Chapter III: Part 3

After a while, an aunt came to their house, to take charge of them. I was glad of that. I hoped she would make them play dolls, and run, and jump about; I hoped she would make the fires and lamps burn cheerily, and go round the house shedding brightness from her finger tips, as only a woman knows how. I hoped she would go out to walk with the little orphans, and when they came home to supper, sit down with them at the table, and say funny things to make them laugh; and good things to make them happy and glad. I hoped she would tie on their little night dresses with her own hands, and kiss them down on their pillows, and say, God bless you, my little darlings! It was _such_ a pity she didn’t. I am sure a _woman_ ought to understand little children better than she seemed to. But she just shut herself up in her room, the same way their father did, and took all _her_ meals alone. I have no patience with her. I wish I had lived near them; they should have eaten and drank with me, poor little souls! Well, they had a kitchen, and a good old servant, named Tabby, in it, and, from what I can find out, she was more of a mother to them, in her rough fashion, than anybody else. I told you these children had no toys; and, what was worse, they did not want any; they used to read newspapers and talk politics, just as your father and his gentleman friends might, in your parlor. As to “Mother Goose,” I am sure they never heard of her, though they read many books that are considered much wiser, and which were just as much out of place in a nursery, as a joint of roast beef would be to set before your little month-old baby, for its dinner. But how should they know that? Nobody about them seemed to think that childhood comes but once; or, in fact, was intended to come at all for them. “Milk for babes” was not the fashion at Haworth parsonage. Well, time passed on, till their father concluded to send Charlotte away to school, with her sisters. So they were put into a little covered cart with their things, and jolted along. I hope their father kissed them when they went away, but I am not at all sure of it. I am afraid he was too dignified. It is hard enough for a child to go away to school with a warm kiss on the lips, and a trunk full of comfortable clothes, in every stitch of which is woven a mother’s blessing. It is hard enough for a healthy, romping child, who is able to ask for what it wants everywhere, and on all occasions, to leave home, and go a long distance to a strange school, even though it may have letters often, and plum cakes often, and all sorts of little love-tokens, which home delights to send to the absent one. But to these little timid ones, who had never played with children, and were as much afraid of them as of strange, grown people; who had come up, shy and awkward and old-fashioned, and were painfully conscious of it, as soon as it was brought to their notice by contrast with those children, who had come from their warm firesides like some graceful house-plants, full of blossoms and verdure—ah! it was very sad for the poor little Brontë girls. What could they do when they got there, but stand at the window, and cry, as they looked out upon the snowy landscape? And when the girls urged them to play ball, and other such healthful games, they had no heart for it—no physical strength for it, either; they would have been tumbled over forty times in a minute, by their playmates, like so many ninepins, with a great, thumping ball. Well, they had a bad time of it, any way, at this school—bad food, bad air, and exposure. I suppose, too, their clothes were not warm enough, for the hand was cold that would have made the warm garment for those bloodless, shrunken limbs. It is “mother’s” fingers that fit the cloak close to the little neck, so that through no treacherous crevice the cruel “croup” may creep; it is “mother’s” fingers that quilt the little winter skirt with the soft, warm wool, and furnish the thick stocking, and comfortable hood. It is “mother’s” eye which sees just the thing that is needed to meet all weathers. We can imagine how they went shivering along, half clad, to the church on Sunday, where never a fire was lighted; how blue were their fingers; how cold their little feet! No wonder they grew sick. Little Maria Brontë, who was delicate under the remains of the whooping cough, suffered most severely from cold, and want of nourishing food. A blister was applied to her side for her relief, and the poor, weak child, happening to linger in bed one morning later than the usual hour for rising, was harshly dragged in this state into the middle of the room, and then punished, because she had not strength enough to dress herself in time to appear with the other scholars. This must have been very hard to bear. Perhaps you ask, Why didn’t Charlotte Brontë write home about it? She had two reasons: one was, that both she and her sisters were most anxious to learn everything that they could learn at this school; and in the next place, they had been so accustomed to keep all their childish troubles to themselves, although their hearts were nearly breaking, that I don’t suppose they once imagined, if they thought of it, that it would do any good to complain. So they shivered in the cold, and tried to swallow the bad food that was given them, when they grew so hungry they could not do without it, until poor little Maria grew so very bad, that her father had to be sent for. God pitied the poor child, and took her to heaven, to be with her mother. She died a few days after reaching home. Charlotte and Emily, the two remaining sisters, did not long stay in the school after their sister’s death. I think their father at last woke up to the thought, that _they_ might die too, and nobody might be left at the old, gloomy parsonage, to send up his meals, or wait upon him, or read to him, or mend his clothes. So he brought them home too. I believe all children are fond of being in the kitchen. They are active, and like to see what is going on; they like to watch the cooking, and ask questions about it—often, much better than the cook likes to answer. The little Brontë girls’ cook was named Tabby, and a funny old woman she was. She was very kind to them, but she would have her own way, and made them do as she said; still, I have no doubt, from what I know of her, that she put by many a nice little bit for their hungry mouths, and told them a great many fairy stories, as they cuddled round the old kitchen fire, when her work was done; but I think they had to be very careful not to meddle with anything without leave, or get in her way, when she was hurried or busy; and that was all right enough, for the poor old thing must have elbow-room, you know; besides, it is a good thing for a child to be taught that it may not order about a good, faithful servant, old enough to be its mother, merely because she is a servant.

About this time the little girls began to amuse themselves writing little plays, poetry, and “compositions” for their own amusement. They had a little “make believe” newspaper, too, for which they and their brother Patrick used to write, and old Tabby had to speak pretty sharp, sometimes, to make them go to bed, when they were busy with these things. I suppose they did not care to go to bed early, for they did not sleep as healthy, happy children do, the moment their heads touch the pillow, until a mother’s soft kiss wakes them to a new day of joy; but no doubt they turned and tossed, and wished it were daylight, and all their sorrows grew larger and more intolerable to bear in the silent, dreary night. They who have been in great trouble know this; when the faintest leaf-whisper, from one tree to another, seems like spirit voices, torturing one with a language which you try, but _cannot_ understand; when the dear ones who are dead seem so very near, and yet so very far away; when their faces seem to look out from the darkness, like a star suddenly appearing from a black cloud, and then again wrapped in its dusky folds. No wonder the nervous, lonely little Brontës begged Tabby not to send them to bed.

Charlotte did not stay long at home; her father resolved to send her away to school again, and her little sister and brother were forced to do without her.

When persons interest us very much, it is natural to wish to know how they look.

Well, then, Charlotte Brontë, at the time she went to this school, was a very homely little girl. One of her schoolmates draws for us this picture of her, at that time: “I first saw her coming out of a covered cart, in very old-fashioned clothes, looking very cold, and very miserable. When she afterward appeared in the schoolroom, her dress was changed, but just as old-fashioned. She looked like a little old woman, so short-sighted that she always appeared to be seeking something, and moving her head from side to side to catch sight of it. She was very shy and nervous, and spoke with a strong Irish accent. When a book was given her, she dropped her head over it, till her nose nearly touched it, and when she was told to hold her head up, up went the book after it, so that it was not possible to help laughing.” Another schoolmate says, that the first time she saw Charlotte, she was standing by the schoolroom window, looking out on the snowy landscape and crying, while all the rest of the girls were at play. Poor child! no doubt she felt desolate enough. Fortunately for Charlotte, her teacher, Miss Woolen, was a lady of intelligent mind and kind heart. She understood the odd-looking, timid, wise little being before her. She knew that there was a gem, all but the setting. So she did not overlook the knowledge stowed away in that little busy brain, because grammar and geography had found no place there. Then came the question, how to manage this little sensitive pupil, without keeping back the other girls in the class, who already understood these branches, though, perhaps, they were far behind her in others. At first she thought she _must_ put her in the second class, till, as school girls say, she had “caught up” with the other girls. But the moment she mentioned it, Charlotte’s mortification and distress were such, that, like a wise teacher, she saw that if she only saved her this pain, by allowing her to go into the _first_ class, she immediately would make up by private study wherein she was deficient; and so it proved.

One feels as glad at this kindness, as though she were one’s own little sister. We find her, at this time, not playing with the other romping girls, but standing in the playground with a book, or looking dreamily at the scenery. When urged to join them in their sports, she said No—always pleasantly. Playing ball, and such healthful games, she probably disliked, as much, perhaps, for lack of bodily strength, as from any other cause; though that would have come by degrees, had she only allowed herself to try; it was a great pity she did not. However, she was always so good-natured and amiable, that she was a favorite with the girls, although she wouldn’t play with them. Sometimes, with the natural freedom of their age, they would tell her that she was “awkward,” or ugly; but this never displeased her, though, I have no doubt, she felt sorry that they thought so. In the portraits of that fine face of hers, which I have seen, the term “ugly” seems to be sadly misapplied. Those might think so, who fancy a pink and white doll-face; but neither could such see the _moral_ beauty of her daily life, over that thorny road, every meek, patient step of which was as the Saviour’s at Gethsemane.

Charlotte remained a year at this school, studying very hard. This was well, had she also remembered that her fragile body needed equal care with her mind; for of what use is knowledge if there is no bodily strength by which we can make it useful to those about us? Charlotte had no watchful mother, to impress this upon her as a religious duty; to remind her that she was as responsible for the care of her body, as for the improvement of her mind. And so her mind kept on expanding, and threatening to shatter its feeble prison house in pieces. It was a great pity; but it seems even in England, where so much more attention is paid than here to “raising” perfect, robust specimens of men and women, such things do happen. At Miss Woolen’s school, Charlotte formed an agreeable intimacy with two schoolmates—young ladies of her own age. This was a great benefit to her, because she had been made so prematurely old in her feelings, by loneliness and sorrow. One cannot help catching animation and hope from a bright, joyous, fresh-hearted, breezy companion, though one is ever so apt to look on the gloomy side of things. And so it is quite cheering to know that, upon leaving Miss Woolen’s school, and going back to her father’s dull house, these young girls exchanged letters and visits with one another. And now, perhaps, you suppose, that when Charlotte reached home, she sat down and folded her hands in utter hopelessness, saying, “How awful dull it is here! there is no use in trying to live in such a desolate old cage of a place; it is really too bad for a young creature like me to be shut up here. It is too bad for any girl so fond of reading, writing, and drawing, to be a mere drudge in this lonesome place!” Perhaps you think that, as she was a “genius,” she said or thought all this. Not at all; and I’ll tell you why; because her genius was _genuine_, not sham. It is only make believe geniuses who think the every-day duties of life beneath their intellects. I want you to remember that Charlotte Brontë did not shrink from one of them. She swept, and she dusted, and she made beds, and she made bread (good, light, wholesome bread, too), and pared potatoes, and watched the pot boil, and kept everything in as nice order as if she had no taste for anything but housekeeping. Perhaps you think then that she folded her hands, and said, “I should think I had done enough now!” There you are wrong again. She looked from her window into the little churchyard, where her mother was lying, and said, “Now I must be a mother to my brothers and sisters!” and she repaired their clothes, and she taught them; for she had _thoroughly_ learned her own lessons and all those things she had studied at school. There’s a girl for you! and all this, when she was so very fond of reading and writing, which stood to her lonely heart in place of loving friends, for whom she longed.

At length, on account of want of money, it became necessary for some one of the family to go out into the world to earn it. Who should it be? One would have naturally supposed the brother, as being a sturdy, healthy fellow, better able to fight his way than his delicate sisters, who shrank timidly from the sight of strange faces and strange voices. It seemed not the thing for _them_ to go out into the wilderness, to make the path easy for _his_ feet? If so, _which_ of the sisters should do this? Emily? Anne? or Charlotte? Emily grew homesick to that degree when away, that her life was in danger, and was obliged to be recalled for that reason. So, whoever was sent, _she_ must not go; for were there not two sisters already in the churchyard? Anne was too young. _Charlotte_, then, was, as usual, to buckle on the armor of duty over her brave heart, and stagger forth with what strength she might, to face the world. She was to be a _governess_! Imagine, if you can, the most torturing situation in which to place such a nature as hers; and the daily trial of it, could not come up to that included to her in the little word “governess.” Fortunately, her _first_ experiment was with Miss Woolen, her old teacher—her scholars being younger sisters of her own playmates. Whatever she did, she did with her might; therefore, so zealous was she to make herself useful in her new situation, and so conscientious in the discharge of duties which a less noble girl would have dodged, or evaded sufficiently, at least, to make the position bearable, that we soon hear of the breaking down of her feeble body, so that she almost became crazy.

She had frightful thoughts and gloomy ideas about religious things; anxiety about her sister Emily, who, resolving not to burden her father with her support, had concluded to go forth likewise. Then she was troubled, too, about the home affairs, which, as the elder sister, she could not, even at a distance, shake off; and thus, leaving childhood, which had been but childhood in name to her, we find Charlotte a woman, brave yet fearful; timid but courageous; the lion’s heart in the humming bird’s body. I meant only to have told you about her childhood; and yet you may ask me, was Charlotte never again comfortable, light-hearted, and happy? Did nobody but her sisters ever love her very dearly? Did nobody else find out what a good, intelligent, gifted girl she was? Oh yes, at last! At last came fame and honor to the little, quiet Charlotte. Great men and great women wanted to know her, because she wrote so beautifully, or, as they said, was “a genius;” and she had plenty of complimentary letters and invitations to visit, and all the publishers wanted to publish her books; and she earned money enough to put a great many pretty things in the little dull parlor at home, so that she hardly knew it to be the same room; but, dear me! by that time all her sisters lay in the little churchyard with her mother; and poor Charlotte looked about at all these pretty things, and great tears came into her eyes, as she thought, Oh, _why_ didn’t all my money and my friends come while _they_ were alive, and could have been made comfortable and happy by them, so that we could all have lived at home together, and not been separated, to go away and teach school? _Why?_ Poor Charlotte could not find out that _why_, as she sat in that little parlor, looking, with tearful eyes, at all the pretty things her money had bought. Perhaps you ask what her father said now to his good, gifted daughter. Oh, he sat up alone in his room, and was very proud of her; but that didn’t warm _her_ heart any, you know. By and by a gentleman came along and asked her to be his wife. And after a while she said, Yes, I will. I suppose she thought, I want to be loved, more than anything in this world. It is very well, perhaps, to be “a genius,” and to be admired; but my heart aches all the same. Yes, I will be loved; and then I shall be happy; for, after all, the brightest world is cold and chilly, without love to warm it. I am glad she was married; because her husband was good and kind to her, and she began to smile, and look so bright you would not have known her. She was happier than she had ever been in all her life. But one day, not long after she was married, she caught a very bad cold, and everybody saw that she was going to die; she had suffered very much in her life, and she was not strong enough to struggle any more. Now, don’t say, “What a pity!” when I tell you that she really died. It is never a pity, when the loving and the tender-hearted go where there is no more grieving.

THE KIND WORD.

Not many years since, a poor blind man was feeling his way through some of the public roads to a small town in England, in search of employment, having only about him a small sum of money, contributed by some friends of the same trade as himself. Though he could see nothing, he yet felt the blessed, warm sunshine, and the soft southwest breeze that lifted his locks so gently, and bore to him the perfume of the early flowers. This was a joy. On his way a young woman, a foot traveler like himself, inquired of him if he could tell her whether she was on the right way to a certain town she wished to reach. Her voice was tremulous. The kind-hearted blind man said at once to himself, the poor young thing is desolate and troubled. I will help her. His kindness gave her confidence, and she told him, as well as she could for her tears, that she was turned out of her own father’s house by the unkindness of a mother-in-law, and was then looking out for a situation as house maid in some respectable family. The blind man was older than she; he knew well the danger to which her youth exposed her. He immediately found the young girl a safe place to lodge, and the next day gave himself no rest, till he had groped his way through the streets of the town, and found a kind family, who agreed to take her under the shelter of their roof. Afterward he learned from her, that this act of kindness had saved her from throwing herself into the river, when the poor creature was nearly crazy with misery. I tell you this little bit of a story, to show you that there is nobody in this world so poor or so miserable, that he cannot help somebody else. Because _kind words_, you know, cost nothing; and one can certainly always give _them_ to the unfortunate. _Of what use is a kind word?_ Oh, surely you never were in trouble, or you could not ask _that_! I believe heaven is full of those whom a kind word has helped there; and our jails and prison houses here are full of poor creatures who have gone there for _want_ of a kind word when they were tempted to do wrong—for want of somebody to say, _Don’t_ do it! for if nobody else cares for you, God cares for you; and you must care for yourself, because you are to live forever.

THE CORSICAN AND THE CREOLE.

In the lovely island of Martinique, a little girl was born. With her soft, dark eyes, lithe form, and fairy step, she was beautiful enough to have been its fairy queen. The livelong day she sang and danced among the flowers, the soft breeze lifting her locks, and tinting her cheeks with rose. The servants who had charge of her, as she floated past them in her light tissue robes, exclaimed, How beautiful she is! She was good as well as beautiful; she did not abuse her power over them; therefore they loved as well as admired her. Pity she ever left that pretty island home, with its birds and flowers! Pity that diamonds should lie heavily on the brow that looked so fair from under its wild-rose wreath. But in another island—rugged, rocky, with bandit-infested mountains—a little boy was born.

His majestic, strong-hearted mother stepped like a Roman matron. One day this Corsican mother was bending over the little Napoleon as he lay upon her lap, when an old man came in. Looking at the child’s uncovered back, he called Madame Letitia’s attention to a mark upon it, which he said was that of a tree, feeble in its roots, but whose branches should reach to the heavens. “This child,” said the gray-haired old prophet, “will one day rule the world.” The beautiful young mother smiled incredulously, as she looked around their simple room, where little Napoleon’s brothers and sisters played and studied from day to day, under her own eye, their hours for refreshment, sleep, and lessons marked out by her, and never departed from, any more than if it were a convent, and she its stately but loving lady abbess. “_Rule the world!_” She looked into the baby’s calm blue eyes, and thought no more of it. Were they not happy enough? It was a loving mother’s thought, but none the less heaven-born for that. Rule the world! She took the white, dimpled baby hand in hers, but never dreamed of “Marengo” or Austerlitz, and alas!—least of all—St. Helena!

By and by this little boy grew out of his mother’s lap, and began to cry for a little cannon. When he got it, he collected around him a company of little Corsican boys, himself the commander—even his baby head never dreamed of taking any place but the highest—and began to drill them to fight a battle with another boy company in the town. You may be sure they all had to step to _his_ tune, even his elder brothers; and as time went on, it was very soon understood in the family, that what Master Napoleon said, was pretty likely to be done. His father looked on and thought very deeply, and, like a wise man, carried his son to a military school, where his wishes could be gratified, under proper restraints—where he learned that he who wishes to command must first learn how to submit. Here, being in his element, he was happy, quiet, and diligent. Only once his fiery spirit broke out. His quartermaster, one day, for some fault, condemned him to eat his dinner on his knees, in the woolen dress of disgrace, at the door of the refectory. Napoleon’s “sense of honor” was so deeply wounded by this, that he fell upon the floor in a fit. When the headmaster heard of it, he became very angry, and said, “What! _punish so severely my best mathematician_!” It was a good, wholesome lesson for him, though, for all that. He didn’t die of it! On the contrary, when he went home to Ajaccio, his native place, to pay a visit in vacation, he gave his orders about the education of his brothers and sisters as if he were the father of the family, instead of the second son. We must do him the justice to say, however, that his advice on these subjects was sensible, and well timed. Perhaps his mother began to think there was something in the prophecy of the old man about her son, more than she had dreamed of. We can imagine her watching the young soldier, as he sat, for hours, under an old oak tree near the house, dreaming about a future with which he had already begun to grapple, although about it he could know so little. But dreaming did not content him. He formed clubs among the young men, delivered speeches, and, all unconsciously to himself, was working out the destiny, step by step, foretold on his baby back by the old Corsican herdsman. His eye had a strange fire in it, his voice a trumpet tone; and they who listened, bowed to its strange, wild music, they could scarce tell why. Even then he was no mere ranter; he had studied hard, studied ceaselessly; the more difficulties he encountered in any branch of knowledge, the more eager he grew to master them. It is said that at school he never spent an idle moment; and when he came among his young companions, they felt this. They knew, when Napoleon opened his mouth, that he had something to say. It is all very fine for boys to dodge school duties, and school tasks. Ah! how many of them, in after life, would give worlds to recall those wasted hours in some great crisis, when strong, powerful, well-chosen words, from him who knows how to use them, would place in their hands so mighty a sceptre for the defense of human rights! Not that this power is never perverted; but we are not to speak of this now. The habits of intense study, industry, and close application of the young Napoleon were the solid foundation upon which the superstructure of his future greatness rested. This concentration of mind it was that enabled him, in after years, with the rapidity of lightning, to despatch business over which other military men would have droned till the precious moment in which action would have been available, had flown past. Remember this of Napoleon: he was a hard student in his youth. Whatever he undertook he did _thoroughly_. _He knew what he knew._

Meantime the lovely young girl of whom we have spoken, all unknown to the young soldier, was dancing and singing the hours away. One day her young friends said to her, “Josephine, come with us to Euphemia, the old mulatto woman, and have your fortune told.” Josephine was not superstitious, but still she held out her pretty hand to the old witch, who examined it with great care, and, it is said, told her exactly what really happened to her in after life. The gay Josephine only laughed and tossed her bright head, saying, “Who promises so much, only creates distrust,” and went back to her cottage home, quite unmoved at the prospect of “becoming the wife of a man who would one day rule the world.” If you ask me how the old Corsican herdsman, or how the old mulatto woman in Martinique, knew what should befall Josephine and Napoleon, I answer, “More than likely, the prophecies, like all rumors, grew by repetition, and were mainly filled out after these things had actually happened; because no sensible person ever believes that a human hand is allowed to draw aside the curtain behind which God has wisely hidden mysteries so great.” Josephine was young and happy; why should she wish to be “great”? The old mulatto woman might chatter all day; she did not chirp one sweet note the less. Unlike Napoleon, she disliked study. Her mother, Madame Tascher, used to threaten her with a convent if she did not skip less and study more. “My good and pretty child,” she would say to her, “your _heart_ is excellent, but your _head_—ah, what a head! I must send you away from home to France, among companions who, knowing more than yourself, will show you how ignorant you are.” All this, Madame said very seriously and coldly, for she saw that it was high time something was done. Then she left her daughter to think it over.

To be found fault with, and threatened! That, indeed, was something new to the petted child. She began crying in good earnest, so that her servant women came running, to see what was the matter. Not being able, as usual, to comfort her, they cried too, till the noise reached the ears of her father, who was very fond of her. Now I am about to tell you a secret. The truth was, it was not the idea of hard study which frightened this pretty young lady, when her mother spoke of sending her to France; but the idea of separation from a little boy-lover about _ten_ years old, named William K. I don’t wonder you laugh; the idea _is_ funny; but you must remember that a little Creole girl and boy, are as old at ten, as a boy and girl of sixteen in our cold climate. Well, this is all about it. Listen: William’s parents had come to Martinique to live, in consequence of the misfortunes of the unhappy Prince Edward, whose banner they followed. Arriving at Martinique, a friendship had sprung up between the two families, and there Josephine and William had been promised by their parents to each other, when they should be old enough. _Now_ you know why the little girl-wife that was to be, cried so hard at the idea of being sent away from Martinique. Well, the very first chance my little lady had, she told her dear William what her mother had threatened to do. Then William ran, crying, to _his_ mother, about Josephine’s being sent away to France, and teased her to go to Josephine’s mother, and beg her not to afflict her dear boy William so cruelly; and that the child had actually fallen sick of a fever in consequence, raving continually for “Josephine,” and begging his mother to hide her from every eye, lest he should “lose his little promised wife.” After a while, what with his mother’s comforting words, he grew better, and William’s teacher being chosen for Josephine’s teacher, that young lady suddenly took to study with a vigor which astonished everybody, except William himself, who had his own reasons for not being surprised. Suffice it to say, she drew well, learned to play both the harp and piano, and was making great progress in the English language. For a time all went on happily and well. But one evil day for Josephine, William’s father found it necessary to leave Martinique for England, with his family, to claim some property which had been left him. Now, it was true that he had to leave on business; but it was also true, that both the parents of the children had changed their minds about the marriage of the little lovers. Now, I agree with you that this was very cruel, after promising them to each other; but the fact was, in plain black and white, that each loved money and position, better than the happiness of these young people; however, they did not want a fuss, so they kept quiet, and said nothing to the children about all that; they merely separated them; and each was to suppose, after many anxious days and months, spent in waiting for letters, that the other was forgotten. It was too bad—I am quite angry about it myself; a promise is a promise, and just as binding when made to a child, as to a grown person; and more, too, because children are so trusting, that it is a greater shame to deceive them. So William went to England with his father, and Josephine wandered round the beautiful island, carving his name on the trees, and saying to herself each day, _now_, to-day, I shall _certainly_ hear from him! Surely, to-morrow, I _shall_ have a letter! Meantime the beautiful Maria Tascher, Josephine’s elder sister, was taken very sick. All that love and skill could do for her, was of no avail. She died. After this, poor Josephine grew more sad than ever. She never smiled now, or put roses in her hair, or danced with her young companions; but sighed—oh, such _deep_ sighs for such a young thing—and grew almost as pale as the dead Maria.

It is very strange, but Josephine could talk much more freely with her father than she could with her mother. So, when he questioned her one day as to her unhappiness, she told him all. Now, Monsieur Tascher loved his daughter after a fashion, but, as I told you, he loved money better; and what do you think was his answer to the poor girl, who was so broken-hearted about her lover, and so sad without the company of her dear, dead sister? Why, he told her, that now that her sister was dead, she (Josephine) must marry the gentleman whom her sister was engaged to marry, had she lived. Monsieur Beauharnais was his name. Then the little Creole cried till her eyes were half blind. In vain she told him that she had promised William to marry none but him. Her father replied, that in marrying M. Beauharnais, she would make the best match in Martinique, but, as to William, he would never be a rich man. Josephine still kept on crying. At last he told her a wicked fib: that since William had gone to England, he had quite forgotten her. He did _not_ tell her, though, that Josephine’s mother had in her possession twenty letters, which he had written to his dear little wife, and which they had purposely kept from her. Well, Josephine was spirited as well as loving, and when her father told her that William had forgotten her, she said to herself, It is very true; he has never written me one line. Then she shook the tears from her beautiful eyes, as the rough wind shakes the dew-drops from the rose, and holding up her flushed face to the bright sunlight, said, proudly, “Marry me to whom you like; I will obey.” For all that, she walked more than ever under the trees where they used to sit, and never once did she carve the name of M. Beauharnais on her favorite trees.

Now, Josephine had an aunt in Paris named Madame Renardin, who was constantly writing to Madame Tascher to come to Paris with Josephine, that the marriage might more easily be brought about. But Madame Tascher was very fond of her own beautiful island, and replied to Madame Renardin, Ah, it is very easy to make Paris look fine, when I am two thousand leagues away from it; no, no! I will not come to Paris; but Monsieur Tascher and I will send Josephine there to be married. This they did not tell Josephine, however. There was no need. She knew what was going on. She was too keen-sighted not to understand what all the long talks meant, between her father and mother. In an agony of grief at the idea of leaving the place where she and William had been so happy, to go among strangers and marry a man whom she had never even seen, she threw herself at her mother’s feet, and using the only argument which she thought would avail her, cried, “Oh, mamma, save me! save _Maria’s sister_!” At the mention of her lost and _favorite_ daughter, Josephine’s mother fainted. Josephine’s father turned upon his daughter, and frowning as he pointed to her insensible mother, said, “Has, then, _her_ precious life ceased to be dear to you?” Poor Josephine said no more. From that moment she resigned herself to her fate.

Short work was made of the preparations for the voyage to France; Josephine, meantime, walking for the last time under the trees, each one of which had some happy story to tell—each one of which seemed to her like a dear friend, from whom it were almost impossible to part. Now, the day came when the ship was to set sail. A large number of islanders had gathered upon the beach to wave hands and see her off. She had taken leave of her father and mother, and stepped on board the ship. Suddenly, a luminous meteor appeared in the heavens overhead, and by the aid of a telescope which the captain handed her, Josephine examined it. Then the captain told her, in great triumph, that “_she_ was the cause of it! she—the future empress of France!” Then Josephine, for the first time, remembered the prophecy of the old mulatto woman, who had told the captain of it, and this was why the old sea-dog was in such glee at his good fortune in having the illustrious little empress that was to be, on board _his_ ship. This phosphoric flame, called “St. Elmo’s fire,” was considered a good omen, and, at the time of their leaving, seemed to form a sort of wreath around the ship. But everybody seemed more interested in it than the poor, homesick Josephine, who could think only of the home she was leaving, and the unknown home to which she was going. The voyage proved very rough, and once they were in great danger; but the mulatto woman had promised them a “through ticket,” and, of course, they _went_ through, right side up! A young Creole named Lucy accompanied Josephine, who was at this time only fifteen years old. You will laugh when I tell you that the future empress carried her doll with her, and that both she and Lucy used to play with them on the voyage. But you will stop laughing when I tell you that when Lucy turned her back, poor little Josephine used to talk to her doll about “William.” Poor child! When her foot touched the coast of France, her woman’s life began. The web was woven round her, and struggling was of no avail.

Madame Renardin bore away her beautiful niece in triumph to her own house, to show her to the rich husband they had selected for her. No more doll-playing for her; no more rose wreaths; but, instead, diamonds, and fashion, and frivolity, and an aching heart. Did “William” never come? Ah, yes; he came to Paris, spite of them all, to see his Josephine. He called at her Aunt Renardin’s, but of this they never told her. He continued, however, to write her a letter, in which he begged her to tell him why she had neglected him, which was conveyed to her by a servant, who was immediately dismissed for giving it to her. Then, for the first time, Josephine knew that William had been true to her, that he loved her still! But she had given her promise to her parents, and resolutely refused to see him. Poor Josephine! In her sixteenth year, she married, to please her friends, her dead sister’s lover, Monsieur Beauharnais. The marriage proved an unhappy one, through no fault of little Josephine’s, who most carefully endeavored to please the husband thus forced upon her.

Meanwhile the young Bonaparte was making rapid strides toward the fulfillment of the old Corsican herdsman’s prediction. On the death of Josephine’s husband, she really became, as you all know, the wife of the future emperor of France. How devotedly she performed her wifely duties to the great conqueror, you all know, and how cruelly the ambitious emperor set this noble woman aside, for the insipid little German princess who was the mother of his much-coveted child, the Duc de Reichstadt. In St. Helena, Bonaparte had plenty of time to think of his injustice toward the good, brave Josephine, who, forgetting all the misery he had caused her, would even then have lightened, by her presence, the dreary exile from which his baby-faced German wife had fled affrighted, back to the luxury of her father’s court. But death stepped in, and snatched from the selfish Bonaparte this great consolation of his last dreary hours. With _his_ name on her lips, and her eyes fixed on his picture, which hung opposite her couch, she left all France weeping over her grave. You ask, what of the child—the little duke, whose birth this noble woman unselfishly rejoiced over, because _it made Napoleon so happy_? Ah! it is of him I would now tell you. This little duke, the child of so many hopes, did he, after all, sit upon the throne of France? God is just. We shall see.

The Emperor of Austria was the little duke’s maternal grandfather. It was to his palace the little, pale child was taken. It was the wish of this grandfather, who, notwithstanding all the stories told to the contrary, dearly loved the boy, to make a German prince of him. If it should prove that, as he grew up, he had a fondness for military life, he should follow it; still, he was to be kept away from agitating Frenchmen as much as possible, for reasons you will very well understand. The child was delicate, as I told you, and his grandfather petted him, and had the doctor to him, and, between you and me, I dare say that last might have been the reason he did not grow stronger. But, notwithstanding the pink spot on his pale cheek, he had the fiery spirit of his father, the great Napoleon. Oh! how he hated to be physicked, and how he pined to grow strong, that he might dash over the ground on a fiery horse, with staring eyes, big nostrils, and pawing hoofs, who would go straight through a cannon if he bade him, and come out at the other end, without losing a hair of his tail. But the more the poor fellow wanted to make a soldier of himself, the feebler he seemed to grow, till he could hardly sit upright on the horse, at the side of which might always be found his kind old grandfather, when not called away by his duties, saying kind things to his grandson, and trying to keep up his spirits. You ask, Where was his mother, Maria Louisa? Ah! you may well ask _that_. She was anywhere but where she ought to be; she could not be a good woman, even for the sake of her sick boy, in whose face she might have seen death written, had she stopped flirting long enough to take one good look at him. She was a miserable, bad woman, and if the little duke had any good qualities, she took no pains to encourage them. It was well he had a good, kind grandfather to love him, poor, fatherless child! The French people did not relish having Napoleon’s son at an Austrian court. Not they. They disliked Maria Louisa, the young duke’s mother, who never said such gracious, graceful things, as did the kind, whole-souled Josephine, who brought them all at her feet with one of her beautiful, sunny smiles. Maria Louisa was quite another thing, with her skim-milk face, as rigid when they saluted her, as if they hadn’t a drop of generous blood in their bodies. They needn’t have fretted lest the little duke should grow up like his mother, if he grew up at all; for I can tell you that all Austria could not get the Napoleonic fire out of his veins, nor, alas! poor fellow! disease either. All his thoughts were about his father. He knew not only every detail of his battles and campaigns, but all the peculiarities of his marshals and generals. “Oh!” said he, speaking of Waterloo, “I have often wondered my father did not follow my uncle, and perish at the head of his guards; what a magnificent close would that have been to his brilliant life. Ah! those perfidious English! why could they not have treated him as I know he would have treated their great Wellington, had the fortune of war thrown him into my father’s hands.” He was passionately fond of reading everything he could lay his hands on, pertaining to his father. He had, somehow or other, accumulated a perfect library of biographies concerning him. To Prince Metternich he once said, “The object of my life should be, to make myself worthy of my distinguished father; I hope to reach this point, and appropriate to myself his high qualities; taking care, however,” added he, with great good sense, “_to avoid the rocks upon which he split_.” Afterward he said, “How I hate this miserable, sickly body, which thus sinks under my will!” As he said this, there was a gleam of the eye, and compression of the lip, truly Napoleonic.

On the eighteenth of June, 1831, he was appointed lieutenant-colonel, and took command of the Hungarian regiment when in garrison at Vienna. An immense crowd gathered to witness the spectacle; but alas! every eye saw with what difficulty the poor young duke—fighting disease—sat upon his horse. So evident was his great weakness, spite of his unquenchable determination, that Dr. Margate, his physician, said to him, after he had gone through his drill with the soldiers, “Monseigneur, I desire you to remember that you have a will of iron in a body of glass; if you persist in this exercise, it will kill you.” The next day, the doctor considered it his duty to tell his grandfather the same thing. The frightened old emperor, turning to his beloved grandson, said, “You have heard what the doctor says; you must do this no more, but go directly to my summer palace at Schönbrunn, and take care of your health.” The disappointed duke bowed respectfully to his grandfather; but as he raised his head, he glanced angrily at the doctor, saying, “It is _you_, then, sir, who have put me under arrest!” A few weeks after this he was attacked with quick consumption. He grew weaker and weaker, as he was wheeled about the beautiful gardens of Schönbrunn, and he knew himself that he must soon die; his chief anxiety seemed now to be, _whether he should be able to know his father in the other world_. Poor Napoleon! how he had coveted the love of this son! How eagerly that unhappy exile at St. Helena had looked forward to it, and yet he was never to enjoy it; was not the unhappy Josephine avenged? And not only in that! _Her_ grandson now sits upon the throne, to obtain an heir to which, the unhappy woman was thrust aside, for the foolish, weak daughter of the house of Hapsburg; while _her_ child, of whom I have been telling you, has long since lain in his bronze coffin, under the church of the Capuchins, among the buried majesties of Austria.

TWO QUARRELSOME OLD MEN.

I saw such an unpleasing sight to-day! Two old, gray-headed men, their lips white with passion, clenching their fists in each other’s faces, and calling each other all the disagreeable names they could think of; while the bystanders looked on, laughed, took sides, and encouraged them to fight, for their own amusement. I could not laugh. I felt more like crying. These old men, with one foot in the grave, who seemed to have outlived everything but their own bad passions—it was a pitiable spectacle! Ah! said I, to myself, as I walked away, I am afraid there are two mothers somewhere (may be they are not alive now), who have been sadly to blame; or those respectable-looking old men would not be here, degrading themselves by a brawling street fight. I think, when they were little boys, that “I will!” and “I won’t!” must have been intimate friends of theirs (and very bad company they are, too). I think these fighting old gentlemen were allowed, when they were boys, to come and go when and where they liked, and to lie abed till ten o’clock in the morning, till breakfast was all cold, and then stamp and kick till they got a hot one. I think, when they neglected to get their lessons, and were, very properly, reproved for it, at school, that their mamma thought it was dreadful bad treatment, and took them away; and I think that, when she sent them to another school, they often played truant; and then told the teacher that they had been sick. I think they were stuffed with pies, and cake, and candy, and I think they called upon poor, tired servant girls to brush and black their shoes, when they should have learned to do it themselves. I think, when their sisters asked them to go of any little errand, they roughly replied, “Do it yourself!” I think, when their mothers said, “John (or Thomas) go to the grocer’s for me, that’s a good boy!” that they replied, “How much’ll you give me if I go?” and then, I think, when their mother gave them a three-cent piece, that they pouted, and said that they wouldn’t go, without they could have sixpence. That is the way such gray-haired old men as I saw fighting in the street to-day, are made.

THE LITTLE PRINCES.