Chapter III (6)

Once on the other side of the river, we marched on amid the din of the retreat from Mockern, and at length reached a burial-ground, where we were ordered to stack arms and break ranks.

{749}

By this time the sky had cleared, and I recognized Schoenfeld in the moonlight. How often had I eaten bread and drank white wine with Zunnier there at the Golden Sheaf when the sun shone brightly and the leaves were green around? But those times had passed! I sat against the cemetery wall, and at length fell asleep. About three o'clock in the morning, I was awakened.

It was Zébédé. "Joseph," said he, "come to the fire. If you remain here, you run the risk of catching the fever."

I arose, sick with fatigue and suffering. A fine rain filled the air. My comrade drew me toward the fire which smoked in the drizzling atmosphere; it seemed to give out no heat; but Zébédé having made me drink a draught of brandy, I felt at least less cold, and gazed at the bivouac fires on the other side of the Partha.

"The Prussians are warming themselves in our wood," said Zébédé.

"Yes," I replied; "and poor Klipfel is there too, but he no longer feels the cold."

My teeth chattered. These words saddened us both. A few moments after, Zébédé resumed:

"Do you remember, Joseph, the black ribbon he wore the day of the conscription, and how he cried that we were all condemned to death, like those who had gone to Russia?"

I thought how Pinacle had held out the black ribbon for me; and the remembrance, together with the cold, which seemed to freeze the very marrow in our bones, made me shudder. I thought Pinacle was right; that I had seen the last of home, and I cursed those who had forced me from it.

At day-break, wagons arrived with food and brandy for us. The rain had ceased; we made soup, but nothing could warm me; I had caught the fever. I was not the only one in the battalion in that condition; three fourths of the men were suffering from it; and, for a month before, those who could no longer march had lain down by the roadside weeping and calling upon their mothers like little children. Hunger, forced marches, the rain, and grief had done their work, and happy was it for the parents that they could not see the miserable end of their cherished sons.

As the light increased, we saw to the left, on the other side of the river, burnt villages, heaps of dead, abandoned wagons, and broken cannon, stretching as far as the eye could reach. It was worse than at Lutzen. We saw the Prussians deploy, and advance their thousands over the battle-field. They were to join with the Russians and Austrians and close the great circle around us, and we could not prevent them, especially as Bernadotte and the Russian General Benningsen had come up with twenty thousand fresh troops. Thus, after fighting three battles in one day, were we, only one hundred thousand strong, seemingly about to be entrapped in the midst of three hundred thousand bayonets, not to speak of fifty thousand horse and twelve hundred cannon.

From Schoenfeld, the battalion started to rejoin the division at Kohlgarten. All the roads were lined with slow-moving ambulances, filled with wounded; all the wagons of the country around had been impressed for this service; and, in the intervals between them, marched hundreds of poor fellows with their arms in slings, or their heads bandaged--pale, crestfallen, half dead.

We made our way, with a thousand difficulties, through this mass, when, near Kohlgarten, twenty hussars, galloping at full speed, and with levelled pistols, drove back the crowd, right and left, into the fields, shouting as they pressed on:

{750}

"The emperor! the emperor!"

The battalion drew up, and presented arms; and a few moments after, the _grenadiers-à-cheval_ of the guard--veritable giants, with their great boots, their immense bear-skin hats, descending to their shoulders and only allowing their mustaches, nose, and eyes to remain visible--passed at a gallop. Our men looked joyfully at them, glad that such robust warriors were on our side.

Scarcely had they passed, when the staff tore after. Imagine a hundred and fifty to two hundred marshals, generals, and other superior officers, mounted on magnificent steeds, and so covered with embroidery that the color of their uniforms was scarcely visible; some tall, thin, and haughty; others short, thick-set, and red-faced; others again young and handsome, sitting like statues in their saddles; all with eager look and flashing eyes. It was a magnificent and terrible sight. But the most striking figure among those captains, who for twenty years had made Europe tremble, was Napoleon himself, with his old hat and gray over-coat; his large, determined chin and neck buried between his shoulders. All shouted, "_Vive l'Empereur!_" but he heard nothing of it. He paid no more attention to us than to the drizzling rain which filled the air, but gazed with contracted brows at the Prussian army stretching along the Partha to join the Austrians.

"Did you see him, Joseph?" asked Zébédé.

"I did," I replied; "I saw him well, and I will remember the sight all my life."

"It is strange," said my comrade; "he does not seem to be pleased. At Wurzen, the day after the battle, he seemed rejoiced to hear our "_Vive l'Empereur!_' and the generals all wore merry faces too. To-day they seem savage, and nevertheless the captain said that we bore off the victory on the other side of Leipsic."

Others thought the same thing without speaking of it, but there was a growing uneasiness among all.

We found the regiment bivouacked near Kohlgarten. In every direction camp-fires were rolling their smoke to the sky. A drizzling rain continued to fall, and the men, seated on their knapsacks around the fires, seemed depressed and gloomy. The officers formed groups of their own. On all sides it was whispered that such a war had never before been seen; it was one of extermination; that it did not help us to defeat the enemy, for they only desired to kill us off, knowing that they had four or five times our number of men, and would finally remain masters.

Toward evening of the next day, we discovered the army of the north on the plateau of Breitenfeld. This was sixty thousand more men for the enemy. I can yet hear the maledictions levelled at Bernadotte--the cries of indignation of those who knew him as a simple officer in the army of the republic, who cried out that he owed us all--that we made him a king with our blood, and that he now came to give us the finishing blow.

That night, as we drew our lines still closer around Leipsic, I gazed at the circle of fires which surrounded us, and it seemed as if the whole world was bent on our extermination. But I remembered that we had the honor of bearing the name of Frenchmen, and must conquer or die.

To Be Concluded In Our Next.

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{751}

The Old Roman World. [Footnote 67]

[Footnote 67: _The Old Roman World:
the Grandeur and Failure of its Civilization._
By John Lord, LL.D.
New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1867.]

Did Doctor Lord dream that the world would pronounce him immortal for having formed an ill-assorted museum of effete ideas gathered from all the kingdoms of thought? While he was writing the sheets of _The Old Roman World_, was he thinking of a political world, or an ecclesiastical world, or a literary world, or a military world, or conjuring up a visionary world? Did he base his claims to an imperishable name on his faculty to extract philosophical truth from historical facts, or on his powers of describing facts and communicating truths so as to be useful to his fellow-man, or on his irrepressible fluency in saying again and again, what had been better said again and again by others before? Did he intend to write a book; or are the sixteen chapters of his volume sixteen independent and unrelated pamphlets, or sixteen stump speeches, or sixteen lectures, or sixteen spiritualistic effusions in a meandering mood of mind?

Did he write to instruct the student, or amuse the indolent, or delight the world, or add to the lore of the learned? Did he ever read, in the original languages, the historians, the philosophers, the critics, the poets, the scientific writers on whose minds and merits he wrote; or has he seen them only as in a mirror, by means of encyclopedian dissertations, hand-books, and such second-hand depositories? Did he think that the world would regard his compilations as a faithful reflector of ancient minds and ancient life?

There is, however, in Dr. Lord's _Old Roman World_ food for thought. No one denies the importance of the high and momentous questions connected with the Roman name. It is an unquestionable fact that, in the history of the human race, the Romans occupy the most prominent position. To the eyes of the historian, the Roman world is, amongst the nations of bygone centuries, what, to the eyes of the astronomer, the sun is amongst the heavenly bodies. The generative causes of that outshining social edifice have occupied the most splendid intellects in past ages, and have been analyzed anew in our day, according to his generalization, by Dr. Lord. To his mind it seems that the nations of the earth were welded into one body by the superior military mechanism of the Romans, and that the impaired efficiency of this military machinery, together with a certain mysterious fatality, produced the disintegration of the Roman empire, by destroying the cohesive qualities of Roman rule. Such is the pervading idea of his chapters. We know that vast empires have been born of the sword; but we have yet to learn that an empire embracing the nations, religions, and languages of the earth, could have been founded on, and conserved for centuries by, military mechanism. The Romans, like Attila, or Genghis Khan, or Alexander, or Sesostris, might have gone forth, and, either by bravery, or superior tactics, or vast levied armies, have overrun the nations of the earth; but military mechanism could never have raised and sustained through a long lapse of ages a mighty empire built on vanquished peoples. {752} And yet Rome not only conquered and incorporated independent races, but glued them to the centre Rome; so much so, that they lost animosity, language, institutions, and nationality to become Romans. Rome not only romanized Italy, but italianized the then known world. In the days of Hadrian and Trajan, the waves of the Mediterranean knew no lord but the Roman; from the margin of those seas were wafted the wealth and the produce of the world toward Rome; and far beyond that margin, through hundreds of miles, the genius and power of Rome were transforming the nations, building roads and palaces, founding cities, subdividing provinces, spreading the Latin language, and stamping the mind of Latium on the human race. From the Padus to Japugium the names of the Italian tribes were merged into the name of Rome. The men of Mesraim bowed before the Roman eagle, and saw the traditions of two thousand years vanish away before the institutions of Rome. The Asiatic cities renounced their pride of birth, and Greece yielded up a rich heritage of literary and military glory. The fiery valor of the Gauls and the martial memories of western nations were surmounted by the unconquerable energy of the Roman mind. To Rome the known nations of the world became as handmaids, and paid homage through a dozen generations. Whatever had been great in the world, whatever powerful, whatever beautiful, whatever renowned, whatever ennobling, was swallowed up in the mighty name of Rome. And when, amid the upheaving of humanity and the undulations of races, Rome sank as a ship in a troubled ocean, her spirit lived to elevate the Italian, the Frank, the Spaniard, the Norman, to be the princes of the families of mankind. Could military mechanism have accomplished such results? Could military mechanism, when it was no more, possess a renovating influence? Does not Sallust assert the superiority of the Gauls to the Romans in war? Besides, it is a questionable point whether the military systems of the Greeks are not preferable to the war tactics of the Romans. The Thessalian cavalry, and the Macedonian phalanx with its adaptability to evolutions, can stand a strict critical comparison with the Roman equites and Roman legion. The variety of movements in the phalanx, despite its inflexible and inseparable character, may well compensate for the individual and displayed energy of the Roman combination. That Polybius judges the mechanism of the Roman superior to that of the Greek, may be ascribable to the fact that he preferred attributing the subjugation of his countrymen, not to a superiority of valor, but of military manoeuvres. Does any one suppose that the army of Pompey, twice as numerous as that of Caesar, was worsted through the defect of theoretic military mechanism, rather than through the deficiency of the qualities which make a soldier? If any one will take the trouble of writing, in parallel columns, the organization, the sub-organizations, the war habiliments, the aggressive and defensive weapons, the laws of army management in sieges, in march, in battle, and in the tent, as they existed in Italy and Greece, we would leave to his candid judgment the decision on the speculative excellence of Grecian and Roman war systems, considered as a whole. And on the sea, the Romans were tyros when the Greeks had attained considerable perfection. The Romans defeated the Carthaginians, not on a system indigenously reared on the waters of Latium, but with a fleet formed after the fashion of an inimical craft wrecked on the Italian shore. {753} In the progressive days of Rome, the nomenclature of the parts and naval acts of a Roman vessel was suggested by, or adopted from, the preexisting terminology of Greece. What thence? Do we depreciate the military mechanism of Rome? By no means. But we unhesitatingly object to placing it as the primary cause of the elevation of Rome to the pinnacle of power. Where Doctor Lord placed Roman military mechanism, he should have mentioned Roman character and Roman institutions. In no place did character and institutions more powerfully concur to elevate the individual than in the city of old Rome, in the state of Latium, on the banks of the Tiber. The kings imparted a multifold and vigorous development to the martial, the religious, the aesthetical, the governmental, the utilitarian tendencies of the people. These fountains of grandeur poured their united streams of glory during the five centuries of the republic into a magnificent reservoir, to empty which there was demanded the lapse of five hundred years of enfeebling despotism. It would be long to trace the single developments. But we can see, and might explain by facts that, in as far as Rome incorporated with an equalization other powers, so far did she strengthen and aggrandize herself; whereas, incorporations subject to inequality were co-causes of her destruction. In the books of the Machabees we see that the Jews, in their emergency, called in the Romans as the justest amongst the Gentiles. In his preface Livy says: "Caeterum aut me amor negotii suscepti fallit, aut nulla unquam respublica nec major, nec sanctior, nec bonis exemplis ditior fuit; nec in quam tam serae avaritia luxuriaque immigraverint: nec ubi tantus tamdiuque paupertati ac parsimoniae honos fuerit: adeo quanto rerum minus tanto minus cupiditatis erat. Nuper divitiae avaritiam at abundantes voluptates desiderium per luxum atque libidinem pereundi perdendique omnia invexere." It is always safer to accuse those that are dead than those with whom we live; and surely, the historian that did not dread to attack the living, would not have failed to arraign the dead, had the dead deserved it. The expulsion and cause of expelling Tarquin, consecrated an individual self-respect which evermore remained an important element in the Roman character. This self-respect is the bulwark of individual freedom, and the most indestructible foundation of a social edifice. From it arose the acquisition by the populace of the _jus suffragii, jus commercii, jus connubii, jus honorum_. It was the mine which blew up, first, the patricians, and then the nobles. Where did Dr. Lord learn that patricians and nobles are synonymous terms? This self-respect imparted fortitude to the soldier, wisdom to the statesman, honor to the merchant. The individual was clothed with the majesty of his country. To uphold that majesty was the first duty of the Roman. Allied with self-respect, unchangeableness of purpose appears as a trait of the Roman character. Athens might have been a Rome, had the Athenian spirit the persistency of the Roman. There was, perhaps, no formative element of the Roman character so prominent as the practical common sense which made them learners in all the departments of life. The Romans admitted the perfectibility of their institutions and practices, so as to adopt from foreigners whatever they deemed an improvement. {754} The Spartan loved his country as intensely and as devotedly as the Roman, but Sparta, rejecting the eclecticism of Rome, remained cramped and undeveloped in its exclusiveness. These qualities of the mind, together with a physical strength, such as appears from the saying of Pyrrhus, "Had I the Romans for soldiers, I could conquer the world," led Rome along the highway of glory and power.

It would be folly to follow Dr. Lord through the many subjects on which he speaks. We take the first chapter of his work as a specimen of the wild, thoughtless, rambling manner in which he writes. It is headed "The Conquests of the Romans;" but in it one finds a paragraph on "the lawfulness of war," a paragraph on "the evils of war," a few pages on "Providence," a disquisition on the immediate and ultimate consequences of the Crusades, a paragraph on Providence again, something on the aspirations of the South, a paragraph to show "how petty legends indicate the existence of great virtues," a paragraph to show "how petty wars with neighboring states develop patriotism," something on morals and Cato, whom he characterizes as "a _hard, narrow_ statesman," a _chronicon Romanum_, the history of the helepolis, a paragraph to show the necessity for the empire. Would any one imagine that the same man wrote of Rome under the emperors the following passages: "The real (page 13) grandeur of Rome is associated with the emperors. Great works of art appear, and they become historical. The city is changed from brick to marble, and palaces, and theatres, and temples become colossal. There are more marble busts than living men. A liberal patronage is extended to artists. Medicine, law, and science flourish. ... The _highest state of prosperity is reached_ that the ancient world knew." Again "Rome (p. 69) yields her liberties, and imperial despotism begins its reign--hard, immovable, resolute-- under which genius is crushed. Empire is added, _but prosperity is undermined_. The _machinery is perfect_, but life is fled." Dr. Lord tells us that he loves to ponder on the sacred geese, but we would respectfully direct his pondering to the inconsistencies, contradictions, and false pronouncements with which his volume teems. He considers the Crusades the worst wars in history, uncalled for, unscrupulous, fanatical; but, though they were uncalled for, unscrupulous, and fanatical, he styles Bernard, Urban, Philip, and Richard, great men, far-sighted statesmen, and asserts that "the hand which guided that warfare between Europe and Asia was the hand that led the Israelites out of Egypt across the Red Sea;" and those wars which he pronounces worst he declares to have developed the resources of Europe, built free cities, opened the horizon of knowledge, and given a new stimulus to all the energies of the European nations. There are few who will agree with Dr. Lord when he says that the Romans "despised literature, art, philosophy, agriculture, and even luxury when they were making their grand conquests." He need only read his own description of the heroes who made the conquests to see the falsehood of his statements. There are few, too, who will say that he describes the characters of the ancients with accuracy. We would especially notice his defect of appreciation in the case of Homer, of Sophocles, and of the Latin historians. The grand excellence of Homer remains unseen by him. {755} The raising up of hero after and over hero, and the transference of a collective glory to Achilles may be said to constitute the greatest marvel of the Iliad. This generates the oneness which has been noticed and praised by all the ancients. The Doctor praises extravagantly Virgil's epic, but every candid reader will confess that he feels unconcerned, and, it may be, weary, as he wades though the last half of the AEneid, whereas he becomes more and more enraptured as he advances through the books of the Iliad. Diomedes is as grand a warrior as AEneas, and we doubt very much whether Virgil could have raised a higher model than AEneas, whereas Homer has worked the climax through four or five to Achilles. Who believes, or has believed, that Demosthenes' Philippics are more brilliant than his De Corona? To us Dr. Lord seems, in judging of the ancients, to have acted as a compiler rather than to stand boldly before the extant originals and pronounce his own judgment. When he does speak for himself, he seems to be more anxious to make himself singular than to see and tell the truth with accuracy. Speaking of "the solitary grandeur of the Jewish muse and the _mythological myths_ of the ante-Homeric songsters," he looks rather in the light of a _foolish fool_ than a serious writer communicating truth to a criticising world.

It is curious, touchy, and, we might say, laughable, to read over Dr. Lord's notions of the connection of the old Roman world with the church. Bossuet's idea of the old Roman empire being an instrument in the hands of God to propagate Christianity, has a deep fascination for our author; but Bossuet never gets the credit of it. We err very much if, in writing _The Old Roman World_, Dr. Lord did not intend to elaborate this conception in a work which the world would recognize as the rival of Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_. How does he do it? He discovers that there had existed an ineffable fatalism, according to which the Roman empire was doomed to die. What was old and heathen should disappear, that what was new and Christian might arise. The fading away of the Roman reign was unworthy to be compared with the glories about to be manifested. What were they? Were they the beauties of a grand society whose teaching authority as to the things of eternity was to be the Holy Spirit, whose head and sanctifier was to be Christ--of a society to be sustained by the hand of God, elevated above all societies, extended and visible through the world such as Bossuet conceived? Dr. Lord opines that, when Christianity is embraced by all, it is corrupted, and may be said to be dead except with a few chosen spirits; and when Christianity is embraced only by a few and is pure, it is valueless for the mass of mankind, being limited and uninfluential. On either horn of the dilemma, Christianity may be regarded as an unimportant and unprofitable school for the multitude. Yet he says that the world marches on in Christian progress. There are always some revivalists, some believers, as the Puritans, in a pure and personal God; and Providence, which "grandly and mournfully" eliminates the Roman world, consoles the human race by casting up, here and there, some select ones, some pure ones, some godly ones. But, if Dr. Lord merely wished to act the part of a noonday somnambulist or a dreamy rhapsodist, we would fain permit him to revel undisturbed in his reveries. We have, however, a right, as Catholics, to object to misrepresentations of Catholic doctrine. There are many honest and righteous Protestant minds whose vision may become jaundiced by the assertions of this writer. {756} Where has he learned that the Virgin has been made the object of absolute worship? When he speaks of ceremonies, and festivals, and pomps, he ought to look upon them as those do who use them. We have always been at a loss to understand what special enmity some people have against a special sense. If the senses are channels for communicating thought, why decry the legitimate use of any one of them performing its own function? Why instruct through the ear and not through the eye? Does not a map surpass all language in communicating geographical knowledge? Logically, one ought to praise God through the intuition of spirit _vis-a-vis_ spirit and disown corporeal agents, eyes, tongue, ears, hands, physical actions; or recognize all, provided they be means of communicating thought. There is not and there never has been in the church, any imposing altar typical of Jewish sacrifices. As to the monks, either Lord admits the truth of what are called evangelical counsels, or he does not; if he does, he should not be at war with the monks for actuating what is true; if he does not, how does he get rid of the texts of the Bible which contain them? Did the monks effect nothing for the good of humanity? Were all the monks in pursuit of a purely contemplative life? Were there no teachers, no benefactors of the poor, no cultivators of deserts, and woods, and wildernesses amongst them? Were there no founders of cities, no evangelizers of savages? Surely, the disciples of Columbanus, of Benedict, of Basil, deserve something better than the following turgid rigmarole of a visionary _fanfaron_: "Monastic life (p. 559) ripened also in a grand system of penance and expiatory rights, such as characterized oriental asceticism. Armies of monks retired to gloomy and isolated places, and abandoned themselves to rhapsodies, and fastings, and self-expiations in opposition to the grand doctrine of Christ's expiation. They despaired of society and abandoned the world to its fate--a dismal and fanatical set of men overlooking the practical aims of life. They lived more like beasts and savages than enlightened Christians--wild, fierce, solitary, superstitious, ignorant, fanatical, filthy, clothed in rags, eating the coarsest food, practising gloomy austerities, introducing a false standard of virtue, regardless of the comforts of civilization, and careless of those great interests which were entrusted to them to guard. ...

The monks and hermits sought to save themselves by climbing to heaven by the same ladder that had been sought by the soofis and fakirs, which delusion had an immense influence in undermining the doctrines of grace. Christianity was fast merging itself into an oriental theosophy." It is a sad thing to see, and a tormenting thing to have to follow, through over six hundred pages, a man, rushing madly from subject to subject. We have no interest, except in the cause of truth and right, to censure Dr. Lord; and could we fairly, in the capacity of critic, have awarded him praise, we should have, without reluctance, and with warmth, performed the task. We should say that he must have labored long to compile his work; but if anything distinguishes that work, it is an unlikeness to the sources from which it is presumed to have been gotten up. The ancients conceived of a whole, and elaborated the natural component parts to form that whole; in the work before us the formative materials produce as grotesque a union as that in the minotaur, or centaur, or gorgon, or chimaera, or hydra, or sphinx. In the ancients, we are pleased with a modesty which dreads alike the overstatement or the withholding of the truth; Dr. Lord astounds us with an unblushing and unthinking recklessness of assertion. In presenting their thoughts to the world, the Greeks and Romans were scrupulous down to the collocation of a particle; Dr. Lord's production is overgrown with expletives, ambiguities, redundancies, and repetitions. To any one accustomed to gaze on the chaste, crystal, and refreshing pages of classic lore, his volume is an unendurable eyesore.

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{757}

The Divine Loadstone.

"And I, if I be lifted up from the earth,
will draw all things to myself."

The Disciple.

"Ah me! what doth my feet restrain,
That I thy cross behold--
A loadstone all divine--
Drawing men's hearts with mystic chain
As misers lured by gold,
And yet it draws not mine?"

The Master.

"My word is very truth, my son;
All hearts to me should freely run;
And if I draw not thee
As sweetly as the rest,
'Tis thou who wouldst the loadstone be,
And draw the hearts of men to thee--
Their love doth mine contest."

The Disciple.

"Nay, Lord; 'tis only for thy heart I pine."

The Master.

"Say'st so? Then give me, also, all of thine."

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{758}

Translated From The German.

The Rival Composers.

Late one afternoon, in the autumn of the year 1779, a gentleman, walking in the garden of the Tuileries, was observed by the guard near the gate of the palace private grounds, gesticulating in a manner to excite suspicion. He was plainly dressed, and advanced in years. When the sentinel saw him, after walking briskly to and fro, and muttering half aloud, stop and lift his hand in a threatening manner toward the royal abode, he promptly arrested him. Calling two _gens d'armes_, he put the suspected man, supposed guilty of designs against the king, into their hands, to be conveyed to prison.

At the gate they met a richly gilded open carriage, in which sat two ladies, with a child and nurse. The taller of the ladies wore a hat of dark velvet, with drooping plumes, and a mantle of the same, with a flowing dress of satin, the sleeves trimmed with rich lace. The soldiers stopped to salute the young Queen Marie Antoinette, and the prisoner removed his hat and bowed low. At the same instant the lady leaned from the carriage, exclaiming, "Ah! Master Gluck!"

The queen laughed heartily when she heard her old music-master had just been arrested for disloyal practices near the palace; when he was only declaiming a passionate recitative out of his new opera! She insisted on his entering the carriage and going to the palace with her; while the astonished guards went to report their mistake.

Not unfrequently had the celebrated composer been the guest of the royal lady. He was wont to visit her in the garden of the Trianon, talking German with her, and exchanging reminiscences of Vienna. When the opera-house in Paris had resounded with the applause called forth by the representation of one of his operas, and he was sent for to the royal box, the queen's own hand had crowned him with the chaplet his genius had won.

At this period the music-loving population of Paris was divided into partisans of the two rival composers, Gluck and Piccini. The merits of each were discussed in every circle, and comparisons were made, often with a confused war of tongues; the dispute being, to whom the palm of superior greatness should be awarded. Each had composed a piece on the same subject, which was shortly to be represented; the success deciding which of the two should keep the field.

Late the same evening a number of the Parisian connoisseurs and artists were assembled in the brilliantly illuminated _salon_ of the Café du Feu. Many of the _noblesse_ were to be seen, surrounded by critics, amateurs, etc., and the company was in a Babel of declamation and argument; the battle-cries all over Paris being "Gluck" and "Piccini." Three young men, who had just entered, secured a place in a quiet side-room, where three others were seated; one in a corner, deep in the shadow of a pillar. Comfortably ensconced in an arm-chair, this man sat with head leaning back, drumming with the fingers of one hand on the table, and taking no notice of anything that passed. {759} Another occupant of the room was a handsome young Frenchman, with deep blue eyes shaded with heavy brown lashes, and complexion of the rich brown of Provence; he was poorly dressed, but his manner was graceful and spirited. His companion at the table was a long, thin, middle-aged man, with an air of discontent and spite in his whole demeanor. He wore a rough brown peruke; his features were heavy, and he had a pair of keen, squinting eyes, with a peevish, sinister twist about the mouth. He spoke French badly, his accent betraying the Saxon. He was speaking of Gluck, and ended his remarks by saying: "I cannot understand what a people of so much judgment and taste as the French find so great in this man!"

"Are you speaking," cried the young Frenchman, "of the creator of _Armida_, of _Orpheus_, of _Iphigenia?_"

"Ahem! yes. He is not esteemed highly among us in Germany, for he knows little or nothing of art-rules, as the learned Herr Forhel in Göttingen and other distinguished critics have proved."

"And you, a musician, a composer, a German, speak thus!" exclaimed the young man. "I know little of art-rules; but one thing I know and feel, the Chevalier Gluck has a grand and noble spirit. His music awakens elevated feeling; no low or common thought can approach me while I listen to it; even when spiritless and dejected, my despondency takes flight before the lofty joy I feel in Gluck's creations."

"And think you," cried young Arnaut, who belonged to the other faction, "that the great Piccini would enter into a contest with your chevalier, did he not know he was to strive with a worthy adversary!"

The German, nettled at the question, shuffled a little as he answered, "Hem! I suppose not; I only maintain that M. Gluck is not the best composer, as the learned Herr Forhel has proved. With regard to a church style--"

"Who is talking of church styles!" interrupted the brown youth, with vivacity. "The point is, a grand opera style! Would your learned critics change Gluck's _Armida_ into a nun's hymn, or have his wild motets of _Tauris_ sung in the style of Palestrina?"

The squinting man moved in his seat, sipped his orangeade, and muttered: "The learned Herr Forhel has proved that the Chevalier Gluck understands nothing of songs."

"Nothing of songs!" echoed all the company, in surprise. The German continued: "He cannot carry through an ordinary melody according to rule; his song is but an extravagant declamation."

The brown youth started to his feet in glowing indignation. "You are not worthy to be a German, sir," he cried, "thus to speak of your great countryman. All Paris acknowledges in Gluck a mighty artist; the dispute is only whether he or Piccini is the greater. Gluck's music is the true expression of feeling, alike removed from the cold constraint of rules and from capricious innovation! Whether he would excel in church or concert music--or would attempt it--we cannot tell! He has set himself one glorious task, and pursues that with all the strength of a great spirit!"

"What is your name, young man?" sounded a sonorous voice from the corner behind him.

The stranger, whom all turned to look at, had risen from his seat, and the light of the candles shone full upon his face.

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"The Chevalier Gluck!" exclaimed several voices. Gluck smiled and bowed; then turning to the brown youth, he repeated his question.

"My name is Etienne Mehul," was the modest reply.

"You are a musician, I perceive," said Gluck. "Will you call at my house? Here is my address."

Handing him the card, he turned to the squinting German, who sat embarrassed, and spoke to him with undisguised contempt:

"Mr. Elias Hegrin! It is an unexpected pleasure to see you in Paris; yet a pleasure--for I like to tell you honestly what a miserable rascal you are! You think I understand nothing of the rules of music or of songs--eh! You thought differently in Vienna, when you almost lived at my house, and received instructions in music from me, and took what I procured for you from patrons, and what I gave you out of my own pocket! You became my enemy because I candidly told you you could master only the lifeless form, not the spirit. You seek what you can never obtain--not for the sake of art, but for your own temporary advantage. You would do better as an honest tailor or shoemaker, than a mean musician! You could not forgive my telling you this! and so you go and abuse me in Göttingen! Go and do better, if you can; but I think that will be difficult; for he who belies art because he cannot compass her, will be likely to remain the rascal he has shown himself! Adieu, Messieurs!"

Gluck nodded to young Mehul, and went out.

Queen Marie Antoinette had a private morning reception of her friends at her favorite Trianon. Comte d'Artois, just returned to Paris from his hunting castle, had come with his brother, the Comte de Provence, to pay his respects to his beautiful sister-in-law. They talked of the latest news in the capital, the balls, flirtations, witticisms, spectacles, etc., and of the new entertainment expected in the contest between Gluck and Piccini; the anticipations of which kept all Paris in dispute.

D'Artois declared himself for Gluck. "Your countryman," he cried to the queen, "is a splendid fellow! He went on the chase with me, and made five shots one after the other. As to the Italians, they do not know how to hold a gun!"

"I like the Italian music best," said the Comte de Provence. "You cannot well sing or dance to the German, as Noverre justly observes."

"Noverre had to dance to German music, though!" cried the queen, laughing. Then she told the story of the great dancing-master's visit to Gluck, and how he had ventured to tell him that no dancer in the grand opera could dance to his music in the Scythian ballets; and how Gluck, enraged, had seized the little man, and danced him through the whole house, up-stairs and down-stairs, singing the Scythian ballets; and had asked him, when the breath was nearly knocked out of Noverre, "Well, sir, think you, now, a dancer in the grand opera can dance to my music?" to which the poor panting victim had gasped out an eager affirmative! The story was much laughed at, and the arrogance of the opera artists commented on.

A page entered and announced, "The Chevalier Gluck, come to give the queen a lesson on the piano."

Marie Antoinette ordered him to be admitted.

"We were talking of you, M. Gluck," said the Princess Elizabeth; "and her majesty praised you for an excellent dancing-master."

"And my brother thinks you an expert in hunting, and on that account he belongs to your party," remarked the Comte de Provence.

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"Come," cried the queen, "you must not tease my good master! Leave him to save all his patience for his pupil--myself! He will have need of it, I assure you!"

"Because, Antoinette," said Gluck gravely, speaking in German, "you do not play half so well as queen, as when you were archduchess."

The queen laughed as she answered in the same language, "Wait but a little, Christophe! your ears shall ring presently. Ladies and gentlemen, will you be quiet?" She spoke to them in French, as she went to open the piano.

She inserted the key and turned it, perhaps too hastily; for she could not open the instrument. After several vain attempts, she called impatiently:

"Come hither, Gluck, and help me!"

Gluck tried, but with no better success; the others took their turn; but the lock resisted all their efforts. The queen looked vexed.

"What fool can have made such a lock?" exclaimed Gluck.

"Take care, chevalier, what you say," said the Comte de Provence; "the lock is of the king's own making--of a new sort, I believe."

D'Artois went out, and in a few moments returned with the king. Louis XVI. wore a short jacket, his head covered with an unsightly leathern cap, his face glowing and begrimed with soot, his hands were rough as those of a locksmith, and a bundle of keys and picklocks were fastened to his belt. He went up to the piano, and examined the lock with the earnest manner of an artisan, tried several keys without success, shook his head dissatisfied, and tried others. Finding the right one at last, the lock yielded, and with an air of triumph, as if he had won a battle, he said, smiling on his wife,

"There, the piano is open! Now, madame, you can play!"

But so long a time had passed, that the queen had lost the inclination. As she would not take her lesson, the Princess Elizabeth asked Gluck to play them something from his _Iphigenia_. He played the frenzy scene of Orestes. When he had finished it, the king exclaimed: "Excellent, chevalier! I am delighted. I will have your opera produced first, with all the care you like; and I hope the success will gratify you."

Two more visitors were announced--Signor Piccini and the Chevalier Noverre, who started and colored in some embarrassment when he saw Gluck. The king commanded the two composers to salute each other, which they did with dignity, cordiality, and easy grace. After the queen had spoken to them, the Chevalier Noverre reminded her majesty that she had been pleased to grant permission to Signor Piccini to play some new airs from his _Iphigenia_ before her.

Marie Antoinette assented, and asked Piccini what selection he had made; to which he replied that Noverre had wished him to play the first Scythian dance.

D'Artois burst into a laugh; but the others restrained their mirth. At the queen's command, Piccini seated himself at the piano, the Comte de Provence and Noverre beating time to his music. All the company thought Piccini's Scythian dance more pleasing and better adapted to the grace of motion than that of Gluck. But D'Artois whispered to the king that the dance, though admirable and full of melody, was better suited for a masked ball in the _salon_ of the grand opera than for a private abode in Tauris. {762} Gluck listened with earnest attention, evidently appreciating the merits of his opponent; but a light curl of his lips was seen, when Piccini indulged too freely in his pretty quaverings and tinklings. There was great applause when it was ended. Noverre praised the performance as displaying the inspiriting rhythmus which alone would enable the dancer to give true expression to his _pirouettes_ and _enterchats_.

"I agree with you, Monsieur Noverre," interrupted Louis, "that Signor Piccini's music is admirable; but I hope you will also make yourself acquainted with the music of the Chevalier Gluck."

Noverre replied timidly, that the Chevalier Gluck and he _were_ on the most friendly terms.

After the artists had left the royal abode, Gluck and Piccini took a courteous leave of each other. As Gluck stepped into his carriage, he said to Noverre: "Do not, chevavalier, forget his majesty's command. If I made you dance against your will, it was to introduce you to my music. I regret I am not a proficient in the art of dancing; yet I am, like yourself, chevalier of the order _de l'Esprit_, and in that character I wish you a good morning."

Piccini laughed at this, but Noverre looked vexed as Gluck drove away.

The rehearsals and preparations for the representation of the two _Iphigenias_ were nearly complete, and the day was appointed when the masterpiece of Gluck was to receive the sentence of the Parisians. It was to be performed first; the preference having been yielded to him as the oldest of the two composers. He was at that time sixty-five.

Treatises, learned and superficial, were published, upon Gluck and Piccini, the differences in their style and in the two operas; all tinctured with party spirit, and many showing gross ignorance of music. The performers, too, fell into dissension. Piccini had hard work to propitiate, by attentions and favors, some who were opposed to him, that his work might not be spoiled by their perversity. Gluck resorted to threats, and made his enemies afraid of him. He trusted to the excellence of his motto, "Truth makes its way through all things;" and reflected that the worst success would not make a good work a bad one.

On the morning of the final rehearsal, the day before the first representation, young Mehul was announced. Gluck cordially welcomed him, and asked why he had not seen him before.

"I feared to disturb you," answered the young man. "But to-day my anxiety brings me."

"Anxiety?" questioned Gluck.

"You have enemies; your opera is to be produced to-morrow! Should the success fall short of its merits--"

"Then be it so," said the master, smiling.

"You can say that so calmly?"

"Why not? Do you think of devoting yourself to dramatic composition?"

"It is my wish to do so."

"Work, then, with bold heart! Lay hold on what glowing inspiration brings you, and mould it with earnest heed! The great thing is, to stand firm, and go on with spirit and strength. The world makes this hard for the artist, and many fall in the conflict."

"You have won!"

"If I have gone through life neither a fool nor a knave, still I have my faults. To some the All-Benevolent has granted to know but little, till what they have attained is wasted, or in danger of being lost. Happy he who apprehends the better part, and holds it fast, though his heart be torn in the struggle! {763} What will you say when I confess to you, that perception of the highest--the _only_ good, came late--fearfully late to me! Music was all to me from earliest youth. When a boy, in lovely Bohemia, I heard her voice in the dense forest, the gloomy ravine, or the romantic valley; on the bold, stark cliff; in the cheerful hunter's call, or the hoarse song of stream and torrent. I thought there was nothing so great and glorious, that man, impotent man, could not achieve it. Too soon I learned that something was impossible. How soon are the spirit's wings clipped! Then come harassing doubts, false ambition, thirst of gain, envy, disappointed vanity, worldly cares; the hateful gnomes of earth, that cling to you and drag you downward, when you would soar like the eagle toward the sun. Thus it is in youth, in manhood, in old age. One among many, redeemed from folly, discerns and appreciates the right, and might create the beautiful. But by that time the ardor and vigor of youth are gone; and to his enthusiasm, his newly acquired knowledge, there remains a grave!"

"More--much more--to you!" cried Mehul in deep emotion.

"Perhaps it is true; for when I burst the fetters of the unworthy and the base, there came to me a radiant vision from the pure, bright Grecian age. The work of holding it fast, and shaping it in the external world, is my last. And melancholy it is that a whole vigorous lifetime could not be consecrated alone to such a theme--or to yet higher ones. But I must submit in repentance and humility, for my shortcomings! I will bear it, whether these Parisians adjudge me fame and wealth, or hiss down my work."

The hour struck for the rehearsal, and Gluck, accompanied by his young friend, went to the Royal Academy of Music.

Nicolo Piccini, morose and out of humor, was walking up and down his room, glancing now and then at the manuscript of his opera that lay upon his writing-desk. At times he would go to the desk as if a happy thought had struck him, to add something to the notes; but the next instant he would let fall the pen, shake his head with a dissatisfied and melancholy air, and resume his walk through the room.

A knocking was heard; and after it was repeated twice, Piccini opened the door. Elias Hegrin came in. The composer seemed disturbed at his presence, and gloomily asked what he wanted. Hegrin answered that the Chevalier Noverre had informed him Signor Piccini wished to see him.

After a pause, Piccini admitted that he had sent for him.

"And in what can I serve my honored patron?" asked Elias.

"By speaking the _truth!_" sternly answered Piccini. "Confess that you spoke falsely, when you told me Gluck stirred up all his friends to make a party against me!"

Elias Hegrin changed color, but he collected himself, and answered, "I spoke the truth."

"It is _false_, Elias! It was the same when you told me you had read the manuscript of my adversary, and that the work hardly deserved the honors of mediocrity."

"It was the truth, Signor Piccini, and I repeat my opinion of the opera of the Chevalier Gluck."

"So much the worse for your judgment! I have heard five rehearsals, and I must--ay, and _will_ declare before all the world, that Gluck's _Iphigenia_ is the greatest opera I know, and that in its author I acknowledge my master."

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Elias stared in amazement.

"I believed I had accomplished something worthy in my own work," continued Piccini; "and, indeed, my design was pure; nor is my work altogether without merit; but oh! how void and cold, how weak and insignificant does it seem to me, compared with Gluck's gigantic creation! Yes, creation! mine is only a work! a work that will vanish without a trace; while Gluck's _Iphigenia_ will endure as long as feeling for the grand and the beautiful is not dead in the hearts of men!"

"But, Signor Piccini," stammered Elias.

"Silence!" interrupted Piccini. "Why have you slandered the noble chevalier, and striven to bring down his works and his character to your own level? Are you not ashamed of such pitiful behavior? In spite of Noverre's recommendation, I have never fully trusted you; for I know that Noverre hated Gluck for having wounded his ridiculous vanity. But I never thought you capable of such meanness as I find you guilty of. Gluck stir up his friends to make a party against me! Look at these letters in Gluck's own hand, written to Arnaud, Rollet, Maurepas, wherein he judges my work thoroughly, dwelling upon the best parts, and entreats them to listen impartially to my opera as to his own, and to give an impartial judgment, as he is anxious only for the truth! My patron, the Comte de Provence, persuaded those gentlemen to send me these letters, to remove my groundless suspicions. I am deeply mortified that I ever condescended to make common cause with you! You have deceived me! Now, tell me, what induced you to act in this dishonorable manner toward your benefactor?"

Elias, shrunk into himself, replied in a lachrymose tone, "Ah! I am an unhappy man, and deserve your sympathy! From boyhood I heard it said at home that I had extraordinary talent for music, and would become a great composer, and win both wealth and fame. I studied zealously; my first work was praised in the town where I lived; but when I went to Vienna, I could do nothing."

"Gluck took you by the hand in Vienna, supported you, gave you instruction, and corrected your works."

"He did so; but he likewise told me I had no genius, and that I never could be a great composer."

"And did he deceive you? What have you proved yourself? You hate and slander him, then, because he honestly advised you to desist from useless efforts?"

Elias squinted sullenly, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes, I hate him!" he exclaimed fiercely. "Confound him! All the fame and gold are for him, and none for me! I will do him all the harm I can! I will embitter his life!"

"Begone!" cried Piccini, full of horror. "We have nothing more in common. Honor, religion, guide the true man; your divinities are vanity, envy, cowardly malice! Such as you deserve no sympathy!"

Full of spite and vexation, Elias Hegrin left the house.

Piccini's opera was admired, but that of Gluck obtained the victory, awakening universal enthusiasm. After its third representation, Gluck left the opera-house, followed by the acclamations of the enraptured multitude. Mehul was with him, going to sup at his house.

When they entered Gluck's drawing-room, both started with surprise to see a man wrapped in his mantle standing at the window and looking out. As they came in, he turned round and faced them.

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"Signor Piccini!" exclaimed Gluck in surprise.

"I am not an unwelcome guest, I hope?" said the composer, with a smile.

"Most welcome!" cried Gluck cordially, taking the offered hand and warmly pressing it, "I esteem and honor so noble an adversary!"

"We are no longer adversaries!" exclaimed Piccini. "Our strife is at an end. I acknowledge you as my master, and shall be happy and proud to call you my friend! Let the Gluckists and Piccinists dispute as they like; Gluck and Piccini understand each other!"

"And love each other, too!" cried Gluck, with vivacity. "Indeed it shall be so!"

The supper was enjoyed by the whole party.

--------

The Irish In America. [Footnote 68]

[Footnote 68: _The Irish in America_.
London: Longman, Rees & Co.
New York, Boston, and Montreal: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1868.]