CHAPTER XI. _Villa Scalviati, near Florence

I have had a night of ghostly dreams and horrors; the imagination of Monk Lewis, or, worse, of Hoffman himself, never conceived any thing so diabolical. H., who visited me last evening, by way of interesting me related the incidents of a dreadful murder enacted in the very room I slept in. There was a reality given to the narrative by the presence of the scene itself--the ancient hangings still on the walls--the antique chairs and cabinets standing, as they had done, when the deed of blood took place; but, more than all, by the marble bust of the murderess herself: for it was a woman, singularly beautiful, young, and of the highest rank, who enacted it. The story is this:--

The Villa, which originally was in possession of the Medici family, and subsequently of the Strozzi’s, was afterwards purchased by Count Juliano, one of the most distinguished of the Florentine nobility.

With every personal advantage--youth, high station, and immense wealth, he was married to one his equal in every respect, and might thus have seemed an exception to the lot of humanity, his life realising, as it were, every possible element of happiness. Still he was not happy; amid all the voluptuous enjoyments of a life passed in successive pleasures, the clouded brow and drooping eye told that some secret sorrow preyed upon him, and that his gay doublet in all its bravery covered a sad and sorrowing heart. His depression was generally attributed to the fact that, although now married three years, no child had been born to their union, or any likelihood that he should leave an heir to his great name and fortune. Not even to his nearest friends, however, did any confession admit this cause of sorrow; nor to the Countess, when herself lamenting over her childless lot, did he seem to shew any participation in the grief.

The love of solitude, the desire to escape from all society, and pass hours, almost days, alone in a tower, the only admittance to which was by a stair from his own chamber, had now grown upon him to that extent, that his absence was regarded as a common occurrence by the guests of the castle, nor even excited a passing notice from any one. If others ceased to speculate on the Count’s sorrow, and the daily aversion he exhibited to mixing with the world, the Countess grew more and more eager to discover the source. All her blandishments to win his secret from him were, however, in vain; vague answers, evasive replies, or direct refusals to be interrogated, were all that she met with, and the subject was at length abandoned,--at least by these means.

Accident, however, disclosed what all her artifice had failed in--the key of the secret passage to the tower, and which the Count never entrusted to any one, fell from his pocket one day, when riding from the door; the Countess eagerly seized it, and guessing at once to what it belonged, hastened to the Count’s chamber.

The surmise was soon found to be correct; in a few moments she had entered the winding stairs, passing up which, she reached a small octagon chamber at the summit of the tower. Scarcely had her eager eyes been thrown around the room, when they fell upon a little bed, almost concealed beneath a heavy canopy of silk, gorgeously embroidered with the Count’s armorial bearings. Drawing rudely aside the hangings, she beheld the sleeping figure of a little boy, who, even in his infantine features, recalled the handsome traits of her husband’s face. The child started and awoke with the noise, and looking wildly up, cried out, “Papa;” and then suddenly changing his utterance, said, “Mamma.” Almost immediately, however, discovering his error, he searched with anxious eyes around the chamber for those he was wont to see beside him.

“Who are you?” said the Countess, in a voice that trembled with the most terrible conflict of terror and jealousy, excited to the verge of madness. “Who are you?”

“Il Conte Juliano,” said the child, haughtily; and shewing at the same time a little medallion of gold embroidered on his coat, and displaying the family arms of the Julianos.

“Come with me, then, and, see your father’s castle,” said the Countess; and she lifted him from the bed, and led him down the steps of the steep stairs into, her husband’s chamber.

It was the custom of the period, that the lady, no matter how exalted her rank, should with her own hands arrange the linen which composed her husband’s toilet, and this service was never permitted to be discharged by any less exalted member of the household. When the Count returned, toward night-fall, he hastened to his room--an invitation, or command, to dine at the Court that day compelling him to dress with all speed. He asked for the Countess as he passed up the stairs, but paid no attention to the reply, for as he entered his chamber he found she had already performed the accustomed office, and that the silver basket, with its snow-white contents, lay ready to his hand. With eager haste he proceeded to dress, and took up the embroidered shirt before him. When, horror of horrors! there lay beneath it the head of his child, severed from the body, still warm and bleeding--the dark eyes glaring as if with but half-extinguished life, the lips parted as if yet breathing! One cry of shrill and shrieking madness was heard through every vaulted chamber of that vast castle; the echoes were still ringing with it as the maddened father tore wildly from chamber to chamber in search of the murderess. She had quitted the castle on horseback two hours before. Mounting his swiftest horse he followed her from castle to castle; the dreadful chase continued through the night and the next day; a few hours of terrible slumber refreshed him again to pursue her; and thus he wandered over the Apennines and the vast plain beyond them, days, weeks, months long, till in a wild conflict of his baffled vengeance and insanity he died! She was never heard of more!

Such is the horrid story of the chamber in which I sit; her bust, that of a lovely and gentle girl, fast entering into womanhood, is now before me; the forehead and the brows are singularly fine; the mouth alone reveals any thing of the terrible nature within; the lips are firm and compressed--the under one drawn slightly--very slightly--backward. The head itself is low, and, for the comfort of phrenologists, sadly deficient in “veneration.” The whole character of the face is, however, beautiful, and of a classic order. It is horrible to connect the identity with a tale of blood.

With this terrible tragedy still dwelling on my mind, and the features of her who enacted it, I fell asleep. The room in which I lay had witnessed the deed. The low portal in the corner, concealed behind the arras, led to the stairs of the tower; the deep window in the massive wall looked out upon the swelling landscape over which she fled, and he, in mad fury, pursued her: these, were enough to seize and hold the mind, and, blending the actual with the past, to make up a vision of palpable reality. Oftentimes did I start from sleep. Now, it was the fancy of a foot upon the tower stair; now, a child’s fairy step upon the terrace overhead; now, I heard, in imagination, the one, wild, fearful cry, uttered as if the reeling senses could endure no more! At last I found it better to rise and sit by the window, so overwrought and excited had my brain become. Day was breaking, not in the cold grey of a northern dawn, but in a rich glow of violet-coloured light, which, warmer on the mountain-tops, gradually merged into a faint pinkish hue upon the lesser hills, and became still fainter in the valleys and over the city itself. A light, gauzy mist, tracked out in the air the course of the Arno; but so frail was this curtain, that the sun’s rays were already rending and scattering its fragments, giving through the breaches bright peeps of villas, churches, and villages on the mountain sides: the great dome, too, rose up in solemn grandeur; and the tall tower of Santa Croce stood, sentinel like, over the sleeping city. Already the low sounds of labour, awakening to its daily call, were heard; the distant rumbling of the heavy waggon, the crashing noise of branches, as the olive-trees beside the road brushed against the lumbering teams; and, further off, the cheering voices of the boatmen, whose fast barks were hurrying along the rapid Arno;--all pleasant sounds, for they spoke of life and movement, of active minds and labouring hands, the only bulwarks against the corroding thoughts that eat into the sluggish soul of indolence.

For this fair scene--these fresh and balmy odours--this brilliant blending of blue sky and rosy earth, I could unsay all that I have said of Florence, and own, that it is beautiful! I could wish to sit here many mornings to come, and enjoy this prospect as now I do. Vain thought! as if I could follow my mind to the contemplation of the fair scene, and so rove away in fancy to all that I have dreamed of, have loved and cared for, have trusted and been deceived in!

I must be up and stirring--my time grows briefer. This hand, whose blue veins stand out like knotted cordage, is fearfully attenuated; another day or two, perhaps, the pen will be too much fatigue; and I have still “Good-by,” to say to many--friends?--ay, the word will serve as well as another. I have letters to write--some to read over once again; some to burn without reading. This kind of occupation--this “setting one’s house in order,” for the last time--is like a rapid survey taken of a whole life, a species of overture, in which fragments of every air of the piece enter, the gay and cheerful succeeded by the sad and plaintive, so fast as almost to blend the tones together; and is not this mingled strain the very chord that sounds through human life?

Here, then, for my letter-box. What have we here?--a letter from the Marquis of D------, when he believed himself high in ministerial favour, and in a position to confer praise or censure:--

“_Carlton Club_.

“Dear Tempy,

“Your speech was admirable--first-rate; the quotation from Horace, the neatest thing I ever heard; and astonishing, because so palpably unpremeditated. Every one I’ve met is delighted, and all say that, with courage and the resolve to succeed, the prize is your own. I go to Ireland, they say, or Paris. The latter if I can; the former if I must. In either case, will you promise to come with me? The assurance of this would be a very great relief to

“Yours, truly,

“D------.”

What have we pinned to the back of this? Oh, a few lines in pencil from Sir C------S------, received, I see, the same evening.

“Dear T.,

“Sir H------ is not pleased with your speech, although he owns it was clever. The levity he disliked, because he will not give D------ any pretence for continuing this system of personalities. The bit of Horace had been better omitted; Canning used the same lines once before, and the _réchauffée_--if it were such--was poor. The Marquis of D------ was twice at Downing Street, to say that he had ‘crammed’ you. This, of course, no one believes; but he takes the merit of your speech to himself, and claims high reward in consequence. He asks for an Embassy! This is what Lord L------ calls ‘too bad.’ Come over to- morrow before twelve o’clock.

“Believe me yours,

“C------ S------.”

Another of the same date:--

“Go in and win, old boy! You’ve made capital running, and for the start too--distanced the knowing ones, and no mistake! The odds are seven to four that you’re in the Cabinet before the Derby day. I’ve taken equal fifties that Tramp wins the Goodwood, and that you’re in--double event. So look out sharp, and don’t baulk “Yours ever,

“Frank Lushington.”

A fourth, tied in the same piece of riband:--

“_Wilson Crescent_.

“Dear Friend,

“We have just heard of your success. Brilliant and fascinating as it must be, do not forget those who long to share your triumph. Come over here at once. We waited supper till two; and now we are sitting here, watching every carriage, and opening the window at every noise in the street. Come then, and quickly.

“Augusta Beverly.”

And here is the last of the batch:--

“The D------ of B------ presents his compliments to Mr. Templeton, and begs to inform him that his ancestor was not the Marquis of T------ who conducted the negotiations at Malaga;’ neither were ‘thirty thousand pounds voted by the last Parliament to the family by way of secret service for parliamentary support,’ but in compensation for two patent offices abolished--Inspectorship of Gold Mines, and Ordnance Comptrollership. And, lastly, that ‘Infamous speech,’ so pathetically alluded to, was made at a private theatrical meeting at Lord Mudbury’s in Kent, and not ‘on the hustings,’ as Mr. T. has asserted.”

So much for one event, and in itself a trivial one! Who shall say that any act of his life is capable of exciting even an approach to unanimous praise or censure? This speech, which on one side won me the adhesion of some half-dozen clubs, the praise of a large body of the Upper House, the softest words that the “beauty of the season” condescended to utter, brought me, on the other, the coldness of the Minister, the chilling civility of mock admiration, and lost me the friendship--in House of Commons parlance--of the leading member of the Government!

And here is a strange, square-shaped epistle, signed in the corner, “Martin Haverstock.” This rough-looking note was my first step in Diplomacy! I was a very young _attaché_ to the mission at Florence, when, on returning to England through Milan, I was robbed of my trunk, and with it of all the money I possessed for my journey. It was taken by a process very well known in Italy, being cut off from the back of the carriage, not improbably, with the concurrence of the driver. However that might be, I arrived at the “Angelo d’Oro” without a sou. Having ordered a room, I sat down by myself, hungry and penniless, not having a single acquaintance at Milan, nor the slightest idea how to act in the emergency. My very passport was gone, so that I had actually nothing to authenticate my position--not even my name.

I sent for the landlord, who, after a very cold interview, referred me to the Consul; but the Consul had on that very morning left the city for Verona, so that his aid was cut off. My last resource--my only one, indeed--was to write to Florence for money, and wait for the answer. This was a delay of seven, possibly of eight, days, but it was unavoidable.

This done, I ordered supper--a very humble one too, and befitting the condition of one who had not wherewithal to pay for it. I remember still the sense of shame I felt as the waiter, on entering, looked around for my luggage, and saw neither trunk nor carpet-bag--not even a hat-box. I thought--nay, there could be no mistake about it, it was quite clear--he laid the table with a certain air of careless and noisy indifference that bespoke his contempt. The very bang of the door as he went out, was a whole narrative of my purseless state.

I had been very hungry when I ordered the meal. I had not tasted food for several hours, and yet now I could not eat a morsel; chagrin and shame had routed all appetite, and I sat looking at the table, and almost wondering why the dishes were there. I thought of all the kind friends far away, who would have been so delighted to assist me; who, at that very hour perhaps, were speaking of me affectionately; and yet I had not one near, even to speak a word of counsel, or say one syllable of encouragement. It was not, it may well be believed, the monied loss that afflicted me--the sum was neither large, nor did I care for it. It was the utter desolation, and the sense of dependence, that galled me--a feeling whose painful tortures, even temporary as they were, I cannot, at this hour, eradicate from my memory.

Had I been left enough to continue my journey in the very humblest way, on foot even, it would have been happiness compared with what I felt. I arose at last from the table, where the untasted food still stood, and strolled out into the streets. I wandered about listlessly, not even feeling that amusement the newly seen objects of a great city almost always confer, and it was late when I turned back to the inn. As I entered, a man was standing talking with the master of the house, who, in his broken English, said, as I passed, “There he is!” I at once suspected that my sad adventure had been the subject of conversation, and hurried up the stairs to hide my shame. In my haste, however, I forgot my key at the porter’s lodge, and was obliged to go back to fetch it. On doing so, I met on the stairs a large, coarse-looking man, with a florid face, and an air of rough but of simple good-nature in his countenance. “You are a countryman, I believe?” said he in English. “Well, I’ve just heard of what has happened to you. The rascals tried the same trick with me at Modena; but I had an iron chain around _my_ trunk, and as they were baulked, and while they were rattling at it, I got a shot at one of them with a pistol--not to hurt the devil, for it was only duck-shot; not a bullet, you know. Where’s your room?--is this it?”

I hesitated to reply, strange enough; though he shewed that he was well aware of all my loss. I felt ashamed to shew that I had no baggage, nor any thing belonging to me. He seemed to guess what passed in my mind, and said,--

“Bless your heart, sir, never mind me. I know the rogues have stripped you of all you had; but I want to talk to you about it, and see what is best to be done.”

This gave me courage. I unlocked the door, and shewed him in.

“I suspected how it was,” said he, looking at the table, where the dishes stood untouched; “you could not eat by yourself, nor I either: so come along with me, and we’ll have a bit of supper together, and chat over your business afterwards.”

Perhaps I might have declined a more polished invitation; whether or not, it was of no use to refuse him, for he would not accept an excuse; and down we went to his chamber, and supped together. Unlike my slender meal, his was excellent, and the wine first-rate. He made me tell him about the loss of my trunk, twice over, I believe; and then he moralised a great deal about the rascality of the Continent generally, and Italy in particular, which, however, he remembered, could not be wondered at, seeing that three-fourths of the population of every rank did nothing but idle all day long. After that he inquired whether I had any pursuit myself; and although pleased when I said Yes, his gratification became sensibly diminished on learning the nature of the employment, “I may be wrong,” said he, “but I have always taken it, that you diplomatic folk were little better than spies in gold-laced coats--fellows that were sent to pump sovereigns and bribe their ministers.” I took a deal of pains, “for the honour of the line,” to undeceive him; and, whether I perfectly succeeded or not, I certainly secured his favour towards myself, for, before we parted, it was all settled that I was to travel back with him to England, he having a carriage and a strong purse, and that he was to be my banker in all respects till I reached my friends.

As we journeyed along through France, where my knowledge of the language and the people seemed to give the greatest pleasure to my companion, he informed me that he was a farmer near Nottingham, and had come abroad to try and secure an inheritance bequeathed to him by a brother, who for several years had been partner in a great silk factory near Piacenza. In this he had only partly succeeded, the Government having thrown all possible obstructions in his way; still he was carrying back with him nearly twenty thousand pounds--a snug thing, as he said, for his little girl, for he was a widower with an only child. Of Amy he would talk for hours--ay, days long! It was a theme of which he never wearied. According to him, she was a paragon of beauty and accomplishments. She had been for some time at a boarding-school at Brighton, and was the pride of the establishment. “Oh, if I could only shew her to you!” said he. “But why couldn’t I? what’s to prevent it? When you get to England and see your friends, what difficulty would there be in coming down to Hodley for a week or two? If you like riding, the Duke himself at Retton Park has not two better bred ones in his stable than I have!” No need to multiply his arguments and inducements: I agreed to go, not only to, but actually with him--the frank good-nature of his character won on me at every moment, and, long before we arrived at Calais, I had conceived for him the strongest sentiments of affection.

From the moment he touched English ground his enthusiasm rose beyond all bounds; delighted to be once back again in his own country, and travelling the well-known road to his own home, he was elated like a schoolboy. It was never an easy thing for me to resist the infectious influence of any temperament near me, whether its mood was grave or gay, and I became as excited and overjoyed as himself; and I suppose that two exiles, returning from years of banishment, never gave themselves up to greater transports than did we at every stage of our journey. I cannot think of this without astonishment, for, in honest truth, I was all my life attached to the Continent--from my earliest experience I had preferred the habits and customs to our own, and yet, such was the easy and unyielding compliance of my nature, that I actually fancied that my Anglo-mania was as great as his own.

At last we reached Hodley, and drove up a fine, trimly-kept gravel avenue, through several meadows, to a long comfortable-looking farmhouse, at the door of which, in expectant delight, stood Amy herself. In the oft-renewed embraces she gave her father I had time to remark her well, and could see that she was a fine, blue-eyed, fair-haired, handsome girl--a very flattering specimen of that good Saxon stock we are so justly proud of; and if not all her father’s partiality deemed as regarded ladylike air and style, she was perfectly free from any thing like pretension or any affectation whatever. This was my first impression: subsequent acquaintance strengthened it. In fact, the Brighton boarding-school had done no mischief to her; she had not learned a great deal by her two years’ residence, but she had not brought back any toadying subserviency to the more nobly born, any depreciating sense of her former companions, or any contempt for the thatched farmhouse at Hodley and its honest owner.

If our daily life at the farm was very unvarying, it was exceedingly pleasurable; we rose early, and I accompanied Martin into the fields with the workmen, where we remained till breakfast. After which I usually betook myself to a little brook, where there was excellent fishing, and where, her household duties over, Amy joined me. We dined about two; and in the afternoon we--that is, Amy and myself--rode out together; and as we were admirably mounted, and she a capital horsewoman, usually took a scamper “cross country,” whenever the fences were not too big and the turf inviting. Home to tea, and a walk afterwards through the green lanes and mossy paths of the neighbourhood, filled the day; and however little exciting the catalogue of pursuits, when did I feel time pass so swiftly? Let me be honest and avow, that the position I enjoyed had its peculiar flattery. There was through all their friendship a kind of deferential respect--a sense of looking up to me, which I was young enough to be wonderfully taken by: and my experiences at Foreign Courts--which Heaven knows were few and meagre enough--had elevated me in their eyes into something like Lord Whitworth or Lord Castlereagh; and I really believe, that all the pleasure my stories and descriptions afforded was inferior to the delight they experienced in seeing the narrator, and occasionally the actor, in the scenes described, their own guest at their own table.

It was while revelling in the fullest enjoyment of this pleasant life that I received a Foreign Office letter, in reply to an application I had made for promotion, rejecting my request, and coolly commanding my immediate return to Florence. These missives were not things to disobey, and it was in no very joyful mood I broke the tidings to my host.

“What’s it worth?” said Martin, abruptly.

“Oh, in point of money,” said I, “the appointments are poor things. It is only that there are some good prizes in the wheel, and, whether one is lucky enough to gain them or not, even Hope is something. My salary is not quite two hundred a-year!”

Martin gave a long, low whistle, and said,--

“Why, dang it! my poor brother George, that’s gone, had six hundred when he went out as inspector over that silk factory! Two hundred a-year!” mused he; “and what do you get at your next promotion?”

“That is not quite certain. I might be named _attaché_ at Vienna, which would, perhaps, give me one hundred more--or, if I had the good fortune to win the Ministers favour, I might be made a Secretary at some small legation and have five hundred--that is, however, a piece of luck not to be thought of.”

“Well, I’m sure,” sighed Martin; “I’m no judge of these matters; but it strikes me that’s very poor pay, and that a man like myself, who has his ten or twelve hundreds a-year--fifteen in good seasons--is better off than the great folk dining with kings or emperors.”

“Of course you are,” said I; “who doubts it? But we must all do something. England is not a country where idleness is honourable.”

“Why not turn farmer?” said Martin, energetically; “you’d soon learn the craft, I’ve not met any one this many a-year picks up the knowledge about it like yourself. You seem to like the life too.”

“If you mean such as I live now, I delight in it.”

“Do you, my dear boy?” cried he, grasping my hand, and squeezing it between both his own. “If so, then never leave us. You shall live with us--we’ll take that great piece of land there near the haugh--I’ve had an eye on it for years back; there’s a sheep run there as fine as any in Europe. I’ll lay down the whole of those two fields into meadow, and keep the green crops to the back altogether. Such partridge-shooting we will have there yet. In winter, too, the Duke’s hounds meet twice a-week. I’ve got such a strapping three-year-old--you haven’t seen him, but he’ll be a clipper. Well, don’t say nay. You’ll stay and marry Amy. I’ll give her twenty thousand down, and leave you all I have afterwards.”

This was poured forth in such a voluble strain, that an interruption was impossible; and at last, when over, the speaker stood with tearful eyes, gazing on me, as if on my reply his very existence was hanging.

Surprise and gratitude for the unbounded confidence he had shewn in me were my first sensations, soon to be followed by a hundred other conflicting and jarring ones. I should shame--even now, after years have gone by--to own to some of these. Alas! our very natures are at the mercy of the ordinances we ourselves have framed; and the savage red man yields not more devotion to the idol he has carved, than do we to the fashion we have made our Deity! I thought of the Lady Georginas and Carolines of my acquaintance, and grew ashamed of Amy Haverstock! If I had loved, this I am sure would not have been the case, but I cannot acquit myself that principle and good feeling should not have been sufficient without love! Whether from the length of time in which I remained without answering, or that in my confusion he read something adverse to his wishes, but Martin grew scarlet, and in a voice full of emotion said,--

“There, Mr. Templeton, enough said. I see it will not do--there’s no need of explaining. I was a fool, that’s all!”

“But will you not let me, at least, reflect?” “No, sir; not a second. If my offer was not as frankly taken as made--ay, and on the instant too--I am only the more ashamed for ever making it: but there’s an end on’t. If you would be as good friends parting with me as we have been hitherto, never speak of this again.” And so saying, Martin turned on his heel and walked hastily away. I followed him after a second, but he waved me back with his hand, and I was forced to comply.

That day Amy and I dined alone together. Her father, she said, “had got a bad headache;” and this she said with such evident candour, it was clear she knew nothing of our interview. The dinner was to me, at least, a very constrained affair; nor were my sensations rendered easier as she said--“My father tells me that you are obliged to leave us this evening, Mr. Templeton. I’m very sorry for it; but I hope we’ll meet soon again.”

We did not meet soon again, or ever. I left the farm that night for London. Martin came to the door from his bed to wish me good-by. He looked very ill, and only spoke a few words. His shake-hands was, however, hearty; and his “God bless you,” uttered with kind meaning.

I have never seen that neighbourhood since.

It was about two years after that I received a letter--the very one now before me--superscribed Martin Haverstock. It was brief, and to this effect. The Secretary for Foreign Affairs being a candidate for the representation in Parliament of the county in which Martin held a large stake, had, in acknowledgment of his friend Mr. Haverstock’s exertions in his support, been only too happy to consider the application made respecting Mr. H.’s young friend, who, by the next Gazette, would be announced for promotion.

And thus I was made Secretary of Legation at Studtgart!

There was a postscript to Martin’s letter, which filled me with strange and varying emotions:---“Amy is sorry that her baby is a little girl; she’d like to have called it ‘Horace.’”

This packet I need not open. The envelope is superscribed, “Hints and Mems for H.T. during his residence at the Court of M------.” They were given in a series of letters from old Lord H------, who had long been a resident Minister there, and knew the people thoroughly. I followed, very implicitly too, the counsels he gave, and was said to have acquitted myself well, for I was “_Chargé d’Affaires_.” But what absurdity it is to suppose that any exclusive information is ever obtainable by a Minister, except when the Government itself is disposed to afford it! I remember well, the spy we employed was also in the pay of the French Embassy. He was a Sardinian, and had spent some years of his life an Austrian prisoner in a fortress. We all believed, whatever the fellow’s sentiments on other subjects, that he was a profound hater of Austria. Well, it turned out that he sold us all to Metternich.

Old Sir Robert W------ used to say to his _attachés_--“Never tell me secrets, but whenever any thing is publicly discussed in the clubs and cafés, let me hear it.” In the same way, he always rejected the authenticity of any revelations where Talleyrand, or Metternich, or Pozzo di Borgo’s names appeared. “These men,” he always used to say, “were their own confidants, and never leaked save to serve a purpose.” It was from Sir Robert I heard a story first, which has since, I believe, been fully corroborated. An Under-secretary of Talleyrand, during the Prince’s residence as French ambassador at St. James’s, informed his Excellency one morning, that a very tempting offer had been made to him if he would disclose the contents of his master’s writing-desk. He had not accepted, nor altogether declined the proposal, wishing to know from the Prince how it might be made available to his plans, and whether a direct accusation of the author, a person of high station, would be deemed advisable. Talleyrand merely said, “Take the money; the middle board of the drawer in my secretary is removable by a very simple contrivance, which I’ll shew you. I had it made so at Paris. You’ll find all the papers you want there. Take copies of them.”

“But, Monsieur le Prince-----”

“Pray make your mind at ease. I’ll neither compromise myself nor you.”

The Secretary obeyed; the bargain was perfected, and a supposed “secret correspondence between Talleyrand and Arnim,” deposited in Lord T------‘s hands. About a week afterwards Lord T------ invited the Prince to pass some days at his seat in Herefordshire, where a distinguished party was assembled. The Ambassador accepted; and they met like the most cordial of friends. When the period of the visit drew to its conclusion, they were walking one morning in the grounds together, engaged in a conversation of the most amicable candour, each vying with the other by the frankness and unreserve of his communications.

“Come now, Prince,” said Lord T------, “we are, I rejoice to find, on terms which will permit any freedom. Tell me frankly, how do you stand with Prussia? Are there any understandings between you to which we must not be parties?”

“None whatever.”

“You say this freely and without reserve?”

“Without the slightest reserve or qualification.”

Lord T------ seemed overjoyed, and the discussion concluded. They dined that day together, and in the evening a large company was assembled to meet the Prince before his departure for London. As usual at T------ House, the party contained a great show of distinguished persons, political and literary. Among the subjects of conversation started was the question of how it happened that men of great literary distinction so rarely could shine as statesmen; and that even such as by their writings evinced a deep insight into political science, were scarcely ever found to combine practical habits of business with this great theoretical talent.

The discussion was amusing, because it was carried on by men who themselves occupied the highest walks in their respective careers.

To arrest a somewhat warm turn of the controversy, Lord T------, turning to the Prince, said, “I suppose, Monsieur le Prince, you have seldom been able to indulge in imaginative composition?”

“Pardon me, my Lord, I have from time to time dissipated a little in that respect; and, if I must confess it, with a very considerable degree of amusement.”

The announcement, made with a most perfect air of candour, interested at once the whole company, who could not subdue their murmured expressions of surprise as to the theme selected by the great Diplomatist.

“I believe,” said he, smiling, “I am in a position to gratify the present company; for, if I mistake not, I have actually with me at this moment a brief manuscript of my latest attempt in fiction. As I am a mere amateur, without the slightest pretension to skill or ability, I feel no reluctance at exposing my efforts to the kind criticism of friends. I only make one stipulation.”

“Oh, pray, what is it? any thing, of course, you desire!” was heard on every side.

“It is this. I read very badly, and I would request that T------, our kind host, would take upon him to read it aloud for us.”

Lord T------ was only too much flattered by the proposal, and the Prince retired to fetch his papers, leaving the company amazed at the singularity of a scene which so little accorded with all they had ever heard of the deep and wily Minister; some of the shrewdest persons significantly observing, that the Prince was evidently verging on those years when vanity of every kind meets fewest obstacles to its display.

“Here are my papers, my Lord,” said the Prince, entering with his manuscript. “I have only to hope that they may afford to the honourable company any portion of the amusement their composition has given me.”

The party seated themselves round the room, and Lord T------, disposing the papers on the table before him, arranged the candles, and prepared to begin. “The title of the piece is missing,” said he, after a pause.

“Oh, no, my Lord; you’ll find it on the envelope,” replied Talleyrand.

“Ah, very true; here it is!--‘Secret Correspondence’------” Lord T------ stopped--his hands trembled--the blood left his face--and he leaned back in his chair almost fainting.

“You are not ill!--are you ill?” broke from many voices together.

“No; not in the least,” said he, endeavouring to smile; “but the Prince has been practising a bit of ‘plaisanterie’ on me, which I own has astounded me.”

“Won’t you read it, my Lord; or shall I explain?”

“Oh, Monsieur le Prince,” said Lord T------, crushing the papers into his pocket, “I think you may be satisfied;” and with this, to the company, very mysterious excuse, his Lordship abruptly retired; while Talleyrand almost immediately set out for London.

The nature of the mystification was not disclosed till long afterwards; and it is but justice to both parties to say, not by Talleyrand, but by Lord T------ himself.

With what facility men, whose whole daily life is artifice, can be imposed on, is a very remarkable feature in all these cases. The practice of deceit would actually appear to obstruct clear-sightedness and dull the ordinary exercise of common sense. Witness that poor Dutch ambassador Fabricius, who, a few years ago, was imposed on at Paris by Bouffé, the comedian, representing himself to be the first Secretary of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and offering, for a sum of money, to confide to him the secret negotiations between M. Guizot and the Belgian Government! Fabricius, deceived by the great resemblance of Bouffé to the person he represented, agreed, and actually wrote to the King of Holland a triumphant despatch, announcing his own diplomatic dexterity. Every post saw a huge packet of letters to the King, containing various documents and papers; some assuming to be in the handwriting of Guizot--some, of Nothomb--some, of the Duke of Wellington--and two or three of King Leopold himself. The task of undeceiving the unhappy dupe was taken by his Majesty Louis Philippe, who having, at an evening reception at Neuilly, exposed his attempted corruption, coolly turned his back and refused to receive him.

Another dive into this chaotic mass of reminiscence! A letter from poor Granthorpe, whose sad suicide remains the unexplained and unexplainable mystery of all who knew him. A man whose mind was remarkable for its being so deeply imbued with sentiments of religious truth--whose whole life was, so to say, devotional--is found dead, the act being by his own hand! No circumstance of domestic calamity, no pecuniary difficulty, not even a passing derangement of health, to account for the terrible event. Here is his note; we were but new acquaintances at the time, and it begins,--

“Dear Sir,

“From the conversation we held together lately at Lord N----‘s table, I believe I shall not misinterpret your sentiments by supposing that any new fact connected with Waterloo will interest you strongly. I therefore enclose you a memoir, drawn up a few evenings back at W------. It was begun by way of a regular refutation of Alison, whose views are so manifestly incorrect; the idea of publication is, however, abandoned, and I am at liberty merely to shew it to such of my friends as take a more than common interest in the transaction.

“Truly yours,

“S. Granthorpe.”

The memoir which accompanied this is curious for two reasons: first, from its authenticity; and, secondly, from the fact that, being dictated from beginning to end, it is as clear, as consecutive, as free from unnecessary, and as full of all necessary detail, as if the events were of a few days’ back, and that no recital of them had yet been given to the world. Two or three anecdotes (new to me, at least) were interspersed here and there, not for themselves, but as circumstantially evidencing facts of some importance.

One, I remember, alluded to a Prussian statement by a Captain Hahnsfelder, who stated that two British guns, placed on the height above La Haye Sainte, were captured by the French as early as eleven o’clock. The passage in the memoir is this:--“Untrue; these guns were in the field at seven in the evening, in the same position which they stood at the beginning of the battle. They are in advance of Adam’s left, and were so far unprotected that the artillerymen who served them had to retire after each discharge. The Cuirassiers made several attempts to carry them off, but as orders were given that, after each fire, one wheel should be taken off each gun, the cavalry failed in their object. They tried to lasso them, but this also failed, besides losing them some men.”

Alison’s strategy, for he went so far as to plan a campaign of his own, is very ably exposed, and the necessity of posting troops in particular districts clearly explained from circumstances peculiar to the localities, such as stationing the cavalry at Enghein, where alone forage was procurable. The controversy, if it can be so called, is worthless. They whose opinions are alone valuable are exactly the persons who will not speak on the subject.

A strange-looking letter is this from C------ enclosing the proof of a paper I wrote on Irish Educational matters, very laconic and editorial:--

“Dear T.,

“You are all wrong: as blue and yellow, when mixed, form green, so will your Protestant and Papist League make nothing but rampant infidelity. In any great State scheme of education there must be one grand standard of obedience--the Bible is the only one I’ve heard of yet. Keep this one then till you hear of better.

“Yours,

“H. C.”

Another of the same hand:--

“H------ desires me to inclose you these two letters: one I know is an introduction to Guizot; the other, I suppose, to be ‘Ein empfehlungs Brief’ to the ‘Gräfin.’ Take care to say as little as possible to the one, and to have, in Irish parlance, as little as possible ‘to say’ to the other. At Paris you want no guidance; and at Vienna, the Abbé Discot is your man. Coloredo is out of favour for the moment; but he can afford to wait, and, waiting, to win. Be assiduous in your visits at B------y’s; and when the Countess affects ignorance, let us always hear from you.

“Yours ever,

“H. C.”

This is a very rose-coloured and rose-odoured document:--

“Dear Mr. Templeton,

“I have to make two thousand excuses; one each for two indiscretions, I believed I had your box at the Opera for last evening; and I also fancied--think of my absurdity!-- that the bouquet of camélias left there was meant for me. Pray forgive me; or, rather, ask the fair lady who came in at the ballet to forgive me. I never can think of the incident without shame and self-reproach; _du reste_, it has given me the opportunity of knowing that your taste in beauty equals your judgment in flowers.

“Very much yours,

“Helen Collyton.

“Sir H------ bids me say, that he expects you on Wednesday. We dine earlier, as the Admiral goes on board in the evening.”

This was an absurd incident; and, trivially as it is touched on here, made of that same Lady Collyton a very dangerous enemy to me.

This is not a specimen of calligraphy, certainly:--

“If you promise neither to talk of the Catholic Question, the Kildare Place Society, nor the ‘Glorious Revolution of 1688.’ P------ will have no objection to meet you at dinner. Hammond, you’ve heard, I suppose, has lost his election; he polled more voters than there were freeholders registered on the books: this was proving too much, and he must pay the penalty. Y------ is in, and will remain if he can; but there is a hitch in it--‘as the man who lent him his qualification is in gaol at Bruges.’ Write and say if you accept the conditions.

“Yours,

“Frederick Hamilton.”

There are some memorials of a very different kind--they are bound up together; and well may they, they form an episode quite apart from all the events before or after them! I dare not open them; for, although years have passed away, the wounds would bleed afresh if only breathed on! This was the last I ever received from her. I have no need to open it--I know every line by heart!--almost prophetic, too!

“I have no fear of offending you now, since we shall never meet again. The very thought that the whole world divides us, as completely as death itself, will make you accept my words less as reproof than warning. Once more, then, abandon the career for which you have not health, nor energy, nor enduring strength. Brilliant displays, discursive efforts, however effective, will no more constitute statesmanship than fireworks suffice to light up the streets of a city. Like all men of quick intelligence, you undervalue those who advance more slowly, forgetting that their gleaning is more cleanly made, and that, while you come sooner, they come more heavily laden. Again, this waiting for conviction--this habit of listening to the arguments on each side, however excellent in general life, is inapplicable in politics. You must have opinions previously formed--you must have your mind made up, on principles very different and much wider than those a debate embraces. If I find the person who guides me through the streets of a strange city stop to inquire here, to ask this, to investigate that, and so on, I at once conceive--and very reasonably--a doubt of his skill and intelligence; but if he advance with a certain air of assured knowledge, I yield myself to his guidance with implicit trust: nor does it matter so much, when we have reached the desired goal, that we made a slight divergence from the shortest road.

“Now, if a constituency concede much to your judgment, remember that you owe a similar debt to the leader of your party, who certainly--all consideration of ability apart-- sees further, because from a higher eminence, than other men.

“Again, you take no pleasure in any pursuit wherein no obstacle presents itself; and yet, if the difficulty be one involving a really strong effort, you abandon it. You require as many conditions to your liking as did the commander at Walcheren--the wind must not only blow from a particular quarter, but with a certain degree of violence. This will never do! The favouring gale that leads to fortune is as often a hurricane as a zephyr; some are blown into the haven half shipwrecked, but still safe.

“Lastly, you have a failing, for which neither ability, nor address, nor labour, nor even good luck, can compensate. You trust every one--not from any implicit reliance on the goodness of human nature--not that you think well of this man, or highly of that, but simply from indolence. ‘Believing,’ is so very easy--such a rare self-indulgence! Think of all the deception this has cost you--think of the fallacies, which you knew to be fallacies, that found their way into your head, tainting your own opinions, and mingling themselves with your matured convictions. Believe me, there is nothing but a strict quarantine can prevail against error!”

Enough of these,--now for an incremation: would that, Hindoo like, I could consume with them the memory to which they have been wedded!

*****

Dr. H------ has been here again; he came in just as the last flicker was expiring over the charred leaves; he guessed readily what had been my occupation, and seemed to feel relieved that the sad office of telling bad tidings of my case was taken off his hands. Symptoms seem now crowding on each other--they come, like detached battalions meeting on the field of battle when victory is won, only to shew themselves and to proclaim how hopeless would be resistance. The course of the malady would, latterly, appear to have been rapid, and yet how reluctant does the spirit seem to quit its ruined temple!

I wish that I had more command over my faculties; the tricks Imagination plays me at each moment are very painful: scarcely have I composed my mind into a calm and patient frame, than Fancy sets to work at some vision of returning health and strength--of home scenes and familiar faces--of the green lanes of Old England, as seen at sunset of a summer eve, when the last song of the blackbird rings through the clear air, and odours of sweet flowers grow stronger in the heavy atmosphere.

To start from these, and think of what I am--of what so soon I shall be!

What marvellously fine aspirations and noble enterprises cross the sick man’s fancy! The climate of health is sadly unfavourable to the creatures begot of fancy--one tithe of the strange notions that are now warring in my distracted brain would make matter for a whole novelist’s library. Thoughts that are thus engendered are like the wines which the Germans call “Ausgelesene,” and which, falling from the grape unpressed, have none of the impurities of fabrication about them. After all, the things that have been left undone by all of us in this life, would be far better and greater than those we have done.

Oh, the fond hearts that have never been smitten, And all the hot tears that have never been shed! Not to speak of the books that have never been written; And all the smart things that have never been said!

*****

Weaker and weaker!--the senses fail to retain impressions, and, like cracked vases, let their contents ooze out by slow degrees. Objects of sight become commingled with those of sound; and I can half understand the blind man Locke tells us of, who imagined “the colour scarlet to be like the sound of a trumpet.”

Mesmerism affects the power of transferring the operations of one sense to the organs of another; can it be that, in certain states of the brain, the nervous fluids become intermixed?

It is night--calm, still, and starlit! How large are the stars compared with what they appear in northern latitudes! And the moonlight, too, is pale as silver, and has none of the yellow tint we see with us. Beautifully it lies along that slope of the mountain yonder, where the tall dark yew-trees throw their straight shadows across the glittering surface.

It is the churchyard of St. M------; and now in the church I can perceive the twinkle of lights--they are the candles around the coffin of him whose funeral I saw this morning. The custom of leaving the body for a day in the church before consigning it to the grave is a touching one. The dimly-lighted aisles, and the solemn air of the place, seem a fitting transition from Life to the sleep of Death.

I have been thinking of that very old man, who came past the window yesterday, and sat down to rest himself on the stone-bench beside the door. Giordano never took a finer head as a study: lofty and massive, with the temples deeply indented; and such a beard, snow-white and waving! How I longed for strength enough to have wandered forth and seated myself beside him! A strange, mysterious feeling was on me--that I should hear words of comfort from his lips! This impression grew out of his own remarkable story. Yes, poor and humble as his dress, lowly as his present condition may seem, he was a “Captain of the Imperial Guard”--a proud title once! He was taken prisoner during the retreat from Moscow, and, with hundreds more, sent away to eternal exile in Siberia! At that period he was in all the pride of manhood, a true specimen of his class--gay, witty, full of daring, and a sceptic; a Frenchman of the Revolution grafted on a gentleman of the old _régime!_ The Fatalism that sustained them--it was their only faith--through long years of banishment, brought many in sadness to the grave! It was a gloomy-religion, whose hope was but chastened despair! He himself lived on, the reckless spirit of a bold heart hardening him against grief as effectually as it excluded memory. When, at length, as time went on, and his companions dropped off around him, a severe and cheerless melancholy settled down upon him, and he lived on in a state of dreamy unreality, less like sleep than death itself! And yet, through this dense cloud a ray of light pierced and fell upon his cold and darkened spirit, like day descending into some cleft between the mountains!

He was sitting at the door of his hut one evening, to taste the few short moments of sunset, when, unwrapping the piece of paper which surrounded his cigar--the one sole luxury the prisoners are permitted--he was proceeding to light it, when a thought occurred that he would read the lines, for it was a printed paper. He opened the bit of torn and ragged paper, and found there three verses from the Gospel of St. John. Doubtless he had often sat in weariness before the most heart-stirring appeals and earnest exhortations; and yet these few lines did what years of such teaching failed to do. The long-thirsting heart was refreshed by this one drop of clear water! He became a believer, firm and faithful! His liberation, which he owed to the clemency of the Emperor Alexander, set him free to wander over the world as a missionary, and this he has been ever since. How striking are his calm and benevolent features among the faces which pass you in every street--for we live in times of eager and insensate passion. The volcano has thrown forth ashes, and who knows how soon the flame may follow!

How long this night appears! I have sat, as I believe, for hours here, and yet it is but two o’clock! The dreary vacuity of weakness is like a wide and pathless waste. I see but one great spreading moorland, with a low, dark horizon; no creature moves across the surface--no light glimmers on it. It is the plain before the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

Poor Gilbert!--how soundly he sleeps, believing that I am also sunk to rest! The deep-drawn breathings of his strong chest are strange beside the fluttering hurry of my respiration. He was wearied out with watching--wearied, as I feel myself: but Death comes not the sooner for our weariness; we must bide our time, even like the felon whose sentence has fixed the day and the hour.

Three o’clock! What a chill is on me! The fire no longer warms me, nor does the great cloak with which I braved the snows of Canada. This is a sensation quite distinct from mere cold--it is like as though my body were itself the source from which the air became chilled. I have tried to heap more wood upon the fire, but am too weak to reach it. I cannot bear to awaken that poor fellow. It is but enduring a little--a very little longer--and all will be over!

There was a man upon the terrace below the window, walking slowly back and forwards. What can it mean, so late? It has made me nervous and irritable to watch his shadow as it crosses before me. There!--how strange!--he has beckoned to me! Is this real? Now I see no one! Some trick of imagination; but how weak it has left me! My hand trembles, too, with a strange fear.

It has struck again! It must be four; and I have slept. What a long night it has been! O Life! Life! how little your best and highest ambitions seem to him who sits, like me, waiting to be released! Now and then the heart beats full and strong, and a momentary sense of vigour flashes across my mind; and then the icy current comes back, the faint straggle to breathe shaking the frame as a wrecked vessel trembles with each crashing wave!

Day breaks at length--that must be the dawn! But my eyes are failing, and my hands are numbed. Poor Gilbert! how sound is his sleep! He has turned--and now he dreams! What is he muttering? Good night! good night! Even so--good night!

*****

How cold--how very cold I feel! I thought it had been over! Oh, for a little longer of this dalliance here!--ay, even here, on the last shores of life! Inexpressibly sweet the odours are, and the birds! How I drink in those strains!--they will float with me along the journey I am going! Weaker and weaker. This must be death! Farewell!

*****

The circumstances which have placed these papers in my hands afford me the only apology I can offer for making them public. They were bequeathed to me, in some sort, as a recompense for services which my poor master had long intended to have rewarded very differently; nor, save under the pressure of an actual necessity, should I devote them now to the purpose of personal assistance. I neither understand how to correct nor arrange them. I have no skill in editorship, and send them to the printer without the addition of a letter by any hand except his who wrote them. It is true, some pages have been withheld--I am not sure whether necessarily or not--for I have no competent judgment to guide me. I would, however, hope, that what I here give to the world may, while benefiting the servant, leave no stain upon the memory of the best of masters.

GEORGE GILBERT,

_Valet to the late H. Templeton, Esq_.

_Dover, January_ 1848.

_Postscript to Envoy_.

A word may be necessary as to the political allusions, as they were all written in the autumn of the past year, many are, of course, inapplicable to countries whose condition the wonderful events lately occurring have modified: many are, however, almost correct in every detail of prophetic foresight; and, it is not necessary that I should repeat, have neither been changed nor added to since penned by my late master.

THE END.