Chapter 2

[8] We apologize to our zealous correspondent for omitting the ingenious defence of War, contained in the Note to this passage. Its insertion would involve ourselves in a war--we mean of "words, words, words." As a private opinion, we admit the argument of the defence; though it militates so strongly with passion and prejudice that its insertion would be the war-hoop for a whole community of peace-makers to break in upon our literary _otium._ We wish to be the last in the world to feed a popular fallacy on any subject; but in some respects the argument employed in the journal quoted by M.L.B. is of too general a description to controvert the error in the present case. We must be courteous--though not of the court: ours is a system of non-intervention in politics; ever, in matters of literary dispute we do little more than "bite our thumb." It is hoped our correspondent will rightly understand us; and so now, like Mr. Peake's bashful man in the farce, we offer our apology for having apologized. By the way, in the, newspapers is advertised a pamphlet, containing an apology for its publication.--ED, M.

[9] It is a pity that when Voltaire wrote this clever paper, Gas and Steam were not in vogue to add to the "astonishments" of Tullia. This would also most miraculously have assisted Madame de Genlis, in that no less clever exposition of the wonders of nature and art, the story of Alphonso and Thelismon.

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NEW BOOKS.

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THE YEAR OF WATERLOO.

[In continuation of our extracts from the very amusing _Private Correspondence of a Woman of Fashion_ are the following incidents of this memorable era.]

Return of Napoleon.--At half-past nine o'clock the secretary announced to us that Napoleon had entered Paris quietly, without pageantry or mark of splendid triumph, and was seated at supper in the vacated palace of Louis XVIII!--

"On that same throne where Henri great and good, In glory sat--now sits this man of blood; Yet let not prejudice debase my line, As warrior, as statesman, let him shine,-- Through all the world his mighty name resound, For arts of peace and deeds of arms renown'd: Mark with what steady hand he rules the State! Yet wants the stamp of _Virtue_ to be _Great_!"

Thus did the French people permit his return without firing a gun in defence of truth, and of their legitimate sovereign, whom they had recalled to the throne of his ancestors _only ten months_ before! Our excellent friend, the minister, joined us soon after; but he was taciturn and thoughtful, and retired early. The next morning I determined to see Napoleon; but when our carriage arrived at the Pont Royal, thousands were collected there. Our servant advised us to descend and make our way on foot. The crowd civilly made way--they were waiting to see the review. An unusual silence prevailed, interrupted only by the cries of the children, whom the parents were thumping with energy for crying "Vive le Roi," instead of "Vive l'Empereur!"--which, some months before, they had been thumped for daring to vociferate! We proceeded to the Bibliothêque Royale: its outward appearance is that of an hospital or prison, its interior heavy and dark,--it was almost deserted.--Van Pratt still lingered there.--A Dutchman's phlegm tempered his emotions on the proceedings without; perhaps the repeated changes of government during his long life had diminished his interest in them. After showing me, with great complacency, much of the valuable possessions of this national collection of learning, splendid missals written on vellum, MSS. &c. &c. upon which my mind cannot now dwell, he recommended us to proceed to the review, to see which he had the good-nature to procure me admittance to the small apartment of a friend in the Tuileries; and from the window I saw and heard for the first time this scourge of the Continent,--his martial, active figure mounted on his famed white horse. He harangued with energetic tone (and in those bombastic expressions we have always remarked in all his manifestoes, and which are so well adapted to the French,) the troops of the divisions of Lepol and Dufour. There was much embracing of Les Anciens Aigles of the Old Guard--much mention of "_great days, and souvenirs dear to his heart_," of the "scars of his brave soldiers;" which, to serve his views, he will re-open without remorse, like the vampire of Greece. The populace were tranquil, as I had remarked them on the bridge. Inspirited by my still unsatisfied curiosity, I rejoined my escort, and proceeded to the gardens, where not more than thirty persons were collected under the windows. There was no enthusiastic cry, at least none deemed sufficient to induce him to show himself. In despair at not being able to contemplate his physiognomy at greater ease, I made my cavalier request some persons in the throng to cry "Vive l'Empereur!" Some laughed, and replied "Attendez un peu," while others advised us to desire some of the children to do so. A few francs thrown to the latter, soon stimulated their little voices into cries of the _loyalty of that day_, and Napoleon presented himself at the window; but he did not stand there in a firm attitude--he retired often, and re-appeared, standing rather _sideways_, as if wanting confidence in the disposition of our little assemblage. A few persons arrived from the country, and held up petitions, which he sent an aid-de-camp to receive. His square face and figure struck me with involuntary emotion. I was dazzled, as if beholding a supernatural being!--and then dismayed, as gazing upon one mortal like myself, but possessing such powers and capabilities of outraging humanity, and over-stepping the bounds of honour, good faith, and freedom's laws,--the laws of God and man! There is a sternness spread over his expansive brow, a gloom on the lids of his darkened eye, which renders futile his attempts to smile. Something of the Satanic sported round his mouth, indicating the ambitious spirit of the soul within!

_The Day after the Battle of Waterloo._--June 19.

British bayonets are victorious!--Napoleon's army a wreck, panic-stricken, flies before Wellington and Blucher! I will not forget your anxieties even in this moment of fatigue and agitation. The combined forces are covered with immortal fame; they have vanquished the _élite_ of Napoleon's empire, and those veteran generals most attached to his person and dynasty. They are in full flight, and we in glorious pursuit!--Ere this reaches you, the Allies will probably have entered Paris a second time within the year. We learnt that Napoleon had left the capital of France on the 12th: on the day of the 15th the frequent arrival of couriers excited extreme anxiety; and towards evening General Mufflin presented himself at the Duke's with dispatches from Blucher. We were all aware that the enemy was in movement, and the ignorant could not resolve the enigma of the Duke going tranquilly to the ball at the Duke of Richmond's:--his coolness was above their comprehension; had he remained at his own hotel, a panic would have probably ensued amongst the inhabitants, which would have embarrassed the intended movement of our division of the army.

I returned home late, and we were still talking over our uneasiness, when our domestic distinctly heard the trumpet's shrill appeal to battle within the city walls, and the drum beat to arms. Ere the sun had risen in full splendour, I distinguished martial music approaching, and I soon beheld from my windows the 5th reserve of our army passing: the Highland brigade, in destructive warlike bearing, were the first in advance, led by their noble thanes, the bagpipes playing their several pibrochs; they were succeeded by the 28th, their bugles' note falling more blithely upon the ear. Each regiment passed in succession with its band playing, impatient for the affray and fearless of death, meeting the peaceful peasant's carts bringing sustenance for the living. Those of my acquaintance looked gaily up at the window--alas! how many of them were before sunset numbered with the dead;--Scotland's thanes, ere they had traversed the Bois de Soignies, and the Duc de Brunswick-Oels that evening at Quatre Bras, stimulating onward his valiant hussars, and too carelessly exposing his person.

On the 17th the Duke of Wellington displayed his whole force to the enemy, and seemed to defy them to the combat--but in the evening retired upon Waterloo, and there reposed with some of his officers in the village, which lies embosomed in the Forêt de Soignies. Picton had fallen; each herald brought us tidings of a hero less, where all were heroes.

That night was dreadful for the soldier and his horse. No sooner had darkness covered the earth, than a fearful tempest arose; it was awful for man and beast--for the houseless peasant and his children, who had been driven from their late peaceful habitations, and stood exposed to the pitiless storm, viewing in wild dismay their fields devastated, the spring produce of their gardens laid low in human gore! At early dawn, on the Sabbath,--that hallowed day, enjoined to be held sacred for the worship of God, and for rest to toil-worn animals--the British army beheld the _chevaleresque_ legions of the enemy, in all its superior numbers, ranged in order of battle on the rising ground. The sun at mid-day flashed its brilliant radiance over their military casques and arms. The cannonade then became general; the Duke of Wellington exposed himself like a subaltern; his personal venture in the strife excited anxiety; it was in vain that the officers of his staff urged him to be less conspicuous, that the fate of the battle hung upon his life: it was evident that he had determined to conquer or die: we knew it in Bruxelles, and we knew also that the Prince of Orange would succeed to the command in such a dread emergency; and although we did not doubt his Royal Highness's personal valour, we questioned much his experience in military tactics. In the streets every one demanded, "Will Blucher be able to advance?" and we were fully aware if that veteran General could not effect a junction with Wellington before eight o'clock that evening, all would be lost. At nine o'clock the two heroes mutually felicitated each other at the small _auberge_ of Genappe. But it was not till three o'clock in the morning that the word "Victory!" was proclaimed by an _affiche_ on the walls to the terrified population of Bruxelles!

The Prince of Orange had been wounded early in that evening, after having in the morning disputed every inch of ground against the superior force of the enemy, and continued to fight like a valourous chevalier each succeeding day for his kingdom: he has fairly won it. May his future subjects record the fact in ineffaceable characters on their memory! The British army had faught thirteen successive hours; they halted, and to the fresh troops of the Prussians the task of pursuing the fugitive enemy was assigned: they gladly forgot all fatigue, in vengeful feeling and relentless retaliation against their former merciless and insulting invaders. The British moved forward this day, and will enter France to-morrow. Eight hundred lion-mettled and noble sons of Britain have fallen by the side of _thirty thousand_ of their own brave soldiers! It has been a dear-earned victory to England; a dread tragedy, in the small circumference of three miles! The veterans of the Peninsular campaign assert that those scenes of carnage were less cruel. This city, where pleasure so lately reigned, now presents only the images of death. _Vraiment nous respirons la mort dans les rues!_ L'Hôtel-de-Ville, the hospitals, and some of the churches, are already occupied by the wounded; wagons full remaining in the streets, and many sitting on _the steps of the houses_, looking round in vain for immediate succour!

Our escape has been mavellous, for Napoleon's plan was to penetrate to Bruxelles, and to surprise the Duke and his staff at the ball, when surrounded by the British _belles_; for he had his spies to report even the hour of our pastimes, and he reckoned upon a rise of the Belgians in his favour. For three days and nights we expected the enemy to enter; treachery reigned around us, and false reports augmented our alarms, as we knew the terrible numbers of the French forces. It was Bulow and his corps that protected us from that calamity. On the Saturday we took refuge within the city, from the scenes of horror before our villa. Baggage-wagons of the different regiments advancing--the rough chariots of agriculture, with the dead and the dying, disputing for the road--officers on horseback wounded! I spoke to one: 'twas Colonel C----, of the Scotch brigade; he replied with his wonted urbanity to my inquiries--gave me his hand--"I am shot through the body--adieu for ever!" He left me petrified with horror, and I saw him no more! One hour afterwards I sent to his apartment--the gallant veteran had expired as they lifted him from his horse!

I could not abandon the Baroness and her children in such an hour; but I must ever gratefully recollect the kind offers of asylum made to me by my Belgian acquaintance, and for months, they said, had the battle been lost. It is truly pitiable to see the wounded arriving on foot; a musket reversed, or the ramrod, serving for a staff of support to the mutilated frame, the unhappy soldier trailing along his wearied limbs, and perhaps leading a more severely-wounded comrade, whose discoloured visages declare their extreme suffering;--their uniforms either hanging in shreds, or totally despoiled of them by those marauders who ravage a field of battle in merciless avidity of plunder and murder. These brave fellows, these steady warriors, so redoubtable a few hours since, are now sunk into the helplessness of infancy, the feebleness of woman, over whom man arrogates a power that may not be disputed, but whose solacing influence in the hour of tribulation and sickness they are willing to claim.

The Belgian females are in full activity, acting with noble benevolence. They are running from door to door begging linen, and entreating that it may be scraped for lint; others beg matrasses.

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TRIBUTES TO GENIUS.

The Cuts represent unostentatious yet affectionate tributes to three of the most illustrious names in literature and art: DANTE, and PETRARCH, the celebrated Italian poets; and CANOVA, whose labours have all the freshness and finish of yesterday's chisel. Lord Byron, whose enthusiasm breathes and lives in words that "can never die," has enshrined these memorials in the masterpiece of his genius. Associating Dante and Petrarch with Boccaccio, he asks:

But where repose the all Etruscan three-- Dante and Petrarch, and scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he Of the Hundred Tales of Love--where did they lay Their tones, distinguish'd from our common clay In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, And have their country's marbles naught to say? Could not their quarries furnish forth one bust? Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust?[10]

Dante was born at Florence in the year 1261. He fought in two battles, and was fourteen times ambassador, and once prior of the republic. Through one fatal error, he fell a victim to party persecution, which ended in irrevocable banishment. His last resting-place was Ravenna, where the persecution of his only patron is said to have caused the poet's death. What an affecting record of gratitude! His last days at Ravenna are thus referred to by an accomplished tourist:[11]

"Under the kind protection of Guido Novello da Polenta, here Dante found an asylum from the malevolence of his enemies, and here he ended a life embittered with many sorrows, as he has pathetically told to posterity, 'after having gone about like a mendicant; wandering over almost every part to which our language extends; showing against my will the wound with which fortune has smitten me, and which is so often imputed to his ill-deserving, on whom it is inflicted.' The precise time of his death is not accurately ascertained; but, it was either in July or September of the year 1321. His friend in adversity, Guido da Polenta, mourned his loss, and testified his sorrow and respect by a sumptuous funeral, and, it is said, intended to have erected a monument to his memory; but, the following year, contending factions deprived him of the sovereignty which he had held for more than half a century; and he, in his turn, like the great poet whom he had protected, died in exile. I believe, however, that the tomb, with an inscription purporting to have been written by Dante himself, of which I have here given an outline, was erected at the time of his decease: and, that his portrait, in bas-relief, was afterwards added by Bernardo Bembo, in the year 1483, who, at that time was a Senator and Podestà of the Venetian republic."

Byron truly sings:

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore; Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages. There is a tomb in Arquà; rear'd in air, Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover.

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They keep his dust in Arquà, where he died; The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride-- An honest pride--and let it be their praise, To offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre, both plain And simply venerable, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fame.[12]

"The tomb is in the churchyard at Arquà. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said to be buried, in a sarchophagus of red marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, and preserved from an association with meaner tombs. The revolutions of centuries have spared these sequestered valleys, and the only violence that has been offered to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted, not by hate, but veneration. An attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and one of the arms was stolen by a Florentine through a rent which is still visible."[13]

The third Memorial is a red porphyry Vase containing the heart of Canova. It is placed in the great hall of the Academy of Arts at Venice, beneath the magnificent picture of the Assumption of the Virgin, by Titian. The vase is ornamented with ormoulu, and bears the inscription _Cor magni Canovae_, in raised gold letters. M. Duppa describes it as "a vase fit for a drawing-room, not grand, nor lugubrious: it is surmounted with a capsule of a poppy, which is a great improvement on a skull and cross bones."

Canova was not only the greatest sculptor of his own but of any age. Byron says--

Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day.

He was, in great part, self-taught. In one of his early letters, he says, "I laboured for a mere pittance, but it was sufficient. It was the fruit of my own resolution; and, as I then flattered myself, the foretaste of more honourable rewards--for I never thought of wealth." He wrought for four years in a small ground cell in a monastery. From his great mind originated the founding of the study of art upon the study of nature. His enthusiasm was perfectly delightful: he made it a rule never to pass a day without making some progress, or to retire to rest till he had produced some design. His brother sculptors, hackneyed in the trammels of assumed principles, for a time ridiculed his works, till, at length, in the year 1800, his merits hecame fully recognised; from which time till his death, in 1822, he stood unrivalled amidst the honours of an admiring world.

[10] Childe Harold, canto 4, st. lvi.

[11] Duppa--Observations on the Continent.

[12] Childe Harold, canto 4, st. xxxi, xxxii.

[13] Notes to Childe Harold, ibid.--See Engraving of Petrach's House at Arquà, _Mirror_, vol. xvii, p. 1.

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THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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THE HOME OF LOVE.

"They sin who tell us Love can die. With Life all other Passions fly, All others are but Vanity;--

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"But Love is indestructible. Its holy flame for ever burneth, From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth; Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times oppressed, It here is tried and purified, And hath in Heaven its perfect rest."--SOUTHEY.

Thou movest in visions, Love!--Around thy way, E'en through this World's rough path and changeful day, For ever floats a gleam, Not from the realms of Moonlight or the Morn, But thine own Soul's illumined chambers born-- The colouring of a dream!

Love, shall I read thy dream?--Oh! is it not All of some sheltering, wood-embosomed spot-- A Bower for thee and thine? Yes! lone and lonely is that Home; yet there Something of Heaven in the transparent air Makes every flower divine.

Something that mellows and that glorifies Bends o'er it ever from the tender skies, As o'er some Blessed Isle; E'en like the soft and spiritual glow, Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow Sleeps lovingly awhile.

The very whispers of the Wind have there A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear Greeting from some bright shore, Where none have said _Farewell!_--where no decay Lends the faint crimson to the dying day; Where the Storm's might is o'er.

And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, In the deep sanctuary of one true breast Hidden from earthly ill: There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, whose sound Wakening all Nature to sweet echoes round, Thine inmost soul can thrill.

There by the hearth should many a glorious page, From mind to mind th' immortal heritage, For thee its treasures pour; Or Music's voice at vesper hours be heard, Or dearer interchange of playful word, Affection's household lore.

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, The melody of hearts in heavenly air, Thence duly should arise; Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath, Of Spirits, not to be disjoined by Death, Up to the starry skies.

There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come To mar the stillness of that Angel-Home;-- There should thy slumbers be Weighed down with honey-dew, serenely blessed, Like theirs who first in Eden's Grove took rest Under some balmy tree.

Love, Love! thou passionate in Joy and Woe! And canst _thou_ hope for cloudless peace below-- _Here_, where bright things must die? Oh, thou! that wildly worshipping, dost shed On the frail altar of a mortal head Gifts of infinity!

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love! Danger seems gathering from beneath, above, Still round thy precious things;-- Thy stately Pine-tree, or thy gracious Rose, In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose, Here, where the blight hath wings.

And, as a flower with some fine sense imbued To shrink before the wind's vicissitude, So in thy prescient breast Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill To the low footstep of each coming ill;-- Oh! canst _Thou_ dream of rest?