Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume Ii Part 12

Seriously I believe, that love of life is less general than the habit of projecting schemes for the future--a vague system of castle-building, which even the least speculative practises; and that death is thus accounted the great evil, as suddenly interrupting a chain of events whose series is still imperfect. The very humblest peasant that rises to daily toil has his gaze fixed on some future, some period of rest or repose, some hour of freedom from his lifelong struggle. Now, I have exhausted this source; the well, that once bubbled with eddying fancies of days to come, is dry. High spirits, health, and the buoyancy that result from both, when joined to a disposition keenly alive to enjoyment, and yet neither cloyed by excess nor depraved by corrupt tastes, will always go far to simulate a degree of ability. The very freedom a mind thus const.i.tuted enjoys is a species of power; and its liberty exaggerates its range, just as the untrammelled paces of the young colt seem infinitely more graceful and n.o.ble than the matured regularity of the trained and bitted steed.

It was thus that I set out in life--ardent, hopeful, and enthusiastic: if my mental resources were small, they were always ready at hand, like, a banker with a weak capital, but who could pay every trifling demand on the spot, I lived upon credit; and upon that credit I grew rich. Had I gone on freely as I began, I might still enjoy the fame of wealth and solvency, but with the reputation of affluence came the wish to be rich.

I contracted my issues, I husbanded my resources, and from that hour I became suspected. To avoid a "run" for gold, I ceased to trade and retired. This, in a few words, is the whole history of my life.

Gilbert comes to say that the carriage is waiting to convey me to the villa--our luggage is already there. Be it so: still I must own to myself, that going to occupy a palace for the last few hours of life and fortune is very much like good Christopher Sly's dream of Lordliness.

CHAPTER X. SOME REVERIES ABOUT PLACES.

What would the old school of Diplomatists have said if they saw their secret wiles and machinations exposed to publicity, as is now the fashion? When any "honourable and learned gentleman" can call for "copies of the correspondence between our Minister at the Court of-------- and the n.o.ble Secretary for the Foreign Department;" and when the "Times" can, in a leader, rip up all the flaws of a treaty, or expose all the dark intentions of some special compact? The Diplomatic "Holy of Holies" is now open to the vulgar gaze, and all the mysteries of the craft as commonplace as the transactions of a Poor-law Union.

Much of the "prestige" of this secrecy died out on the establishment of railroads. The Courier who travelled formerly with breathless haste from Moscow to London, or from the remotest cities of the far East, to our little Isle of the West, was sure to bring intelligence several days earlier than it could reach by any other channel. The gold greyhound, embroidered on his arm, was no exaggerated emblem of his speed; but now, his prerogative over, he journeys in "a first-cla.s.s carriage"

with some fifty others, who arrive along with him. Old age and infancy, sickness and debility, are no disqualifications--the race is open to all--and the tidings brought by "our messenger" are not a particle later, and rarely so full, as those given forth in the columns of a leading journal.

How impossible to affect any mysterious silence before the "House!"--how vain to attempt any knowledge from exclusive sources! "The ordinary channels of information," to use Sir Robert's periphrasis, are the extraordinary ones too; and not only do they contain whatever Ministers know, but very often "something more."

Time was when the Minister, or even the Secretary at a Foreign Court, appeared in society as a kind of casquet of state secrets,--when his mysterious whispers, his very gestures, were things to speculate on, and a grave motion of his eyebrows could make "Consols" tremble, and throw the "Threes" into a panic. Now the question is, Have you seen the City article in the "Times?" What does the "Chronicle" say? No doubt this is a tremendous power, and very possibly the enjoyment of it, such as we have it in England, is the highest element of a pure democracy.

Political information of a very high order establishes a species of education, which is the safest check upon the dangers of private judgment, and hence it is fair to hope that we possess a sounder and more healthy public opinion in England than in any of the states of the Continent. At least it would not be too much to infer, that we would be less accessible to those sudden convulsions, those violent "_coups de main_" by which Governments are overturned abroad; and that the general diffusion of new notions on political subjects, and the daily reference to such able expositors as our newspaper press contains, are strong safeguards against the seductive promises of mob-leaders and liberty-mongers.

In France, a Government is always at the mercy of any one bold enough to lead the a.s.sault. The attempt may seem often a "forlorn hope"--it rarely is so in reality. The love of vagrancy is not so inherent in the Yankee as is the destructive pa.s.sion in the Frenchman's heart; but it is there, less from any pleasure in demolition than in the opportunity thus.

offered for reconstruction. Mirabeau, Rousseau, Fournier, La Mennais, are the social architects of French predilection, and many a clearance has been made to begin the edifice, and many have perished in laying the foundations, which never rose above the earth, but which ere long we may again witness undertaken with new and bolder hands than ever.

Events that once took centuries for their accomplishment, are now the work of days or weeks. Steam seems to have communicated its impetuosity to mind as well as matter, and ere many years pa.s.s over how few of the traces of Old Europe will remain, as our fathers knew them?

I have scarcely entered a foreign city, for the last few years, without detecting the rapid working of those changes. Old families sinking into decay and neglect--time-honoured t.i.tles regarded as things that "once were." Their very homes, the palaces, a.s.sociated with incidents of deep historic interests, converted into hotels or "_Pensionnats_."

The very last time I strolled through Paris, I loitered to the "_Quartier_" which, in my young ambition, I regarded with all the reverence the pilgrim yields to Mecca. I remembered the first "_soiree_"

in which I was presented, having dined at the Emba.s.sy, and being taken in the evening, by the Amba.s.sador, that I might be introduced to the Machiavel of his craft, Prince Talleyrand. Even yet I feel the hot blush which mantled in my cheek as I was pa.s.sing, with very scant ceremony, the round-shouldered little old man who stood in the very doorway, his wide black coat, far too large for his figure, and his white hair, trimly brushed back from his ma.s.sive temples.

It did not need the warning voice of my introducer, hastily calling my name, to make my sense of shame a perfect agony. "Monsieur Templeton, Monsieur le Prince," said the Amba.s.sador; "the young gentleman of whom I spoke;" and he added, in a tone inaudible to me, something about my career and some mention of my relatives.

"Oh, yes!" said the Prince, smiling graciously, "I am aware how 'connexion,' as you call it, operates in England; but permit me, Monsieur," said he, turning towards me, "to give one small piece of advice. It is this: 'If you can win by cards never score the honours.'"

The precept had little influence on himself, however. No man ever paid greater deference to the distinctions of rank, or conceded more to the prestige of an ancient name. Neither a general, an orator, nor an author--not even the leader of a faction--this astonishing man stood alone, in the resources of his fertile intellect, directing events, which he appeared to follow, and availing himself of resources which he had stored up for emergency; but so artfully, that they seemed to arise out of the natural current of events. Never disconcerted or abashed--not once thrown off his balance--not more calmly dignified when he stood beside Napoleon at Erfurth, then master of Europe itself, than he was at the Congress of Vienna, when the defeat of France had placed her at the mercy of her enemies.

It was in this same house, in the Rue Saint Florentin, that the Emperor Alexander lived when the Allies entered Paris, on the last day of March, 1814. His Majesty occupied the first floor; M. de Talleyrand, the _rez de chaussee_. He was then no more than ex-Minister for Foreign Affairs; neither empowered by the Bourbons to treat for the Restoration, nor by the nation for the conditions of a government--he was merely "one among the conquered;" and yet to this man all eyes were turned instinctively, as to one who possessed the secret of the future. That _rez de chaussee_ was besieged with visitors from morning till night; and even when, according to the custom of the French, he made his lengthened toilette, his dressing-room was filled by all the foreign ministers of the conquering monarchs, and Nesselrode and Metternich waited at these daily levees. In all these discussions M. de Talleyrand took the lead, with the same ease and the same "_aplomb_" discussing kings to make and kingdoms to dismember, as though the clank of the muskets, which now and then interrupted their colloquy, came from the Imperial Guard of Napoleon, and not the Cossacks of the Don and the Uhlans of the Danube, who crowded the stairs and the avenues, and bivouacked in the court.

Here the Restoration was decided upon, and Talleyrand himself it was who decided it. The Emperor Alexander opposed it strongly at first, alleging that the old spirit and the old antipathies would all return with the elder Bourbons, and suggesting the Duc d'Orleans as king. Talleyrand, however, overruled the objection, a.s.serting that no new agent must be had recourse to for governing at such a juncture, and that one usurpation could not be succeeded by another. It is said that when the news reached Vienna, in 1815, that Napoleon had landed from Elba, the Emperor Alexander came hurriedly over to where Talleyrand was sitting, and informing him what had occurred, said, "I told you before your plan would be a failure!" "_Mais que faire?_" coolly retorted the calm _diplomate_; "of two evil courses it was the better--I never said more of it. Had you proclaimed the King of Rome, you had been merely maintaining the power of Napoleon under another name. You cannot establish the government of a great nation upon a half-measure. Besides that, Legitimacy, whatever its faults, was the only Principle that could prove to Europe at large that France and Napoleon were parted for ever; and, after so many barterings of crowns and trucklings of kingdoms, it was a fine opportunity of shewing that there was still something--whether it be or be not by right divine--which was superior to sabres and muskets, generals and armies."

It was the sanct.i.ty of right--whether of kings, people, or individuals--which embodied Talleyrand's conception of the Restoration; and this it was which he so admirably expressed when arriving at the Congress of Vienna, the amba.s.sador of a nation without wealth or army.

"_Je viens_" said he to the a.s.sembled Kings and Ministers of conquering Europe--"_Je viens et je vous apporte plus que vous n'avez,--Je vous apporte l'idee du droit!_" This was happily expressed; but no one more than he knew how to epigrammatise a whole volume of thought. In private life, the charm of his manner was the most perfect thing imaginable: his consciousness of rank and ancient family divested him of all pretension whatever, and the idea of entering the lists with any one never occurred to his mind. Willingly availing himself of the talents of others, and their pens upon occasion, he never felt any embittering jealousy.

Approachable by all, his unaffected demeanour was as likely to strike the pa.s.sing observer as the rich stores of his intellect would have excited the admiration of a more reflecting one. Such was he who has pa.s.sed away from amongst us--perhaps the very last name of the eventful era he lived in which shall claim a great place in history!

A singular picture of human vicissitude is presented to us in the aspect of those places, but more particularly of those houses wherein great events have once occurred, but where times' change have brought new and very different a.s.sociations. A very few years, in this eventful century we live in, will do this. The wonderful drama of the Empire sufficed to impress upon every city of Europe some great and imposing reminiscence.

A small, unpretending little house, beside the ducal park at Weimar, was Napoleon's resting-place for three days, when the whole world was at his feet! The little salon where his receptions were held at evening--and what receptions were they! the greatest Ministers and the most distinguished Generals of Europe!--scarcely more than an ordinary dressing-room in size, remains to this hour as he left it. One arm-chair, a little larger than the others, stands at the window, which always lay open. A table was placed upon the gra.s.s-plot outside, where several maps were laid. The salon itself was too small to admit it, and here from time to time the Emperor repaired, while with eagle glance and abrupt gesture he marked out the future limits of the continental kingdoms, creating and erasing monarchies, fashioning nations and people, in all the proud wilfulness of Omnipotence! And now, while thinking of the Emperor, let me bring to mind another local a.s.sociation.

In the handsomest part of the Chaussee d'Antin, surrounded on every side by the splendid palaces and gorgeous mansions of the wealthiest inhabitants of Paris, stands a small, isolated, modest edifice, more like a Roman villa than the house of some northern capital, in the midst of a park; one of those pleasure-grounds which the French--Heaven knows why--designate as "Jardin Anglais." The outer gate opens on the Rue Chantereine, and here to this hour you may trace, among the time-worn and dilapidated ornaments, some remnants of the strange figures which once decorated the pediment: weapons of various ages and countries, grouped together with sphinxes and Egyptian emblems; the faint outlines of pyramids, the peaceful-looking ibis, are there, among the helmets and cuira.s.ses, the ma.s.sive swords and the death-dealing arms of our modern warfare. In the midst of all, the number 52 stands encircled with a little garland of leaves; but even they are scarce distinguishable now, and the number itself requires the aid of faith to detect it.

Within, the place speaks of neglect and decay; the shrubs are broken and uncared-for; the parterres are weed-grown; a few marble pedestals rise amid the rank gra.s.s, to mark where statues once stood, but no other trace of them remains: the very fountain itself is fissured and broken, and the water has worn its channel along the herbage, and ripples on its wayward course unrestrained. The villa is almost a ruin, the sashes have fallen in in many places; the roof, too, has given way, and fragments of the mirrors which once decorated the walls lie strewn upon the floor with pieces of rare marble. Wherever the eye turns, some emblem of the taste of its former occupant meets you. Some fresco, Stained with damp, and green with mildew; some rustic bench, beneath a spreading tree, where the view opens more boldly; but all are decayed. The inlaid floors are rotting; the stuccoed ceilings, the richly-carved architraves, fall in fragments as your footsteps move; and the doomed walls themselves seem scarce able to resist the rude blast whose wailing cadence steals along them.

Oh, how tenfold more powerfully are the memories of the dead preserved by the scenes they habited while in life, than by the tombs and epitaphs that cover their ashes! How do the lessons of one speak home to the heart, calling up again, before the mind's eye, the very images themselves! not investing them with attributes our reason coldly rejects.

I know not the reason that this villa has been suffered thus to lapse into utter ruin, in the richest quarter of so splendid a city. I believe some long-contested litigation had its share in the causes. My present business is rather with its past fortunes; and to them I will now return.

It was on a cold dark morning of November, in the year 1799, that the street we have just mentioned, then called the Rue de la Victoire, became crowded with equipages and hors.e.m.e.n; cavalcades of generals and their staffs, in full uniform, arrived and were admitted within the ma.s.sive gateway, before which, now, groups of curious and inquiring gazers were a.s.sembled, questioning and guessing as to the unusual spectacle. The number of led horses that paraded the street, the long lines of carriages on either side, nearly filled the way; still there reigned a strange, unaccountable stillness, among the crowd, who, as if appalled by the very mystery of the scene, repressed their ordinary tumult, and waited anxiously to watch the result.

Among the most interested spectators were the inhabitants of the neighbouring houses, who saw, for the first time in their lives, their quiet quarter the scene of such excitement. Every window was filled with faces, all turned towards that portal which so seldom was seen to open in general; for they who dwelt there had been more remarkable for the retirement and privacy of their habits than for aught else.

At each arrival the crowd separated to permit the equipage to approach the gate; and then might be heard the low murmur--for it was no louder--of "Ha! that's Lasalle. See the mark of the sabre wound on his cheek!" Or, "Here comes Angereau! You'd never think that handsome fellow, with the soft eye, could be such a tiger." "Place there! place for Colonel Savary!" "Ah, dark Savary! we all know him."

Stirring as was the scene without, it was far inferior to the excitement that prevailed within the walls. There, every path and avenue that led to the villa were thronged with military men, walking or standing together in groups, conversing eagerly, and with anxious looks, but cautiously withal, and as though half fearing to be overheard.

Through the windows of the villa might be seen servants pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing in haste, arranging the preparations for a magnificent _dejeune_--for on that morning the generals of division and the princ.i.p.al military men in Paris were invited to breakfast with one of their most distinguished companions--General Buonaparte.

Since his return from Egypt, Buonaparte had been living a life of apparent privacy and estrangement from all public affairs. The circ.u.mstances under which he had quitted the army under his command--the unauthorised mode of his entry into France, without recall, without even permission--had caused his friends considerable uneasiness on his behalf, and nothing short of the un.o.btrusive and simple habits he maintained had probably saved him from being called on to account for his conduct.

They, however, who themselves were pursuing the career of ambition, were better satisfied to see him thus, than hazard any thing by so bold an expedient. They believed that he was only great at the head of his legions; and they felt a triumphant pleasure at the obscurity into which the victor of Lodi and the Pyramids had fallen when measured with themselves. They witnessed, then, with sincere satisfaction, the seeming indolence of his present life. They watched him in those _soirees_ which Madame Buonaparte gave, enjoying his repose with such thorough delight--those delightful evenings, the most brilliant for all that wit, intellect, and beauty can bestow; which Talleyrand and Sieyes, Fouche, Carnot, Lemercier, and a host of others frequented; and they dreamed that his hour of ambition was over, and that he had fallen into the inglorious indolence of the retired soldier.

While the greater number of the guests strolled listlessly through the little park, a small group sat in the vestibule of the villa, whose looks of impatience were ever turned towards the door from which their host was expected to enter. One of those was a tall, slight man, with a high but narrow forehead, dark eyes, deeply buried in his head, and overshadowed by long, heavy lashes; his face was pale, and evinced evident signs of uneasiness, as he listened, without ever speaking, to those about him. This was General Moreau. He was dressed in the uniform of a General of the day: the broad-skirted embroidered coat, the half-boot, the embroidered tricolour scarf, and a chapeau with a deep feather tr.i.m.m.i.n.g--a simple, but a handsome costume, and which well became his well-formed figure. Beside him sat a large, powerfully-built man, whose long black hair, descending in loose curls on his neck and back, as well as the jet-black brilliancy of his eye and deep olive complexion, bespoke a native of the South. Though his dress was like Moreau's, there was a careless jauntiness in his air, and a reckless "_abandon_" in his manner, that gave the costume a character totally different. The very negligence of his scarf-knot was a type of himself; and his thickly-uttered French, interspersed here and there with Italian phrases, shewed that Murat cared little to cull his words. At his left was a hard-featured, stern-looking man, in the uniform of the Dragoons--this was Andreossy; and opposite, and leaning on a sofa, was General Lannes. He was pale and sickly; he had risen from a bed of illness to be present, and lay with half-closed lids, neither noticing nor taking interest in what went on about him.

At the window stood Marmont, conversing with a slight but handsome youth, in the uniform of the Cha.s.seurs. Eugene Beauharnois was then but twenty-two, but even at that early age displayed the soldier-like ardour which so eminently distinguished him in after-life.

At length the door of the salon opened, and Buonaparte, dressed in the style of the period, appeared; his cheeks were sunk and thin; his hair, long, flat, and silky, hung straight down at either side of his pale and handsome face, in which now one faint tinge of colour marked either cheek. He saluted the rest with a warm shake of the hand, and then stooping down, said to Murat:--

"But Bernadotte--where is he?"

"Yonder," said Murat, carelessly pointing to a group outside the terrace, where a tall, fine-looking man, dressed in plain clothes, and without any indication of the soldier in his costume, stood in the midst of a knot of officers.

"Ha! General," said Napoleon, advancing towards him; "you are not in uniform. How comes this?"

"I am not on service," was the cold reply.

"No, but you soon shall be," said Buonaparte, with an effort at cordiality of manner.

"I do not antic.i.p.ate it," rejoined Bernadotte, with an expression at once firm and menacing.

Buonaparte drew him to one side gently, and while he placed his arm within his, spoke to him with eagerness and energy for several minutes; but a cold shake of the head, without one word in reply, was all that he could obtain.

"What!" exclaimed Buonaparte, aloud, so that even the others heard him--"what! are you not convinced of it? Will not this Directory annihilate the Revolution? have we a moment to lose? The Council of Ancients are met to appoint me Commander-in-chief of the Army;--go, put on your uniform, and join me at once."

"I will not join a rebellion," was the insolent reply.

Buonaparte shrunk back and dropped his arm, then rallying in a moment, added,--

"'Tis well; you'll at least remain here until the decree of the Council is issued."

"Am I, then, a prisoner?" said Bernadotte, with a loud voice.