateaubriand's
  narrative.

These observations of Chateaubriand's are well founded, and the
last, in particular, is very important; but it may well be doubted
whether, by any measures that could have been adopted, the support
of the army could have been secured, or the dynasty of the Bourbons
established on a secure foundation. It was the fact of their
having been replaced by the bayonets of the stranger which was the
insurmountable difficulty; it was national subjugation, the capture
of Paris, which had for ever stained the white flag. This original
sin in its birth attended the Restoration through every subsequent
year of its existence: it was the main cause of the revolution of
1830, and operated with equal force in bringing about the still more
fatal one of 1848. Impatience of repose--a desire to precipitate
themselves on foreign nations--an aversion to the employments and
interests of peace, were the secret but principal causes of these
convulsions. If either Louis XVIII. or Louis Philippe had been young
and warlike princes, and the recollection of Leipsic and Waterloo,
of the invasions of France, and the double capture of its capital,
had not prevented them from engaging in the career of foreign
warfare; if they had been enterprising and _victorious_, they would
have secured the unanimous suffrages of the nation, and continued
the honoured possessors of the throne of France. But this dazzling
though perilous career was denied to Louis XVIII. To him there was
left only the difficult, perhaps the impossible task, of reconciling
irrevocable enmities, of closing irremediable wounds, of appeasing
inextinguishable mortifications. They have been thus set forth in
the eloquent words of genius:--

     "The house of Bourbon was placed in Paris at the Restoration
     as a trophy of the European confederation. The return of the
     ancient princes was inseparably associated, in the public mind,
     with the cession of extensive provinces, with the payment of an
     immense tribute, with the occupation of the kingdom by hostile
     armies, with the emptiness of those niches in which the gods of
     Athens and Rome had been the objects of a new idolatry, with
     the nakedness of those walls on which the Transfiguration had
     shone with a light as glorious as that which overhung Mount
     Thabor. They came back to a land in which they could recognise
     nothing. The Seven Sleepers of the legend, who closed their
     eyes when the Pagans were persecuting the Christians, and woke
     when the Christians were persecuting the Pagans, did not find
     themselves in a world more completely new to them. Twenty years
     had done the work of twenty generations. Events had come thick;
     men had lived fast. The old institutions and the old feelings
     had been torn up by the roots. There was a new church founded
     and endowed by the usurper; a new nobility, whose titles were
     taken from the fields of battle, disastrous to the ancient line;
     a new chivalry, whose crosses had been won by exploits which
     seemed likely to make the banishment of the Emigrants perpetual;
     a new code, administered by a new magistracy; a new body of
     proprietors, holding the soil by a new tenure; the most ancient
     local distinctions effaced, the most familiar names obsolete.
     There was no longer a Normandy, a Brittany, or a Guienne. The
     France of Louis XVI. had passed away as completely as one of the
     Preadamite worlds. Its fossil remains might now and then excite
     curiosity; but it was as impossible to put life into the old
     institutions as to animate the skeletons which are imbedded in
     the depths of primeval strata. The revolution in the laws and
     the form of government was but an outward sign of that mightier
     revolution which had taken place in the minds and hearts of men,
     and which affected every transaction and feeling of life. It was
     as absurd to think that France could again be placed under the
     feudal system, as that our globe could be overrun by mammoths.
     Louis might efface the initials of the Emperor, but he could not
     turn his eyes without seeing some object which reminded him he
     was a stranger in the palace of his fathers."[4]

  [4] MACAULAY'S _Essays_, ii. 230.

As a parallel to this splendid passage, though in an entirely
different style, we gladly give place to a noble burst of
Chateaubriand, on that most marvellous of marvellous events, the
return of Napoleon from Elba. It was natural that so memorable
a revolution should strongly impress his imaginative mind; but
he seems to have exceeded himself in the reflections to which
it gives rise. We know not whether to award the prize to the
Englishman or the Frenchman, in these parallel passages. They are
both masterpieces in their way. Perhaps the correct view is, that
Macaulay is superior in graphic force and the accumulation of
sarcastic images; Chateaubriand in lofty thought and imaginative
images.

     "On the 1st March, at three o'clock in the morning, Napoleon
     approached the coast of France in the Gulf of Juan; he
     disembarked, walked along the shore, gathered a few violets, and
     bivouacked in an olive wood. The inhabitants withdrew in a state
     of stupefaction. He left Antibes to his left, and threw himself
     into the Mountains of Grasse in Dauphiny. At Sisterone the road
     passes a defile where twenty men might have stopped him; he did
     not meet a living soul. He advanced without opposition among the
     inhabitants who the year before had wished to murder him. Into
     the void which was formed around his gigantic shade, if a few
     soldiers entered, they straightway yielded to the attraction of
     his eagles. His fascinated enemies seek him and find him not; he
     shrowds himself in his glory, as the lion in the Sahara desert
     conceals himself in the rays of the sun to dazzle the eyes of
     his pursuers. Enveloped in a burning halo, the bloody phantoms
     of Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Eylau, the
     Moskwa, Lützen, and Bautzen, form his cortege amidst a million
     of the dead. From the midst of that column of smoke and flame,
     issue at the gates of towns some trumpet-notes mingled with
     tricolor standards, and the gates fly open. When Napoleon passed
     the Niemen, at the head of four hundred thousand foot, and a
     hundred thousand horse, to blow into the air the palace of the
     Czars at Moscow, he was less wonderful than when, breaking his
     ban, casting his fetters as a gauntlet in the face of kings,
     he came alone from Cannes to Paris, to sleep peaceably in the
     palace of the Tuileries."--Vol. vi. p. 359, 360.

To a mind like that of Chateaubriand, reposing in solitude when
Napoleon was acting with such marvellous effect in the world, the
character and qualities of that wonderful man could not fail to
be a constant object of solicitude and observation. It has been
already noticed that he braved the Emperor in the plenitude of his
power, and essentially contributed, in the crisis of his fate, to
his dethronement, and the re-establishment of the ancient line of
princes. But, as is not unusual with persons of his highly wrought
and generous temper of mind, his hostility to the Emperor declined
with the termination of his authority, and his admiration for his
genius rose with the base desertion of the revolutionary crowd who
had fawned upon him when on the throne. The following observations
on the style of his writings, indicate the growth of this counter
feeling, and are in themselves equally just and felicitous:--

     "His partisans have sought to make of Buonaparte a perfect
     being; a model of sentiment, of delicacy, of morality, and of
     justice--a writer like Cæsar and Thucydides, an orator like
     Demosthenes, a historian like Tacitus. The public discourses of
     Napoleon, his sonorous phrases in the tent and at the council
     board, are the less inspired by the spirit of prophecy, that
     many of the catastrophes which he announced have not been
     accomplished, while the warlike Isaiah himself has disappeared.
     Prophecies of doom which follow without reaching states become
     ridiculous. It is their accomplishment which renders them
     sublime. During sixteen years, Napoleon was the incarnation
     of destiny. Destiny now is mute, and he, too, should be
     so. Buonaparte was not a Cæsar; his education had neither
     been learnedly nor carefully conducted: half a stranger, he
     was ignorant of the first rules of our language, and could
     hardly spell it; but what did it signify, after all, that his
     expression was defective?--he gave the law to the universe. His
     bulletins have the most thrilling of all eloquence--that of
     victory. Sometimes, during the intoxications of success, they
     affected to be written on a drum-head: in the midst of the most
     lugubrious accents, something emerged which excites a smile. I
     have read all that Napoleon has written--the first manuscripts
     of his infancy, his love-letters to Josephine, the five volumes
     of his discourses, bulletins, and orders; but I have found
     nothing which so truly portrays the character of that great
     man, when in adversity, as the following autograph note left at
     Elba:--

     "'My heart refuses to share in ordinary joys as ordinary sorrows.

     "'Not having given myself life, I am not entitled to take it
     away.

     "'My bad genius appeared to me and announced my end; which I
     found at Leipsic.

     "'I have conjured up the terrible spirit of innovation, which
     will overrun the world.'

     "Certes, there is Napoleon to the very life. His bulletins and
     discourses have often great energy; but it was not his own;
     it belonged to the age; he only adopted it. It sprang from
     the revolutionary energy, which he only weakened by moving in
     opposition to it. Danton said, 'The metal is fused; if you do
     not watch over the furnace, you will be consumed.' St Just
     replied, '_Do it if you dare_.' These words contain the whole
     secret of our Revolution. Those who make revolutions by halves,
     do nothing but dig their own graves."--Vol. vii. p. 101.

Certes, there is Chateaubriand to the very life.

Chateaubriand, as all the world knows, was Minister for Foreign
Affairs to Louis XVIII. at Ghent; adhering thus to his ruling
maxim throughout life, "Fidelity to misfortune." So great were the
services rendered by him to the cause of European freedom, by the
energetic series of papers which he poured forth with unwearied
vigour every week, that there were serious thoughts, after the
battle of Waterloo, of promoting him to the dignity of Prime
Minister. Louis XVIII. openly inclined to it; and if his advice had
prevailed, the catastrophe which fifteen years afterwards befel his
family, would probably have been prevented. But the insuperable
difficulty lay here: the pure and honourable mind of Chateaubriand
revolted from the idea of forming a Ministry in conjunction with
Talleyrand and Fouché; and yet their influence was such that the
monarch, in the first instance at least, was compelled to court
their assistance. Expedience, at least immediate expedience, seemed
to counsel it; but Chateaubriand, animated by higher principles, and
gifted with a more prophetic mind, anticipated no lasting advantage,
but rather the reverse, from an alliance with the arch-regicide
of Nantes, and the arch-traitor who had sworn allegiance to and
betrayed _twelve_ Governments in succession. But the chorus of
"_base unanimities_," as he expresses it, with which the monarch
was surrounded, proved too strong for any single individual, how
gifted soever. Fouché and Talleyrand were taken into power, and
Chateaubriand retired. Of the conversation with Louis XVIII.,
when this vital change was resolved on, he gives the following
interesting account, which proves that that sagacious monarch at
least was well aware of the consequences of the step to which he was
thus involuntarily impelled:--

"Before quitting St Denis, on our way back to Paris, I had an
audience of the King, and the following conversation ensued:

     "'Well?' said Louis XVIII., opening the dialogue by that
     exclamation.

     "'Well, sire, you have taken the Duke of Otranto,' (Fouché.)

     "'I could not avoid it; from my brother to the bailie of
     Crussol, (and he at least is not suspected,) all said that we
     could not do otherwise--what think you?'

     "'Sire! the thing is done; I crave permission to remain silent.'

     "'No, no--speak out; you know how I resisted at Ghent.'

     "'In that case, sire, I must obey my orders. Pardon my fidelity:
     I think it is all over with the monarchy.'

     "The King remained some time silent. I began to tremble at my
     boldness, when his Majesty rejoined:--

     "'In truth, M. de Chateaubriand, I am of your opinion.'

     "I bowed and withdrew; and thus ended my connection with the
     Hundred Days."--Vol. vii. 70.

Manzoni has written an ode, known over all Europe, on the double
fall of Napoleon: "The last poet," says Chateaubriand, "of the
country of Virgil, sang the last warrior of the country of Cæsar.

    Tutte ei provo, la gloria
    Maggior dopo il periglio,
    La fuga e la Vittoria,
    La reggia e il triste esiglio:
    Due volte nella polvere,
    Due volte sugli altar.

    Ei se nomo: due secoli,
    L'un contro l'altro armato,
    Sommessi a lui se volsero,
    Come aspettando il fato:
    Ei fe silenzio ed arbitro
    S'assise in mezzo a loro.

     "He proved everything; glory greater after danger, flight, and
     victory: Royalty and sad exile, twice in the dust, twice on the
     altar.

     "He announced himself: two ages, armed against each other,
     turned towards him, as if awaiting their fate; he proclaimed
     silence, and seated himself as arbiter between them."

Notwithstanding the vehemence of Chateaubriand's dissension with
Napoleon, it cannot be expected that a man of his romantic and
generous temperament would continue his hostility after death.
No one, accordingly, has awarded a more heartfelt or magnanimous
tribute to his memory.

     "The solitude of the exile and of the tomb of Napoleon has shed
     an extraordinary interest, a sort of prestige, over his memory.
     Alexander did not die under the eyes of Greece, he disappeared
     amidst the distant wonders of Babylon. Buonaparte has not died
     under the eyes of France: he has been lost in the gloomy edge
     of the southern horizon. The grandeur of the silence which
     now surrounds him equals the immensity of the noise which his
     exploits formerly made. The nations are absent: the crowd of men
     has retired: the bird of the tropics, 'harnessed,' in Buffon's
     words, 'to the chariot of the sun,' has precipitated itself from
     the star of light--where does it now repose? It rests on the
     ashes of which the weight has all but subverted the globe."

"Imposuerunt omnes sibi diademata post mortem ejus; et multiplicata
sunt mala in terrâ."[5] "They all assumed diadems after his death,
and evils were multiplied on the earth." Twenty years have hardly
elapsed since the death of Napoleon, and already the French and
Spanish monarchies are no more. The map of the world has undergone a
change: a new geography is required: severed from their legitimate
rulers, nations have been thrown against nations: renowned actors on
the scene have given place to ignoble successors: eagles from the
summits of the loftiest pines have plunged into the ocean, while
frail shellfish have attached themselves to the sides of the trunk,
which still stands erect.

  [5] MACHABIES.

     "As in the last result everything advances to its end, '_the
     terrible spirit of innovation which overruns the world_', as
     the Emperor said, and to which he had opposed the barrier of
     his genius, has resumed its course. The institutions of the
     conqueror fail: he will be the last of great existences on the
     earth. Nothing hereafter will overshadow society, parcelled
     out and levelled: the shadow of Napoleon alone will be seen
     on the verge of the old world which has been destroyed, like
     the phantom of the deluge on the edge of its abyss. Distant
     posterity will discern that spectre through the gloom of passing
     events still erect above the gulf into which unknown ages
     have fallen, until the day marked out by Providence for the
     resurrection of social man."--Vol. vii. 169-171.

Assuredly no one can say that Chateaubriand's genius has declined
with his advanced years.

To a man viewing Napoleon with the feelings expressed in these
eloquent words, the translation of his remains from their solitary
resting-place under the willow at St Helena could not but be an
object of regret. He thus expresses himself on that memorable event,
and future ages will probably confirm his opinion:--

     "The removal of the remains of Napoleon from St Helena was a
     fault against his renown. A place of sepulchre in Paris can
     never equal the Valley of Slanes. Who would wish to see the
     Pillar of Pompey elsewhere than above the grave dug for his
     remains by his poor freedman, aided by the old legionary? What
     shall we do with those magnificent remains in the midst of
     our miseries? Can the hardest granite typify the everlasting
     duration of Napoleon's renown? Even if we possessed a Michael
     Angelo to design the statue on the grave, how should we fashion
     the mausoleum? Monuments are for little men, for the great
     a stone and a name. At least they should have suspended the
     coffin from the summit of the triumphal arch which records his
     exploits: nations from afar should have beheld their master
     borne aloft on the shoulders of his victories. Was not the urn
     which contained the ashes of Trajan placed at Rome, beneath
     his column? Napoleon at Paris will be lost amidst the crowd
     of unknown names. God forbid he should be exposed to the
     vicissitudes of our political changes, surrounded though he is
     by Louis XIV., Vauban, and Turenne. Let a certain section of our
     revolutionists triumph, and the ashes of the conqueror will be
     sent to join the ashes which our passions have dispersed. The
     conqueror will be forgotten in the oppressor of our liberties.
     The bones of Napoleon will not reproduce his genius; they will
     only teach his despotism to ignoble soldiers."--Vol. vii. 184,
     185.

The Restoration did not immediately employ Chateaubriand. His
anticipations were realised. The chorus of baseness and selfishness
with which the court was surrounded, kept him at a distance. They
were afraid of his genius: they were jealous of his reputation.
Above all, they dreaded his independence. He was not sufficiently
manageable. They were actuated, perhaps not altogether without
reason, by the same feeling which made Lord North say, when urged
to bring Dr Johnson into Parliament, whose great powers in the
political warfare of pamphlets had been so signally evinced on the
side of Government, "No, sir, he is an elephant, but a wild one,
as likely to trample under foot his friends as his enemies." The
veteran statesman, so well versed in the ways of men, was right.
Genius is the fountain of thought: it ultimately rules the councils
and destinies of men; but it generally requires to be tempered by
time before it can be safely introduced into practice.

Chateaubriand enlivens this period of his memoirs, which is neither
signalised by political event nor remarkable literary effort, by
a sort of biography of Madame Recamier, with whom he was on terms
of intimate friendship. This remarkable person, who was beyond all
question the most beautiful and attractive woman of her age in
France, or perhaps in Europe, is now no more; and he appears to
have obtained from her relatives, or perhaps from herself prior to
her decease, not only many curious and highly interesting details
concerning her early years and subsequent history, but a great
variety of original letters from the most eminent men of the age,
who were successively led captive by her charms, but none of whom
appear to have impaired her reputation. In this country, where the
lines of severance between the sexes are much more rigidly drawn,
it would be impossible for a young and beautiful married woman to
be in the habit of receiving the most ardent love-letters from a
great variety of distinguished and fascinating admirers, without
the jealousy of rivals being excited, and the breath of scandal
fastening upon her as its natural prey. But it is otherwise on
the Continent, where, although there is doubtless abundance of
dissoluteness of manners in certain circles, yet in others such
intimacies may exist, which are yet kept within due bounds, and cast
no reflection on the fortunate fair one who sees all the world at
her feet.

Such, at least, appears to have been the case with Madame
Recamier, the intimate friend of Madame de Stael, who said "She
would willingly give all her talents for one half of her beauty;"
and whose powers of fascination were such, that she not only
inspired a vehement passion nearly at the same time, in La Harpe,
Lucien Buonaparte, Murat, Moreau, Bernadotte, Marshal Massena,
Benjamin Constant, Prince Augustus of Prussia, Prince Metternich,
Chateaubriand, and a vast many others, but attracted the particular
notice of Napoleon, and did not escape the vigilant and practised
eye of the Duke of Wellington. The Prince of Prussia would have
married her, if he could have effected her divorce from M. Recamier.
It is one of the worst traits of the Emperor Napoleon's character,
that he was not only so envious of the celebrity of her beauty that
he banished her from Paris to extinguish its fame, but was inspired
with such malignant feelings towards her, from her having rejected
his advances, that he got a law passed which rendered the wives of
persons engaged in commerce responsible in their separate estates
for their husbands' debts; the effect of which was to involve Madame
Recamier, whose husband, a great banker in Paris, failed, in almost
total ruin, in the latter years of her life.

Madame Recamier, whose birth, though respectable, gave her none of
the advantages of rank or opulence, was bred up at the abbey of the
_Desert_, near the confluence of the Rhone and the Saone at Lyons.
Her parents, however, resided at Paris; and they having brought
her home at the age of twelve years, she was at that tender age
married to M. Recamier, a rich banker, almost four times her own
age, whose immense transactions, which entirely absorbed his time
and attention, left him no leisure to attend either to the education
or occupations of his infantine and beautiful wife. But though thus
left to herself, surrounded by admirers, and with every luxury which
wealth could purchase at her command, she was never led astray.
Benjamin Constant, who knew her well from her earliest years, has
left the following interesting portrait of what may be called her
infantine married life:--

     "She whom I paint emerged pure and brilliant from that corrupted
     atmosphere, which elsewhere withered where it did not actually
     corrupt. Infancy was at first her safeguard. Libertinism shrunk
     from approaching the asylum of so much innocence. Removed from
     the world in a solitude embellished by the arts, she spent her
     time in the sweet occupation of those charming and poetical
     studies which usually constitute the delight of a more advanced
     age.

     "Often, also, surrounded by her young companions, she abandoned
     herself to the amusements suited to her tender years. 'Swift as
     Atalanta in the race,' she outran all her companions: often,
     in playing Hide-and-seek, she bandaged those eyes which were
     destined one day to fascinate every beholder. Her look, now
     so expressive and penetrating, and which seems to indicate
     mysteries of which she herself is unconscious, then shone only
     with the animated and playful gaiety of childhood. Her beautiful
     hair, which could not be undone without causing emotion, fell
     in natural curls on her shoulders. A hearty and prolonged laugh
     often burst from these infantine circles, but already you
     could perceive in her that fine and rapid observation which
     seizes the salient points of ridicule--that sportive raillery
     which diverted itself without injuring any one: above all,
     that exquisite sense of elegance and propriety, of purity and
     taste, that true nobility of mind, which are given only to a few
     privileged beings.

     "Nevertheless Madame Recamier emerged occasionally from her
     retreat, to go to the theatre or to the public promenades; and
     in those places of general resort her rare appearance was quite
     an event. Every other object in those immense assemblages was
     forgotten: every one precipitated himself upon her steps. The
     fortunate cavalier who attended her could scarcely make his way
     through the crowds which she collected: her steps were at every
     instant impeded by the spectators who crowded around her. She
     enjoyed that success with the gaiety of an infant combined with
     the timidity of a young woman; but the gracious dignity which
     at home restrained the overflowing gaiety of her companions,
     inspired respect in public in the admiring crowd with which she
     was constantly environed. You would say that her air imposed
     restraint equally on her companions and on the public. Thus
     passed the first years of the married life of Madame Recamier,
     between poetical occupation, infantine amusements, and the
     triumph of beauty in the world.

     "But her expanding mind and capacious genius soon required other
     aliment. The instinctive love of the beautiful with which she
     was inspired from her earliest years, made her long for the
     society of men distinguished for the reputation of their talents
     or genius. M. de La Harpe was one of the first who appreciated
     the young woman, around whom were one day to be grouped all
     the celebrated characters of her age. The conversation of that
     young woman of fifteen had a thousand attractions for a man of
     his great acquirements, and whose excessive vanity, with the
     habit of conversing with the ablest men in France, had rendered
     exceedingly difficult to please. He delighted in being her
     guide: he was astonished at the rapidity with which her talent
     supplied the want of experience, and comprehended everything
     which he revealed to her of the world and of men. This was at
     the moment of his celebrated conversion to Christianity. The
     Revolution having rendered infidelity all-powerful, scepticism
     had lost the merit of being opposed to authority, and those whom
     vanity alone had rendered such could in good faith, and without
     compromising their reputation, avow their secret belief."--Vol.
     ix. 118, 121.

Of the unbounded devotion which Madame Recamier in a few years came
to inspire in the breasts of the most distinguished men of her day,
abundant proof is furnished in Chateaubriand's Memoirs. To give only
a few examples, among a host of others which might be cited, Marshal
Massena--a roturier by birth, and certainly not inheriting by
descent any of the feelings of chivalry--yet even he asked a ribbon
from Madame Recamier before he set out for the army of Italy, to
take the command in Genoa, in the siege since so celebrated; and,
having obtained it, he wrote to her the following note some weeks
after:--

     "The charming ribbon given by Madame Recamier has been borne by
     General Massena in the battles and the blockades of Genoa: it
     has never left him, and been, in every instance, the harbinger
     of victory."--Vol. viii. 167.

     "There," as Chateaubriand justly observes "the ancient manners
     reappeared athwart the modern manners of which they formed the
     base. The gallantry of the noble chevalier shone forth in the
     plebeian soldier; the memory of the tournaments and of the
     crusades was concealed amidst the blaze of glory with which
     modern France has crowned its old victories."

Lucien Buonaparte, one of her first adorers, addressed her early in
life in these terms:--

     "Till within these few days, I knew you only by renown. I had
     seen you sometimes at church and in the theatres. I knew you
     were the most beautiful: a thousand voices repeated it; and
     your charms had struck without dazzling me. Why has the peace
     rendered me captive? it reigns in our families, but sorrow is in
     my heart.

     "I have seen you since: Jove seemed to smile on your steps.
     Seated on the edge of a fountain, motionless and dreamy, you
     gathered a rose. I addressed you alone: I thought I heard
     a sigh. Vain illusion! I soon saw the tranquil front of
     indifference seated between us. The passion which devoured me
     expressed itself in my words; while yours bore the cruel yet
     amiable stamp of infancy and sport.

     "Be severe, I implore you, for pity's sake. Banish me from your
     presence. Desire me to withdraw from your enchanting society:
     and if I can obey the order, remember only that my heart is for
     ever your own; that no one ever reigned over it as Juliette;
     and that he will ever live with her, at least in memory."--Vol.
     viii. 130.

"For a man of _sangfroid_," says Chateaubriand, "all that is a
little ridiculous." He is right: it is gallantry without passion
which always appears _fade_ and contemptible. It is vehemence
and sincerity which makes sentiment interesting. The Buonapartes
had nothing chivalrous in their breasts: Lucien's letter is very
different from Massena wearing Madame Recamier's ribbon next his
heart amidst the fire of the Austrian cannon. But Chateaubriand
himself had the true spirit of chivalry in his bosom. He thus
recounts one of the last moments which he spent in 1832, late in
life, with Madame Recamier on the banks of the Lake of Constance:--

     "We wandered as chance guided our steps, and sat down beside
     the lake. From a pavilion in the woods arose a concert of the
     harp and the German horns, which ceased as we began to listen
     to them. It was a scene in a fairy tale. As the music did not
     recommence, I read to Madame Recamier my description of the St
     Gothard. She asked me to write something in her pocket-book.
     Immediately below the last words of Rousseau, which were there
     inscribed, 'Open the windows, that I may again see the light
     of the sun,' I wrote, 'What I felt the want of on the Lake of
     Lucerne I have found on the Lake of Constance--the charm and the
     intelligence of beauty. I no longer wish to die like Rousseau; I
     wish, on the contrary, to live long, and behold the sun, if it
     is near you that I am to finish my life. May my days expire at
     your feet, as the waves of which you hear the murmur.' The azure
     light of the setting sun coloured the lake; on the horizon, to
     the south, the snowy alps of the Grisons reflected the ruddy
     glow; the breeze which swept the waves harmonised with their
     ceaseless murmur. We knew not where we were."--Vol. x. 246, 247.

With the accession of a more Liberal Administration under M. de
Martignac, Chateaubriand was taken into power. In 1822 he was sent
as ambassador to London; in 1823 he was made minister of foreign
affairs, and directed the expedition into Spain in that year, which
had so successful a result; and in 1824 he represented France at the
Congress of Verona. He was again, however, chased from the helm by
the jealousy of the Royalists, whose imbecility was rebuked by his
genius; and it was not till 1828 that he was again taken into power,
and appointed to the embassy at Rome. He was there when the Polignac
Administration was appointed.

We must hasten to the most brilliant and honourable period of
Chateaubriand's life, that in which he stood almost alone amidst a
nation's defection, and singly opposed the revolutionary torrent
by which nearly all others had been swept away. The spectacle is
at once animating and mournful: animating as evincing of what high
resolves, of what heroic constancy, noble minds are capable even
in the extremity of disaster: mournful, as exhibiting so bright a
contrast to the tergiversation of later times, and suggesting the
mournful reflection that, in these days of economists and material
enjoyment, the days of chivalry are gone for ever.

It is well known that Chateaubriand was esteemed not only a Liberal,
but an ultra-Liberal, by the extreme Royalist party whom Charles
X. summoned to his councils on his accession to the throne; and
that, in consequence of his disagreement with Polignac and the
leaders of that party, he retired from the ministry, and resigned
his appointment as ambassador at Rome. His consternation was great
on perceiving the extreme measures which the Polignac party were
preparing to carry into execution, and the feeble preparations made
for supporting them by military force, in the midst of a warlike and
excited people. Of his first intelligence of the appointment of the
Polignac Administration by the sovereign whom they were destined so
soon to overthrow, he gives the following account:--

     "Rumours of a change of Administration had already reached us
     at Rome. Well-informed persons had even gone so far as to speak
     of Prince Polignac, but I could not credit the reports. At
     length the journals arrive; I open them, and my eyes rest on
     the official ordinance calling him to the head of the ministry.
     I had experienced many vicissitudes of fortune in my journey
     through life, but never had I fallen from such an elevation.
     My evil destiny had again blown over my chimeras: that breath
     of fate had not only destroyed my illusions, but it had swept
     away the monarchy. The blow was fearful: for a moment I was in
     despair, but my part was soon taken. I felt that I must retire
     from power. The post brought me a multitude of letters; all
     recommended me to send in my resignation. Even persons to whom I
     was almost a stranger thought themselves obliged to counsel me
     to retire. I was in secret mortified at the officious interest
     thus evinced in my reputation. Thank God, I have never needed
     nor waited for counsels when the paths of honour and of interest
     lay before me. Falls from station have ever been to me ruin,
     for I possessed through life nothing but debts; so that when I
     resigned my appointments, I was reduced to live by my wits. In a
     word, I resigned a situation of 200,000 francs (£8000) a-year,
     and was reduced to nothing; but my choice was not doubtful. Cast
     to the winds, said I to myself, 200,000 francs (£8000) a-year
     of income, an appointment entirely suited to your taste, a high
     and magnificent office, the empire of the fine arts at Rome, the
     felicity, in fine, of having at length received the recompense
     for your long and laborious struggles. Honour is to be won,
     esteem preserved, at no other price."--Vol. ix. 141, 142.

On arriving at Paris after he had resigned his appointment as
ambassador at Rome, Chateaubriand found that many of the kind
and officious friends who had so strongly urged _him_ to resign,
had themselves quietly accepted appointments under the Polignac
Administration! He withdrew, however, in pursuance of his
resolution, into private life; and in order to avoid the expenses
of Paris, which exceeded what his reduced income could bear, he
retired to Dieppe in June 1830. When there he received the stunning
intelligence of the Ordinances of July. His part was immediately
taken. He returned with the utmost expedition to Paris, resolved
to share the fate of his country whatever it might be, and to
exert himself to the utmost to mitigate the calamities which he
foresaw awaited it. His first step on arriving in the capital was
to write a letter to the King, making a tender of his services to
negotiate with the popular leaders who had got the command in the
capital. The only answer he received was a verbal one, that M. de
Montemart had been appointed to the head of the Ministry, and a
reference to him. But M. de Montemart could not be found; and even
if he had been, affairs had gone too far to admit of any remedy
by individual efforts, how powerful soever. The nation would have
a Revolution with its consequences, and it was doomed to have a
Revolution with its consequences. But although Louis Philippe was
successful, Chateaubriand foresaw that his throne was established
on a rotten foundation: that the _juste milieu_, resting neither on
the attachment of a loyal, nor the passions of a conquering people,
could not be of lasting endurance; and that, in default of all
principles of honour whereon to rest a Government, those of interest
alone remained. He has left the following memorable prophecy of
the fate awaiting a monarchy cradled in treason and fostered by
selfishness:--

     "Louis Philippe, his Government, the whole of that impossible
     and contradictory combination, _will perish in a time more
     or less retarded by fortuitous events_, by complications of
     interests interior and exterior, by the apathy or corruption of
     individuals, by the levity of disposition, the indifference and
     want of nerve in characters. But be its duration long or short,
     the present dynasty will not exist long enough for the House of
     Orleans to strike its roots in the soil of France."--Vol. ix.
     333.[6]

  [6] M. de Chateaubriand died in 1847, before the Revolution of 1848.

It is not in public documents and actions that the real opinions of
the actors on the stage of public events are to be discerned. It is
their private conversation or correspondence that reveals their real
sentiments; it is there that the mental struggles which preceded
the most decisive steps, and the secret views by which they were
actuated in adopting or rejecting them, are in truth disclosed. In
this view, the following conversation between Chateaubriand and the
Duchess of Orleans, immediately after the triumph of the Barricades,
is peculiarly interesting--

     "M. Arago spoke to me in the warmest terms of the intellectual
     superiority of Madame Adelaide; and the Count Analde de
     Montesquieu, having met me one morning at Madame Recamier's,
     informed me that the Duke and Duchess of Orleans would be
     charmed to see me. I went, accordingly, to the Palais Royal with
     the Chevalier d'Honneur of the future queen. I found the Duchess
     of Orleans and Madame Adelaide in their private boudoirs. I had
     previously had the honour of being presented to the duchess. She
     made me sit down near her, and immediately said--

     "'Ah! M. de Chateaubriand, we are very unfortunate. If all
     parties would unite we might perhaps be saved, what think you of
     that?'

     "'Madame,' I replied, 'nothing is so easy. Charles X. and the
     Dauphin have both abdicated; Henry V. is now king; the Duke
     of Orleans is now Lieutenant-general of the kingdom; let him
     be Regent during the whole minority of Henry V., and all is
     accomplished.'

     "'But, M. de Chateaubriand, the people are extremely agitated;
     we should fall into anarchy.'

     "'Madame, may I venture to ask you what is the intention of the
     Duke of Orleans? will he accept the throne if it is offered to
     him?'

     "The two princesses hesitated to answer. After a short pause the
     Duchess of Orleans replied,--

     "'Consider, M. de Chateaubriand, the disasters which may
     ensue--you and all other men of honour require to unite to save
     us from a republic. At Rome, M. de Chateaubriand, you might
     render us essential service--or even here, if you did not wish
     to quit France.'

     "'Madame is not ignorant of my devotion to the young king and to
     his mother.'

     "'Ah! M. de Chateaubriand, how well they have rewarded your
     fidelity.'

     "'Your Royal Highness would not wish me to give the lie to my
     whole life.'

     "'M. de Chateaubriand, you do not know my niece; she is so
     inconsiderate, poor Caroline. I will send for the Duke of
     Orleans; I hope he may succeed in persuading you better than me.'

     "The princess gave her orders, and in a quarter of an hour
     Louis Philippe arrived. He was dressed in disorder, and
     looked extremely fatigued. I rose as he entered, and the
     Lieutenant-general of the kingdom said,--

     "'The duchess has doubtless informed you how unfortunate we
     are.' And upon that he began a speech on the felicity which
     he enjoyed in the country, and the life, in the midst of his
     children, which was entirely according to his taste. I seized
     the opportunity of a momentary pause to repeat what I had said
     to the princess.

     "'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'that is just what I desire. How happy
     should I be to become the tutor and support of that infant! I
     think exactly as you do, M. de Chateaubriand: to take the Duke
     of Bordeaux would unquestionably be the wisest course that could
     be adopted. I only fear events are too strong for us.'

     "'Stronger than us, my Lord Duke! Are you not invested with all
     powers? Let us hasten to join Henry V. Summon the Chambers and
     the army to meet you out of Paris. At the first intelligence of
     your departure all that effervescence will subside, and all the
     world will seek shelter under your enlightened and protecting
     government.'

     "While I yet spoke, I kept my eyes fixed on Louis Philippe. I
     saw that my counsels gave him annoyance: I saw written on his
     forehead the desire to be king. 'M. de Chateaubriand,' said he,
     _without looking me in the face_, 'the thing is not so easy as
     you imagine: things do not go as you imagine. A furious mob may
     assail the Chambers, and we have, as yet, no military force on
     which we can rely for its defence.'

     "The last expression gave me pleasure, because it enabled me
     to bring forward a decisive reply. 'I feel the difficulty you
     mention, my Lord Duke; but there is a sure mode of obviating
     it. If you cannot rejoin Henry V., as I have just proposed,
     you may embrace another course. The session is about to open:
     on the first proposition made by the deputies, declare that
     the Chamber of Deputies has not the power to determine the
     form of government for France; that the _whole nation must be
     consulted_. Your Royal Highness will thus place yourself at the
     head of the popular party: the Republicans, who now constitute
     your danger, will laud you to the skies. In the two months which
     must elapse before the new legislature can assemble, you can
     organise a national guard; all your friends, and the friends
     of the young king, will exert themselves in the provinces. Let
     the deputies assemble, and let the cause I espouse be publicly
     pleaded before them. That cause, favoured in heart by you,
     supported by the great majority of the country electors, will
     be certain of success. The moment of anarchy being past, you
     will have nothing to fear from the violence of the Republicans.
     I even think you might win over, by such a course, General
     Lafayette and M. Lafitte to your side. What a part for you to
     play, my Lord Duke! You will reign fifteen years in the name of
     your young pupil; at the expiration of that time, repose will
     be a blessing to us all. You will earn the glory, unique in
     history, of having had the power to ascend the throne, and of
     having left it to the lawful heir. At the same time, you will
     have enjoyed the means of educating that heir abreast of the
     ideas of his age: you will have rendered him capable of reigning
     over France. One of your daughters may aid him to bear the
     weight of the crown.'

     "Louis Philippe looked around with a wandering eye and an absent
     air. 'I beg your pardon, M. de Chateaubriand,' said he; 'I left
     a deputation to converse with you, and I must return to it.'
     With these words, he bowed and withdrew.

The advice thus given at the decisive moment by Chateaubriand
was that of honour and loyalty; it dictated by the spirit of the
chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche_. But it was not that of
immediate or apparent interest; and therefore it was not adopted.
The event has now proved, however, that in this, as in so many
other instances in this world, the path of honour and duty would
have been that of expedience. What Chateaubriand recommended to
Louis Philippe was substantially what Louis Napoleon _did_; and
the result proved that the great majority of the nation, differing
widely from the revolutionary rabble of Paris, was not only
Conservative, but Royalist in its dispositions. Had Louis Philippe
followed this course, and taken only the regency till the majority
of the Duke of Bordeaux, the two branches of the house of Bourbon
would have been cordially united: no discord or jealousies would
have weakened the Royalist party; the national will would have
been decidedly pronounced for the monarchy before it had been
rendered an object of contempt; the Revolution of 1848, with all
its disastrous consequences, would probably have been prevented;
and as the Duke de Bordeaux has no family, the Orleans dynasty, as
the next heirs, would have ascended the throne in the natural order
of succession--and not only without the bar sinister of treason on
their escutcheon, but with a deed of unexampled magnanimity and
honour to illustrate their accession!

Louis Philippe, bent on the immediate possession of the throne, made
another attempt to gain M. de Chateaubriand; and for this purpose
the Duchess of Orleans and Madame Adelaide again sent for him.

     "Madame Adelaide was present as on the former occasion; and
     the duchess now described more specifically the favours with
     which the Duke of Orleans proposed to honour me. She dwelt on
     what she called my sway over public opinion; the sacrifices I
     had made, and the aversion which Charles X. and his family had
     always shown to me in spite of my services. She said to me, that
     if I would accept the portfolio of foreign affairs, his Royal
     Highness would be too happy to replace me in that situation; but
     that possibly I would prefer returning to Rome, and that she
     would greatly rejoice at that appointment, for the interests of
     our holy religion.

     "'Madam,' I answered with some degree of vivacity, 'I see that
     his Royal Highness has taken his line; that he has weighed the
     consequences; that he is prepared to meet the years of misery
     and perils he will have to traverse. I have therefore nothing
     to say on that head--I come not here to fail in respect to the
     blood of the Bourbons; I owe besides nothing but gratitude
     and respect to _Madame_. Leaving apart, then, those great
     objections, founded on reason and principle, I pray her Royal
     Highness to allow me to explain what personally concerns myself.

     "'She has had the condescension to speak of what she calls
     my power over general opinion. Well, if that power is well
     founded, on what is it founded? Is it on anything else but the
     public esteem: and should I not lose it the moment I changed my
     colours? The Duke of Orleans supposes he would in me acquire a
     support: instead of that he would gain only a miserable maker
     of phrases, whose voice would no longer be listened to--a
     renegade, on whom every one would have a right to throw dust
     and to spit in his face. To the hesitating words which he could
     pronounce in favour of Louis Philippe, they would oppose the
     entire volumes he had written in favour of the fallen family. Is
     it not I, Madam, who have written the pamphlet of _Buonaparte
     and the Bourbons_; the articles on the arrival of Louis XVIII.
     at Compiègne; the relation of the Royal Council at Ghent, and
     the _History of the Life and Death of the Duke de Berri_? I
     know not that I have written a single page where the name of
     our ancient kings is not either mentioned or alluded to, and
     where they are not environed by the protestations of my love and
     fidelity--a thing which marks strength of principle the more
     strongly, as _Madame_ knows that, as an individual, I put no
     faith in princes. At the thought even of desertion, the colour
     mounts to my cheeks. The day after my treachery, I should go to
     throw myself into the Seine. I implore _Madame_ to forgive the
     vehemence of my language: I am penetrated with her goodness: I
     shall ever preserve a profound and grateful remembrance of it;
     but she would not wish me to be dishonoured. Pity me, madam,
     pity me.'"

     "I was still standing; and bowing, I retired. Mademoiselle de
     Orleans, (the Princess Adelaide,) had not yet said anything.
     She rose up, and retiring said, '_I do not pity you, M. de
     Chateaubriand; I do not pity you_.' I was forcibly struck
     with the mournful accent with which she pronounced these
     words."--Vol. ix. 361, 362.

"Pity not me," said the dying Chevalier Bayard to the traitor
Constable de Bourbon; "pity those who fight against their king,
their country, and their oath." The feelings of honour are the same
in all ages.

We shall close this long line of honourable acts with an extract
from Chateaubriand's noble speech in favour of Henry V., in the
Chamber of Peers, on July 7, 1830.

     "'Charles X. and his sons are dethroned or have abdicated; it
     signifies not which. The throne is _not vacant_--after them
     comes an infant; will you condemn the innocent?

     "'What blood now cries out against him? Can you say it is
     that of his father? That orphan educated in the school of his
     country, in attachment to a constitutional throne, and in
     the ideas of his age, will become a king in harmony with the
     cravings of the future. It is to the guardian of his infancy
     that you would first tender the oath to be faithful to it.
     Arrived at mature years, he would himself renew it. The king
     at this moment, the real king for a time, would be the Duke of
     Orleans, the regent of the kingdom; a prince who has lived near
     the people, and who knows that the monarchy now can only be a
     monarchy of concession and reason. That combination, so natural,
     so obvious, appears a main element in reconciliation, and would
     save France from the convulsions which are the consequence of
     violent changes in a state.

     "'To say that this infant, separated from his masters, would not
     have leisure to forget their precepts before becoming a man: to
     say that he would remain infatuated by certain dogmas of his
     birth, after a long popular education, after the terrible lesson
     which has discrowned two kings in two nights: is that reasonable?

     "'It is neither from a sentimental devotion, nor the affection
     of a nurse for the cradle of Henry IV., that I plead a cause
     where all would turn against me if it triumphed. I am neither
     influenced by the ideas of romance nor of chivalry: I do not
     desire the crown of martyrdom. I do not believe in the divine

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