Chapter XXIX: Book XIV: §Voltaire§, in his Œdipus, makes Jocasta say, (5)

Napoleon Bonaparte declared to Sir Colin Campbell, who had charge of his person at the Isle of Elba, that he was a great admirer of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, and that he had read it to some purpose, for that the plan of the battle of Austerlitz he borrowed from the sixth book of that work, where Satan brings his artillery to bear upon Michael and his angelic host with such direful effect:—

“Training his dev’lish enginery impaled
On every side with shadowing squadrons deep
To _hide the fraud_.”

This _new_ mode of warfare appeared to Bonaparte so likely to succeed, if applied to actual use, that he determined upon its adoption, and succeeded beyond expectation. By reference to the details of that battle, it will be found to assimilate so completely with Milton’s imaginary fight as to leave no doubt of the assertion.

PERSONAL APPEARANCE OF NAPOLEON.

Captain Maitland gives the following description of the person of Napoleon, as he appeared on board the _Bellerophon_, in 1815:—

He was then a remarkably strong, well-built man, about five feet seven inches high, his limbs particularly well formed, with a fine ankle and a very small foot, of which he seemed very vain, as he always wore, while on board the ship, silk stockings and shoes. His hands were also small, and had the plumpness of a woman’s rather than the robustness of a man’s. His eyes were light gray, his teeth good; and when he smiled, the expression of his countenance was highly pleasing; when under the influence of disappointment, however, it assumed a dark and gloomy cast. His hair was a very dark brown, nearly approaching to black, and, though a little thin on the top and front, had not a gray hair amongst it. His complexion was a very uncommon one, being of a light sallow color, different from any other I ever met with. From his being corpulent, he had lost much of his activity.

HIS OPINION OF SUICIDE.

In the Journal of Dr. Warden, Surgeon of the Northumberland, the British frigate that conveyed Napoleon to St. Helena, are recorded the following remarkable sentiments of the imperial prisoner, as expressed to Warden:—

In one paper, I am called a _liar_; in another, a _tyrant_; in a third, a _monster_; and in one of them, which I really did not expect, I am described as a _coward_; but it turned out, after all, that the writer did not accuse me of avoiding danger in the field of battle, or flying from an enemy, or fearing to face the menaces of fate and fortune; he did not charge me with wanting presence of mind in the hurry of battle, and in the suspense of conflicting armies. No such thing. I wanted courage, it seems, because I did not coolly take a dose of poison, or throw myself into the sea, or blow out my brains. The editor most certainly misunderstands me: I have, at least, too much courage for that.

On another occasion he expressed himself in the following terms:—

Suicide is a crime the most revolting to my feelings, nor does any reason suggest itself to my understanding by which it can be justified. It certainly originates in that species of fear which we denominate _poltroonery_. For what claim can that man have to courage who trembles at the frowns of fortune? True heroism consists in being superior to the ills of life, in whatever shape they may challenge him to the combat.

DR. FRANKLIN’S WIFE.

Franklin, in a sketch of his life and habits, relates the following anecdote of his frugal and affectionate wife. A wife could scarcely make a prettier apology for purchasing her first piece of luxury.

We have an English proverb, that says,—

“He that would thrive
Must ask his wife.”

It was lucky for me that I have one as much disposed to industry and frugality as myself. She assisted me cheerfully in my business, and in stitching pamphlets, tending shop, purchasing old linen rags for the paper-makers, &c. We kept no idle servant; our table was plain and simple; our furniture of the cheapest. For instance, my breakfast was for a long time bread and milk (no tea), and I ate it out of a two-penny earthen porringer, with a pewter spoon. But mark how luxury will enter families, and make a progress in spite of principle: being called one morning to breakfast, I found it in a china bowl, with a spoon of silver. They had been bought for me without my knowledge, by my wife, and had cost her the enormous sum of three-and-twenty shillings, for which she had no other excuse or apology to make but that she thought _her_ husband _deserved_ a silver spoon and china bowl as well as any of his neighbors. This was the first appearance of plate or china in our house, which afterwards, in the course of years, as our wealth increased, augmented gradually to several hundred pounds in value.

MAJOR ANDRÉ.

In a satirical poem written by Major André some time prior to his arrest as a spy, he, curiously enough, alludes to the means of his own death. A newspaper published soon after the Revolutionary War gives some extracts from the poem, and calls it a “remarkable prophecy.” Could the ill-starred poet and soldier have looked into futurity and seen his own sad end, he would hardly have indulged in the humor which is indicated in his poem. The piece was entitled “The Cow-Chase,” and was suggested by the failure of an expedition undertaken by Wayne for the purpose of collecting cattle. Great liberties were taken with the names of the American officers employed on the occasion,—

Harry Lee and his dragoons,
And Proctor with his cannon.

But the point of his irony seemed particularly aimed at Wayne, whose entire baggage, he asserts, was taken along, comprising

His Congress dollars and his prog,
His military speeches,
His corn-stalk whiskey for his grog,
Black stockings and blue breeches.

The satirist brings his doggerel to a close by observing that it is necessary to check the current of his satire,—

Lest the same warrior-drover Wayne
Should _catch and hang the poet_!

AN ENGLISH VIEW OF ANDRÉ AND ARNOLD.

Many historians have been inclined to blame Washington for unnecessary severity in not acceding to the request of the prisoner (André), that he might be shot instead of hanged. We cannot agree with them: the ignominious death was decided upon by Washington—after much and anxious deliberation, and against his own feelings, which inclined to grant the prayer—as a strictly preventive punishment; and it had its effect. The social qualities and the letters of André, although they are always brought forward in his favor, do not extenuate but rather aggravate his crime, as they show that, whatever his moral principles may have been, he had the education of an English gentleman. If any thing, his memory has been treated with too great leniency. If monuments are to be erected in Westminster Abbey to men of such lax morality, it is time for honesty to hide its head.

The conduct of Sir Henry Clinton, in receiving Arnold when he fled to the English ranks, and giving him a high command, is only in keeping with his countenance of the plot that cost André his life. Arnold, who seems to have been a miserable scoundrel, born to serve as a foil to the virtuous brightness of George Washington, might have redeemed his character by giving himself up in place of André, who was entrapped by Arnold’s cowardice and over-caution; but such a piece of self-sacrifice never entered his head. A villain himself, he never believed in the success of the struggle of honest men, and his conduct after obtaining the protection of Sir Henry Clinton proves this beyond a doubt. Let him rest with all his British honors thick upon him.—_English Newspaper._

FLAMSTEED, THE ASTRONOMER ROYAL.

In the _London Chronicle_ for Dec. 3, 1771, is the following anecdote of Dr. Flamsteed:—

He was many years Astronomer Royal at Greenwich Observatory; a humorist, and of warm passions. Persons of his profession are often supposed, by the common people, to be capable of foretelling events. In this persuasion a poor washerwoman at Greenwich, who had been robbed at night of a large parcel of linen, to her almost ruin, if forced to pay for it, came to him, and with great anxiety earnestly requested him to use his art, to let her know where her things were, and who had robbed her. The Doctor happened to be in the humor to joke: he bid her stay: he would see what he could do; perhaps he might let her know where she could find them; but who the persons were, he would not undertake; as she could have no positive proof to convict them, it would be useless. He then set about drawing circles, squares, &c., to amuse her; and after some time told her if she would go into a particular field, that in such a part of it, in a dry ditch, she would find them all tumbled up in a sheet. The woman went, and found them; came with great haste and joy to thank the Doctor, and offered him half-a-crown as a token of gratitude, being as much as she could afford. The Doctor, surprised himself, told her: “Good woman, I am heartily glad you have found your linen; but I assure you I knew nothing of it, and intended only to joke with you, and then to have read you a lecture on the folly of applying to any person to know events not in human power to tell. But I see the devil has a mind that I should deal with him: I am determined I will not. Never come or send any one to me any more, on such occasions; for I will never attempt such an affair again whilst I live.”

LORD NELSON’S SANG-FROID.

Jack was what they called loblolly boy on board the _Victory_. It was his duty to do anything and everything that was required—from sweeping and washing the deck, and saying amen to the chaplain, down to cleaning the guns, and helping the doctor to make pills and plasters, and mix medicines. Four days before the battle that was so glorious to England, but so fatal to its greatest hero, Jack was ordered by the doctor to fetch a bottle that was standing in a particular place. Jack ran off, post-haste, to the spot, where he found what appeared to be an empty bottle. Curiosity was uppermost; “What,” thought Jack, “can there be about this empty bottle?” He examined it carefully, but could not comprehend the mystery, so he thought that he would call in the aid of a candle to throw light on the subject. The bottle contained _ether_, and the result of the examination was that the vapor ignited, and the flames extended to some of the sails, and also to a part of the ship. There was a general confusion—running with buckets and what-not—and, to make matters worse, the fire was rapidly extending to the powder-magazine. During the hubbub, Lord Nelson was in the chief cabin writing dispatches. His lordship heard the noise—he couldn’t do otherwise—and so, in a loud voice, he called out, “What’s all that infernal noise about?” The boatswain answered, “My Lord, the loblolly boy’s set fire to an empty bottle, and it’s set fire to the ship.” “Oh!” said Nelson, “that’s all, is it? I thought the enemy had boarded us and taken us all prisoners—you and loblolly must put it out, and take care we’re not blown up! but pray make as little noise about it as you can, or I can’t go on with my dispatches,” and with these words Nelson went to his desk, and continued his writing with the greatest coolness.

* * * * *

Crabb Robinson, in his _Diary_, speaking of Gœthe as the mightiest intellect that has shone on the earth for centuries, says: “It has been my rare good fortune to have seen a large proportion of the greatest minds of our age, in the fields of poetry and speculative philosophy, such as Wordsworth, Coleridge, Schiller, Tieck, but none that I have ever known came near him.”

MARTIN LUTHER.

Roma orbem domuit, Romam sibi Papa subegit;
Viribus illa suit, fraudibus iste suis,
Quanto isto major Lutherus, major et illa,
Istum illamque uno qui domuit calamo.—§Beza.§

(Rome won the world, the Pope o’er Rome prevailed,
And one by force and one by fraud availed:
Greater than each was Luther’s prowess shown,
Who conquered both by one poor pen alone.)

Luther, in the lion-hearted daring of his conduct and in the robust
and rugged grandeur of his faith, may well be considered as the Elijah
of the Reformation; while his life, by the stern and solemn realities
of his experiences, and the almost ideal evolutions of events by which
it was accompanied, constitutes indeed the embodied Poem of European
Protestantism.

§R. Montgomery.§

Heine sketches the following unique portrait of Luther:—

He was at once a mystic dreamer and a man of action. His thoughts had not only wings, they had hands likewise. He spoke, and, rare thing, he also acted; he was at once the tongue and the sword of his age. At the same time he was a cold scholastic, a chopper of words, and an exalted prophet drunk with the word of God. When he had passed painfully through the day, wearing out his soul in dogmatical instructions, night come, he would take his flute, and, contemplating the stars, melt in melodies and pious thoughts. The same man who could abuse his adversaries like a fish-fag knew also how to use soft and tender language, like an amorous virgin. He was sometimes savage and impetuous as the hurricane that roots up oaks, then gentle and murmuring as the zephyr that lightly caresses the violets. He was full of the holy fear of God, ready for every sacrifice in honor of the Holy Spirit; he knew how to vault into the purest regions of the celestial kingdom; and yet he perfectly knew the magnificence of this earth: he could appreciate it, and from his mouth fell the famous proverb:—

Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weib, und Gesang,
Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang.

(Who loves not woman, wine, and song,
Remains a fool his whole life long.)

In short, he was a complete man. To call him a spiritualist would be to commit as great a mistake as it would be to call him a sensualist. What shall I say more? He had something about him clever, original, miraculous, inconceivable.

In an article on John de Wycliffe, in the _North British Review_, is the following paragraph:—

Abundant as is our historical literature, and fond as our ablest writers have recently become of attempting careful and vivid renderings of the physiognomies of important historical personages, we are still without a set of thoroughly good portraits of the modern religious reformers of different nations, painted, as they might be, in series, so that the features of each may be compared with those of all the rest. Wycliffe, Huss, Savonarola, Luther, Zwingle, Calvin, Knox, and Cranmer,—all men coming under the same general designation,—all heroes of the same general movement; and yet what a contrast of physiognomies! Pre-eminent in the series will ever be Luther, the man of biggest frame and largest heart; the man of richest and most original genius; the great, soft, furious, musical, pliant, sociable, kiss-you, knock-you-down German. None of them all had such a face; none of them all said such things; of none of them all can you have such anecdotes, such a collection of _ana_.

Luther, says another writer, speaking of his fondness for music, was not solely nor chiefly a theologian, or he had been no true reformer. As the cloister had not been able to bound his sympathies, so the controversial theatre could not circumscribe his honest ambition. He in whom “the Italian head was joined to the German body” would not only free the souls of men, but win the hearts of women and little children. Much had he to feel proud of during his busy life. It was no light thing to have waged successful combat with the most powerful hierarchy that the world had ever seen, or to have held in his hands the destinies of Europe. But dearer to his kind heart was the sound of his own verses sung to his own melodies, which rose from street and market-place, from highway and byway, chanted by laborers going to their daily work, during their hours of toil, and as they returned home at even-tide. How would it have gladdened his heart to have heard these same hymns, two hundred years later, sung by the miners of Cornwall and Gloucestershire!

“I always loved music,” said he: “whoso has skill in this art is of a good temperament, fitted for all things.” Many times he exemplified this power in his own person. When sore perplexed and in danger of life, he would drive away all gloomy thoughts by the magic of his own melodies. On that sad journey to Worms, when friends crowded round him and sought to change his purpose, warning him, with many tears, of the certain death that awaited him,—on the morning of that memorable 16th of April, when the towers of the ancient city appeared in sight,—the true-hearted man, rising in his chariot, broke forth with the words and music of that Marseillaise of the Reformation, _Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott_, which he had improvised two days before at Oppenheim,—the same stirring hymn that Gustavus Adolphus and the whole Swedish army sang a century later, on the morning of the battle of Lutzen:—

A safe stronghold our God is still,
A trusty shield and weapon;
He’ll help us clear from all the ill
That hath us now o’ertaken.
The ancient Prince of hell
Hath risen with purpose fell.
Strong mail of craft and power
He weareth in this hour;
On earth is not his fellow.

With force of arms we nothing can,
Full soon were we down-ridden;
But for us fights the proper man,
Whom God himself hath bidden.
Ask ye, Who is this same?
§Christ Jesus§ is his name,
The Lord Sabaoth’s son:
He, and no other one,
Shall conquer in the battle.

And were the world all devils o’er,
And watching to devour us,
We lay it not to heart so sore,
Not they can overpower us.
Then let the Prince of ill
Look grim as e’er he will,
He harms us not a whit:
For why? His doom is writ:—
A word shall quickly slay him.

God’s word for all their craft and force
One moment will not linger,
But spite of hell shall have its course:
’Tis written by his finger.
And though they take our life,
Goods, honor, children, wife,
Yet is their profit small:
These things shall vanish all;
The Church of God remaineth.[39]

Footnote 39:

Carlyle’s translation.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Queen Bess is thus described in Sir John Hayward’s Annals:—

Shee was a lady upon whom nature had bestowed, and well placed, many of her fayrest favours; of stature meane, slender, straight, and amiably composed; of such state in her carriage, as every motion of her seemed to beare majesty; her haire was inclined to pale yellow, her foreheade large and faire, and seeming seat for princely grace; her eyes lively and sweete, but short-sighted; her nose somewhat rising in the middest. The whole compasse of her countenance somewhat long, but yet of admirable beauty; not so much in that which is termed the flower of youth, as in a most delightful compositione of majesty and modesty in equall mixture.... Her vertues were such as might suffice to make an Ethiopian beautifull, which, the more man knows and understands, the more he shall love and admire. Shee was of divine witt, as well for depth of judgment, as for quick conceite and speedy expeditione; of eloquence as sweete in the utterance, as ready and easy to come to the utterance; of wonderful knowledge, both in learning and affayres; skilfull not only in Latine and Greeke, but alsoe in divers foraigne languages.

In _Paul Heintzner’s Travels_, 1598, is the following description:—

She was said to be fifty-five years old. Her face was rather long, white, and somewhat wrinkled; her eyes small, black, and gracious; her nose somewhat bent; her lips compressed; her teeth black (from eating too much sugar). She had earrings of pearls, red hair (but artificial), and wore a small crown. Her breast was uncovered (as is the case with all unmarried ladies in England), and round her neck was a chain with precious gems. Her hands were graceful, her fingers long. She was of middle size, but stepped on majestically. She was gracious and kind in her address. The dress she wore was of white silk, with pearls as large as beans. Her cloak was of black silk, with silver lace, and a long train was carried by a marchioness. She spoke English, French, and Italian; but she knew also Greek and Latin, and understood Spanish, Scotch, and Dutch. Wherever she turned her eyes, people fell on their knees. When she came to the door of the chapel, books were handed to her, and the people called out, “God save the Queen Elizabeth!” whereupon the Queen answered, “I thanke you, myn good peuple.”

Among the spirited repartees and impromptus of the queen which have descended to our time is her ingenious evasion of a direct answer to a theological question respecting the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. On being asked by a Popish priest whether she allowed the _real presence_, she replied,—

Christ was the word that spake it:
He took the bread and brake it;
And what that word did make it,
That I believe and take it.

In an old folio copy of the _Arcadia_, preserved at Wilton, have been found two interesting relics,—a lock of Queen Elizabeth’s hair, and some lines in the handwriting of Sir Philip Sidney. The hair was given by the queen to her young hero, who complimented her in return as follows:—

Her inward worth all outward worth transcends;
Envy her merits with regret commends;
Like sparkling gems her virtues draw the light,
And in her conduct she is always bright.
When she imparts her thoughts, her words have force,
And sense and wisdom flow in sweet discourse.

The date of this exchange was 1583, when the queen was forty and the knight twenty-nine. Elizabeth’s hair is very fine, soft, and silky, with the undulation of water; its color, a fair auburn or golden brown, without a tinge of red, as her detractors assert. In every country under the sun, such hair would be pronounced beautiful.

SHAKSPEARE’S ORTHODOXY.

The numerous biographers of the immortal bard have said little or nothing of his religious character, leaving the inference that he was indifferent to religion and careless as to the future. They seem to forget such passages as his beautiful reference to Palestine in _Henry IV._:—

Those holy fields,
Over whose acres walked those blessed feet
Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nailed,
For our advantage, on the bitter cross.

Shakspeare’s will, written two months before his death, (April, 1616,) is remarkable for its evangelical character. He says:—

“First, I commend my soul into the hands of God, my Creator, hoping, and assuredly believing, through the merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlasting; and my body to the earth whereof it is made.”

Nor should we overlook the bond of Christian sympathy with his parish minister, Rev. Richard Byfield, whose church he constantly attended during his retirement at Stratford.

OLIVER CROMWELL.

The subjoined sketch of the person and character of the great Protector is from a letter of John Maidstone to Governor Winthrop, of Connecticut, written soon after Cromwell’s death:—

Before I pass further, pardon me in troubling you with the character of his person, which, by reason of my nearness to him, I had opportunity well to observe. His body was well compact and strong; his stature under six feet (I believe about two inches); his head so shaped as you might see it a storehouse and shop, both a vast treasury of natural parts. His temper exceeding fiery, as I have known; but the flame of it kept down for the most part, or soon allayed with those moral endowments he had. He was naturally compassionate towards objects in distress, even to an effeminate measure, though God had made him a heart wherein was left little room for any fear but what was due to himself, of which there was a large proportion; yet did he excel in tenderness towards sufferers. A larger soul, I think, hath seldom dwelt in a house of clay than his was. I do believe, if his story were impartially transmitted and the unprejudiced world well possessed with it, it would add him to her nine worthies and make that number a decemviri. He lived and died in comfortable communion with his seed, as judicious persons near him well observed. He was that Mordecai that sought the welfare of his people, and spake peace to his seed; yet were his temptations such as it appeared frequently that he that hath grace enough for many men may have too little for himself; the treasure he had being but in an earthen vessel, and that equally defiled with original sin as any other man’s nature is.

The following newspaper notices in relation to Cromwell’s head are interesting:—

The curious head of Cromwell, which Sir Joshua Reynolds has had the good fortune to procure, is to be shown to his majesty. How much would Charles the First have valued the man that would have brought him Cromwell’s head!—September, 1786.

The real embalmed head of the powerful and renowned usurper, Oliver Cromwell, styled Protector of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland, and Ireland; with the original dyes for the medals struck in honor of his victory at Dunbar, &c., &c., are now exhibiting at No. 5 in Mead Court, Old Bond Street (where the Rattlesnake was shown last year). A genuine narrative relating to the acquisition, concealment, and preservation of these articles to be had at the place of exhibition.—_Morning Chronicle_, March 18, 1799.

Cromwell died at Hampton Court in 1658, giving the strongest evidence of his earnest religious convictions and of his sincerity as a Christian. After an imposing funeral pageant, the body having been embalmed, he was buried in Westminster. On the restoration of the Stuarts he was taken up and hung in Tyburn. Afterwards his head was cut off, a pike driven up through the neck and skull, and exposed on Westminster Hall. It remained there a long while, until, by some violence, the pike was broken and the head thrown down. It was picked up by a soldier and concealed, and afterwards conveyed to some friend, who kept it carefully for years. Through a succession of families, which can easily be traced, it has come into the possession of the daughter of Hon. Mr. Wilkinson, ex-member of Parliament from Buckingham and Bromley.

The head is almost entire. The flesh is black and sunken, but the features are nearly perfect, and the hair still remains. Even the large wart over one of the eyes—a distinctive mark on his face—is yet perfectly visible. The pike which was thrust through the neck may still be seen, the upper part of iron, nearly rusted off, and the lower or wooden portion in splinters, showing that it was broken by some act of violence. It is known historically that Cromwell was embalmed; and no person thus cared for was ever publicly gibbeted except this illustrious man. It is a curious keepsake for a lady; but it is carefully preserved under lock and key in a box of great antiquity, wrapped in a number of costly envelopes. And when it is raised from its hiding-place and held in one’s hand, what a world of thought is suggested!

POPE’S SKULL.

William Howitt says that, by one of those acts which neither science nor curiosity can excuse, the skull of Pope is now in the private collection of a phrenologist. The manner in which it was obtained is said to have been this:—On some occasion of alteration in the church, or burial of some one in the same spot, the coffin of Pope was disinterred, and opened to see the state of the remains. By a bribe to the sexton of the time, possession of the skull was obtained for the night, and another skull was returned instead of it. Fifty pounds were paid to manage and carry through this transaction. Be that as it may, the skull of Pope figures in a private museum.

WICKLIFFE’S ASHES.

The Council of Constance raised from the grave the bones of the immortal Wickliffe forty years after their interment, burned them to ashes, and threw them into a neighboring brook. “This brook,” says Fuller, “conveyed his ashes into Avon, Avon into Severn, Severn into the narrow seas, they into the main ocean; and thus the ashes of Wickliffe are the emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all the world over.” “So,” says Foxe, “was he resolved into three elements, earth, fire, and water, thinking thereby utterly to extinguish both the name and doctrine of Wickliffe forever. But as there is no counsel against the Lord, so there is no keeping down of verity. It will spring and come out of dust and ashes, as appeared right well in this man; for, though they digged up his body, burnt his bones, and drowned his ashes, yet the word of God and truth of his doctrines, with the fruit and success thereof, they could not burn. They to this day remain.”

* * * * *

Cardan, and Burton, the author of the _Anatomy of Melancholy_, who were famous for astrological skill, both suffered a voluntary death merely to verify their own predictions.

TALLEYRANDIANA.

A banker, anxious about the rise or fall of stocks, came once to Talleyrand for information respecting the truth of a rumor that George III. had suddenly died, when the statesman replied in a confidential tone: “I shall be delighted, if the information I have to give be of any use to you.” The banker was enchanted at the prospect of obtaining authentic intelligence from so high a source; and Talleyrand, with a mysterious air, continued: “Some say the King of England is dead; others, that he is not dead: for my own part, I believe neither the one nor the other. I tell you this in confidence, but do not commit me.”

During Talleyrand’s administration, when the seals of private letters were not very safe, the Spanish Ambassador complained, with an expressive look, to that Minister, that one of his despatches had been opened. “Oh!” returned the statesman, after listening with profound attention, “I shall wager I can guess how the thing happened. I am convinced your despatch was opened by some one who desired to know what was inside.”

When Louis XVIII., at the Restoration, praised the subtile diplomatist for his talents and influence, he disclaimed the compliment, but added, what might serve both as a hint and a threat: “There is, however, some inexplicable thing about me, that prevents any government from prospering that attempts to set me aside.”

After the Pope excommunicated his apostate Abbé, that unworthy son of the church wrote to a friend, saying: “Come and comfort me: come and sup with me. Everybody is going to refuse me fire and water; we shall therefore have nothing this evening but iced meats, and drink nothing but wine.”

When the Abbé Dupanloup told him, during his last hour, that the Archbishop of Paris had said he would willingly die for him, the dying statesman said, with his expiring breath: “He might make a better use of his life.”

He proposed that the Duchess de Berri should be threatened for all her strange conspicuous freaks, thus: “Madame, there is no hope for you, you will be tried, condemned, and pardoned!”

Speaking of a well-known lady on one occasion, he said emphatically:—

“She is insufferable.”

Then, as if relenting, he added:

“But that is her only fault.”

Madame de Stael cordially hated him, and in her story of _Delphine_ was supposed to have painted herself in the person of her heroine, and Talleyrand in that of a garrulous old woman. On their first meeting, the wit pleasantly remarked, “They tell me that we are both of us in your novel, in the disguise of women.”

While making a few days’ tour in England, he wrote this note to a gentleman connected with the Treasury:—

“My dear Sir,

“Would you give a short quarter of an hour to explain to me the
financial system of your country?

“Always yours,

“§Talleyrand§.”

PORSON.

A favorite diversion of Porson, when among a party of literary men, was to quote a few lines of poetry, and ask if any of the company could tell where they came from. He frequently quoted the following lines without finding any one able to name the author:—

For laws that are inanimate,
And feel no sense of love or hate,
That have no passion of their own,
Or pity to be wrought upon,
Are only proper to inflict
Revenge on criminals as strict:
But to have power to forgive
Is empire and prerogative;
And ’tis in crowns a nobler gem
To grant a pardon than condemn.

The lines remind the Shakspeare student of a similar verse in _Measure for Measure_, (Act III, Sc. 2.):—

He that the sword of state would bear,
Should be holy as severe;
Pattern in himself to know,
Grace to stand, and virtue go, &c.

The company generally guessed every likely author but the right one. When conjecture was exhausted, Porson would satisfy curiosity by telling them the lines were in Butler’s _Hudibras_, and would be found in _The Heroic Epistle of Hudibras to his Lady_, which few people ever did read, and no one now thinks of reading.

Historical Memoranda.

THE FIRST BLOOD SHED IN OUR REVOLUTION.

The “First Blood of the Revolution” is commonly supposed to have been shed at Lexington, April 19, 1775; but Westminster, Vt., files a prior claim in favor of one William French, who it is asserted was killed on the night of March 13, 1775, at the King’s court-house, in what is now Westminster. At that time Vermont was a part of New York, and the King’s court officers, together with a body of troops, were sent on to Westminster to hold the usual session of the court. The people, however, were exasperated, and assembled in the court-house to resist. A little before midnight the troops of George the Third advanced and fired indiscriminately upon the crowd, instantly killing William French, whose head was pierced by a musket ball. He was buried in the churchyard, and a stone erected to his memory, with this quaint inscription:—

“In Memory of William French, Who Was Shot at Westminster March ye
12th, 1775, by the hand of the Cruel Ministerial tools of Georg ye 3rd
at the Courthouse at 11 o’clock at Night in the 22d year of his age.

“Here William French his Body lies,
For Murder his Blood for Vengeance Cries.
King Georg the third his Tory crew
that with a bawl his head Shot threw,
For Liberty and his Countrys Good
he Lost his Life his Dearest blood.”

THE “TEA-PARTY” AND THE “TEA-BURNING.”

The world has rung with the story of the “Boston tea-party,” how in the darkness of night certain men disguised as Indians threw overboard the cargo which bore the obnoxious duty, and kept their secret so well that even their own families were not trusted with it. It was a resolute and patriotic act, and answered its purpose. But why all the darkness, the disguise and mystery? Because the number of those who opposed the act, either from loyalty to Great Britain, from timidity, or from pecuniary interest in the cargo, was so great, that only by such means could the deed be done and the doers of it escape punishment.

How does this compare with the “tea-burning” in Annapolis in the same year? Here the course to be taken was publicly and calmly discussed in open assembly; the resolution arrived at was openly announced, and carried out in the face of day, the owner of the vessel himself applying the torch. This was the Maryland way of doing the thing; and it may well be asked whether the calm judicial dignity of the procedure, the unanimity of sentiment, the absence alike of passion and of concealment, are not far worthier of commemoration and admiration than the act of men who, even for a patriotic purpose, had to assume the garb of conspirators and do a deed of darkness.

The local historians thus tell the story:—

On the 14th of October, the brig Peggy Stewart arrived at Annapolis, having in its cargo a few packages of tea. The duty was paid by the owner of the vessel. The people were outraged at the attempt to fix upon them the badge of servitude, by the payment of the tax.

A meeting was held, at which it was determined that the tea should not be landed. The owner, fearing further trouble, proposed to destroy the tea. But that was not sufficient punishment. The offence was a grave one, for had this attempt succeeded, it would have been followed by others more aggressive, and thus the very principle which was contended for would have been overthrown in the end. It was the head of the ugly beast that was thrust in the door, and it must not only be _put_ out, but _driven_ out by blows, lest growing bold, it should push its whole body in.

After much discussion it was proposed to burn the vessel. The meeting did not consent to this, but many expressed their determination to raise a force to accomplish the brig’s destruction.

Acting under the advice of Mr. Carroll of Carrollton, the owner, seeing that the loss of his property was certain, and willing to repair his good name, even by that loss, proposed to destroy the vessel with his own hands. In the presence of the assembled multitude he set fire to it, with the tea on board,—expiating his offence by the destruction of his property.

The striking features of this transaction were not only the boldness with which it was executed, but the deliberation and utter carelessness of concealment in all the measures leading to its accomplishment.

It was not until the 28th of November that the Dartmouth arrived in Boston harbor, and not until the 16th of December that protracted discussion ended in the overthrow of its cargo. The tea-ship sent to South Carolina arrived December 2d, and the tea-ship to Philadelphia, December 25th. The cargo of the former perished in storage; that of the latter was sent back.

THE UNITED STATES NAVY.

A South Carolina correspondent of the _American Historical Record_ writes as follows concerning the inception of the Navy:—

A few years ago, while looking over a volume of manuscript letters in the Charleston (South Carolina) Library, I found a leaf of coarse foolscap, with the following endorsement:—

ORIGIN OF THE NAVY.

At a caucus in 1794, consisting of Izard, Morris, and Ellsworth of the Senate, Ames, Sedgwick, Smith, Dayton, &c. of the Representatives, and of Secretaries Hamilton and Knox, to form a plan for a national navy, Smith began the figuring as Secretary of the meeting. Hamilton then took the pen, and instead of minuting the proceedings, he amused himself by making a variety of flourishes during the discussion. In consequence of the plan adopted at this meeting, a bill was reported for building six frigates, which formed the foundation or origin of the American Navy.

The “figuring” on the top of the page consists of five lines, and is as follows:—

First cost of a frigate, 44 guns, of 1,300 tons, and
provision for six months $150,000
350 men 51,000
Provision for six months 11,000
————————
Total $212,000

Then follows an estimate of the annual cost of such a vessel. The rest of the page below these estimates is occupied by bold flourishes, which seem, if they mean anything, to imitate a drawing of a peacock’s tail “in its pride.” Similar scratching, but to a less extent is on the other side of the page.

* * * * *

The only letter addressed to Shakspeare, which is undoubtedly genuine, is that now in the museum at Stratford, from Richard Quinn, the actor, asking for a loan of £20. This letter is endorsed: “To my lovinge good ffriend and countreyman, Mr. William Shackespere deliver Thees.” If the writer spelled names no better than other words, this affords little aid to the solution of the perplexing question, for notwithstanding the outrageous fashion in which our forefathers spelled English, he is considerably ahead of his age in this respect.

QUAKER “MALIGNANTS.”

There has been discovered in Boston the following letter relative to William Penn, written “September ye 15, 1682.” by Cotton Mather, to “ye aged and beloved Mr. John Higginson”:—

There bee now at sea a shippe (for our friend Mr. Esaias Holcraft, of
London, did advise me by ye last packet that it wolde sail some time
in August) called ye Welcome, R. Greenaway, master, which has aboard
an hundred or more of ye heretics and malignants called Quakers, with
W. Penne, who is ye chief scampe at ye hedde of them. Ye General Court
has accordingly given secret orders to Master Malachi Huxett, of ye
brig Porpusse, to waylaye ye said Welcome as near the coast of Codde
as may be, and make captive ye said Penne and his ungodlie crew, so
that ye Lord may be glorified and not mocked on ye soil of this new
countrie with ye heathen worshippe of these people. Much spoyl can be
made by selling ye whole lotte to Barbadoes, where slaves fetch good
prices in rumme and sugar, and we shall not only do ye Lord great
service by punishing ye wicked, but shall make great gayne for his
ministers and people.

Master Huxett feels hopeful, and I will set down ye news he brings
when his shippe comes back.

Yours in ye bowels of Christ,
§Cotton Mather§.

AN AMERICAN MONARCHY.

After the downfall of Napoleon I., in 1815, several young Americans who subsequently earned high position as writers and statesmen, among them Irving, Everett, Ticknor, Legaré, and Preston, (afterward Senator from South Carolina,) went to Europe for the benefit of foreign travel. While abroad, they took an opportunity to pay a visit to Sir Walter Scott, and Mr. Preston relates that during the evening, in the course of conversation, Sir Walter gave an account of a curious discovery he had made.

Not long after it had been divulged who was the author of the “Waverley Novels,” Scott was the Regent’s (afterward George the Fourth) guest in the royal palace, where, one day, the latter ordered the key of a certain room to be given to the great writer, saying that it opened the door of the Stuart Chamber, where all the papers concerning the Stuarts and their pretenders were kept. George gave Scott full permission to rummage among all these records, and to use what he liked for his works. “I depend on your discretion,” he said, and Scott went. He spent several days in this curious chamber, and, so he told Preston, one day stumbled upon what seemed to him a remarkable paper. It consisted of a call and petition, by Scottish in America, chiefly, however, by the Gaelic Scottish who had a settlement—“saddle-bagging” as it is sometimes expressed in the West—in North Carolina, addressed to the Pretender (Prince Charles Edward, grandson of James the Second), as he was then called, to come to America and assume the crown of this realm.

The question whether this country had not best be turned into a monarchy was seriously and very naturally mooted, in the earliest days of our national existence, but until this singular revelation was made, it was not known that such a positive offer, a very strange one, to say the least, had been made.

THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER.

The following description of the significance of the different parts of our national flag was written by a member of the committee appointed by the Continental Congress to design a flag for the young Republic:—

The stars of the new flag represent the new constellation of States
rising in the West. The idea was taken from the constellation of Lyra,
which in the land of Orpheus signifies harmony. The blue in the field
was taken from the edges of the Covenanter’s banner, in Scotland,
significant of the league-covenant of the United Colonies against
oppression, incidentally involving the virtues of vigilance,
perseverance and justice. The stars were disposed in a circle
symbolizing the perpetuity of the Union; the ring, like the serpent of
the Egyptians, signifying eternity. The thirteen stripes showed with
the stars, the number of the United Colonies, and denoted the
subordination of the States to the Union, as well as equality among
themselves. The whole was the blending of the various flags of the
army and the white ones of the floating batteries. The red color,
which in Roman days was the signal of defiance, denoted daring; and
the white purity.

THE FRENCH TRICOLOR.

The French tricolor, so far from being a revolutionary flag, is more ancient than the white flag, and was, in fact, the flag of the House of Bourbon. Clovis, when he marched through Tours to fight the Visigoths, adopted as his banner the scope of St. Martin, which was blue, and thus blue was, so to speak, the first French color. The oriflamme, which was the particular flag of the Abbey of St. Denis, and was red, became to a certain extent the national flag, when St. Denis came under the protection of the kings of France, the kings still preserving their blue flag studded with golden _fleurs de lis_. The white flag (which was also the banner of Joan of Arc) has in all countries, and through all times, been the sign of authority. And when Louis XIV. destroyed the functions of the colonels-general of the different corps that bore the white standard, the color became the emblem of Royal authority. Nevertheless, it is useless to dispute the fact that the tricolor took its rise as the badge of the National Guard at the French Revolution, and that it will be as difficult to separate it from the idea of revolution as to separate the white flag from the idea of legitimacy.

THE POLITICAL GAMUT.

In 1815 the French newspapers announced the departure of Bonaparte from Elba, his progress through France, and his entry; into Paris, in the following manner:—

March 9. The Anthropophagus has quitted his den.—March 10. The Corsican Ogre has landed at Cape Juan.—March 11. The Tiger has arrived at Gap.—March 12. The Monster slept at Grenoble.—March 13. The Tyrant has passed through Lyons.—March 14. The Usurper is directing his steps towards Dijon, but the brave and loyal Burgundians have risen _en masse_, and surrounded him on all sides.—March 18. Bonaparte is only sixty leagues from the capital; he has been fortunate enough to escape the hands of his pursuers.—March 19. Bonaparte is advancing with rapid steps, but he will never enter Paris.—March 20. Napoleon will, to-morrow, be under our ramparts.—March 21. The Emperor is at Fontainebleau.—March 22. His Imperial and Royal Majesty yesterday evening arrived at the Tuileries, amidst the joyful acclamations of his devoted and faithful subjects. 5 The _Journal des Débats_, in reference to the escape from Elba, spoke of Napoleon on the 9th of March, as “the _Poltroon of 1814_.” On the 15th it said to him, “_Scourge of generations thou shall reign no more!_” On the 16th he is “_a Robespierre on horseback_”; on the 19th, “_the adventurer from Corsica_”; but on the 21st, we are gravely told that “_the_ §EMPEROR§ _has pursued his triumphal course, having found no other enemies than the miserable libels which were vainly scattered on his path to impede his progress_.”

THE FLIGHT OF EUGENIE.

The following particulars of the flight of the Empress of France from Paris, in consequence of the subversion of the Napoleonic dynasty by the capitulation of Sedan, were furnished by the late Bishop McIlvaine, of Ohio, who obtained them from one who aided the flight of Eugenie, and are therefore stamped with the essentials of authenticity.

The safety of the Empress had been assured to her by General Trochu, who had solemnly promised to inform her of the approach of danger. For some unexplained reasons he failed to do so, and when on Sunday the mob began to assemble about the Tuileries, three of her friends, Prince Metternich, the Spanish Ambassador and M. Lesseps, formed a plan for her escape, and went to her rescue. M. Lesseps stood outside and harangued the mob for the purpose of detaining them, while the two other gentlemen went in search of the Empress. They found her partaking of a very frugal lunch with one of her ladies, and her fears could not be aroused. Seeing it impossible to persuade her, the two gentlemen used force to remove her. At this she consented to make a slight preparation, and without at all changing her dress, (for the mob had already entered the Palace), catching up a small leathern reticule, she put into it two pocket-handkerchiefs, and two books, the New Testament and a prayer-book. On her head she put a riding hat, and then by that time thoroughly aroused, she fled through the Palace, through long corridors, up and down flights of stairs, through chamber and _salon_, a long distance before they came down to the Rue Rivoli, on which side of the Palace the mob had not collected. Here a cab awaited her. She, with the lady in attendance, was put into it. “Now,” said the friends, “we must leave you; too well-known, our attendance would bring destruction upon you! Make good speed!” Yes, good speed, for she heard the cries of the furious mob, and as she was entering the cab a little boy exclaimed, “There is the Empress,” and she thought all was lost; but it proved that there was no one there to take notice, and so the two ladies drove off. Soon they came into the midst of the excited crowd, and the lady accompanying her questioned on this side and the other the meaning of it all, and appeared to be lost in wonder at the proceedings, while the Empress sank back out of sight in the carriage. They had a long ride out beyond the Champs Élysées to the quieter parts of the city, when they alighted, dismissed the cab, to avoid giving any clew in case of pursuit, and walked some distance. Where should she go? To whom flee? What friend trust? There was but one to whom she would venture, and that one an American gentlemen of some note, who, with his wife, had long been a friend of both Emperor and Empress. So they took another cab for the house of this gentleman (whom we will call Mr. W——), arriving there to find him away from home, and his wife absent for the summer at a small seaport on the coast. The servant under these circumstances was extremely ungracious, and quite refused to admit these strange ladies, and when at last, upon their insisting, they were admitted to the house, she was unwilling to show them into an apartment suitable for them, and it was not without some difficulty that they were allowed to wait in the library for the owner’s return. When at last he returned and entered the room, judge of his surprise at the sight of the Empress. “You must get me immediately out of France,—this very night,” exclaimed the Empress the moment she saw him. Out of France that very night? He told her it was impossible. He was expecting a party of friends to dinner, but would plead sudden business and excuse himself, and make preparations as quickly as possible for her flight; but, in the meantime, she must be quiet and rest. This she was prevailed upon to do, and, supplying herself from Mrs. W——’s wardrobe, retired for the night.