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 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 
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 V) 
 
 

 LEAVES 
 
 
 r. sS Ar 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE BOOK OF LIFE. 
 
 ?«5lS 
 
 S 5 
 
 L42- 
 
 ?<*7 
 
 / VL 
 
 73 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES SHAW. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SAUNDERS, OTLEY & Co, 66, BROOK STREET, W. 
 
 1867. 
 
 [All rights reserved.'] 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY GEORGE PHIPPS, 18 A 14 , TOTHILL STREET, 
 WESTMINSTER, S.W. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LEAF THE FIRST. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Regicide’s Family . . , 1 
 
 LEAF THE SECOND. 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins . . .57 
 
 LEAF THE THIRD. 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne . . . 120 
 
 LEAF THE FOURTH. 
 
 The Six Promises . . . .162 
 
 LEAF THE FIFTH. 
 
 Carl Lieben 
 
 188 
 
 LEAF THE SIXTH. 
 
 206 
 
 Letters from the Crave 
 
iv 
 
 Contents. 
 
 
 
 LEAF THE SEVENTH. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The 
 
 Orsini .... 
 
 . 229 
 
 
 LEAF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 
 The 
 
 Last of the Family 
 
 . 247 
 
 
 LEAF THE NINTH. 
 
 
 The 
 
 Conventionalist . 
 
 . 279 
 
 • 
 
 Leaf 
 
 the Tenth 
 
 . 334 
 
 Leaf 
 
 the Last 
 
 . 335 
 
LEAVES FROM THE BOOK OF LIFE. 
 
 -- 
 
 LEAF THE FIRST. 
 
 THE REGICIDE’S FAMILY. 
 
 Individuals and families, “ kingdoms, principalities, and 
 powers,” have their rise and fall. Every institution of man 
 must fade and perish. Nothing can he eternal that is the 
 work of man. “We have no continuing city here.” 
 
 But nations and individuals, as they have their rise and 
 fall, must also have their alternations of adversity and pros¬ 
 perity,—their sea is not always tranquil, nor is it always 
 troubled ; and if there he exceptions to this general decree, 
 which seem to interrupt the general harmony of the system, 
 we may be sure that it is our ignorance and blindness which 
 camiot see the motive or trace the cause. They are, equally 
 with all His other works, the proofs not only of God’s om¬ 
 nipotence, hut of His superintending beneficence and care. 
 It is under this conviction that we ought to enter upon the 
 history of the royal house of Stuart, lest we presumptuously 
 arraign the justice of that Providence which suffered it 
 
 B 
 
1 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 to be the victim of almost uninterrupted calamity from its 
 accession to its close.* 
 
 It is under this feeling that I have at length found re¬ 
 signation under the misfortunes which have uniformly 
 marked the career of a less illustrious family—my own! 
 
 The family of Whalley was settled in Devonshire long 
 before the reign of Henry the Eighth ; hut it had not been 
 distinguished either in peace or war. The possessor of the 
 estate at the commencement of Henry the Eighth’s reign 
 had contracted an intimacy with a Devonshire gentleman 
 of the name of Russell. By his interest, my ancestor was 
 chosen to be one of the commissioners at the dissolution of 
 the religious houses. That he did not discharge the duties 
 of his office with humanity and forbearance I am sorry to 
 he forced to admit, and hence the Papists have imputed to 
 those acts of severity the misfortunes that have visited us 
 to the present day. 
 
 * James the First—taken prisoner on his passage to France, and con¬ 
 fined for years in Windsor Castle, but afterwards restored to his throne 
 and assassinated. 
 
 James the Second—killed by the bursting of a cannon. 
 
 James the Third—assassinated. 
 
 James the Fourth—killed at Flodden Field. 
 
 James the Fifth—died of a broken heart. 
 
 Mary Stuart—beheaded. 
 
 James the Sixth of Scotland and First of England—a natural death. 
 
 Charles the First—beheaded. 
 
 Charles the Second—a natural death. 
 
 James the Second—expelled from his throne, and died in exile. His 
 descendants defeated in two attempts to regain the throne, and the last 
 male descendant, Cardinal York, died in exile ! 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 3 
 
 Henry, as is well known, did not seize the property of 
 the Church from any deep hatred of the Papist, nor from any 
 decisive preference for the Protestant faith. Had the Pope 
 acceded to his demand of a divorce from Catherine of Arra- 
 gon, the Papist religion might have remained, at least for a 
 time, the religion of the realm, and the king would have 
 better deserved the title conferred upon him by the Pope, of 
 Fidei defensor, a title which, with strange inconsistency, is 
 still preserved by a Protestant Monarch. The king’s anger 
 against the Pope encouraged complaints against the conduct 
 of the priesthood, and made him listen to the proposal of 
 seizing their possessions, a measure which would at once 
 enable him to gratify his own pleasures, and reward those 
 who pandered to them. It may well be supposed that the 
 commissioners entered upon their functions with little incli¬ 
 nation to he just or impartial. The abuses which prevailed 
 in some monastic establishments were declared to be common 
 to all, and the monks and nuns were involved in one sweep¬ 
 ing censure and condemnation. Such indiscriminate charges 
 could not be true; but what else could be expected from 
 men who were influenced by the double desire of gratifying 
 their sovereign and enriching themselves F 
 
 These religious establishments had no power of appeal, 
 and no means of resistance. Many afflicting scenes marked 
 their expulsion from the homes that had afforded shelter 
 and safety to them and their predecessors for hundreds 
 of years. The old and infirm, who hoped to die in peace 
 
4 
 
 The Regicides Family. 
 
 where they had lived, expostulated with tears and lamen¬ 
 tations. Some expired on the spot as soon as their expulsion 
 was announced; others lost their senses ; many clung to the 
 images before which they had been in the daily practice of 
 prostration and prayer. Some, indeed, assuming a bolder 
 front, poured forth execrations against their spoilers, and 
 lifted up their voices in prophecies of calamity and evil. 
 The abbot of the monastery of Cowdray, in Sussex, invoked 
 the curse of fire and water upon every possessor of the 
 monastery to the latest posterity. These predictions and 
 maledictions were little heeded; the spoliation and seizure 
 were completed, and my ancestor obtained for his reward 
 one of the dissolved abbeys in the county of Devon. 
 
 It was a very general belief in that age that the tombs 
 and coffins of the monks contained treasures, either in the 
 precious metals or in jewels. Hence the grave was no 
 longer suffered to be a sanctuary for the dead, and the 
 bones and dust of those who hoped to rest in peace till 
 the final judgment were profaned and scattered to the 
 winds. In the chapel of our monastery there was a 
 magnificent monument to the memory of the first abbot, 
 whose statue was placed upon a marble pedestal that 
 covered the tomb. In the hope of finding great wealth, 
 the only son of the commissioner resolved to break it 
 open; but in the attempt the statue fell upon his head 
 and crushed him to death. 
 
 Deprived thus of his only child, the commissioner 
 
The Regicide s Family . 
 
 5 
 
 dragged on a melancholy existence till the beginning of the 
 reign of Queen Mary, and was succeeded by his nephew. 
 The accession of Mary changed the aspect of affairs. Such 
 of the excluded monks as were still Hying were replaced in 
 the possession of the abbey, hut were at length finally ex¬ 
 pelled in the reign of Elizabeth. The possession was then 
 restored to our family; hut the members dropped off one 
 by one, till at length an only son was left, whose health was 
 so precarious that it was feared he would never arrive at 
 man’s estate. But he disappointed these expectations, be¬ 
 came vigorous both in body and mind, and was the intimate 
 friend of Sir Walter Raleigh. He accompanied him in 
 all his enterprises, shared his fortune good and bad, and 
 participated in his imprisonment and disgrace. After Sir 
 Walter’s execution, he was detained in the Tower for 
 several months, hut was permitted to see his wife and son.' 
 Into the mind of the latter he instilled that hatred of the 
 reigning family, which had become the absorbing principle 
 of his character, and he Hved to see his wishes fully and 
 fatally accomphshed. 
 
 This son, Richard Whalley, became a member of par- 
 Hament, and was one of the judges by whom Charles the 
 First was condemned to death. 
 
 It has been said that Cromwell prevailed upon some of 
 the regicides to take part in the trial of the king by the pro¬ 
 mise of not proceeding to the last extremity, and, in corrobo¬ 
 ration of this assertion, I must mention that there was found 
 
6 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 among the papers of Richard Whalley a minute or memo¬ 
 randum of a conversation between himself and Cromwell 
 upon this subject. It seems to have been written imme¬ 
 diately after it had occurred. 
 
 After Colonel Pride had excluded from the House of Com¬ 
 mons about two hundred of the Presbyterian party, the whole 
 power of the Parliament was exercised by the most violent 
 of another party,—the Independents, not more than sixty 
 in number. It was then resolved to bring the king to trial. 
 The Independents, who were not ignorant that whatever 
 authority they possessed was subordinate to the will and 
 power of the army, were anxious that the army alone 
 should execute that daring enterprise, and Richard Whalley 
 was deputed to hold a secret conference with Cromwell. 
 But hasty and impatient in his temper, Richard was no 
 match for the coolness and cunning of Cromwell. He 
 held that as the king had levied an army against the 
 people, and had been taken, and was now in the custody 
 of the army, it would be but just to subject him to military 
 law and to a court-martial. This argument, if it could 
 be called one, was weak and worthless, and was easily 
 beat down and refuted by Cromwell. 
 
 Cromwell. —“Nay, Richard Whalley, Richard Whalley, 
 thou dost not see the slough and mire into which thy rash 
 counsel would lead us. Would not the nation, and more 
 particularly those saving saints who pledged themselves to 
 
The Regicides Family. 
 
 7 
 
 the good cause, and have worked out their salvation in 
 fear and trembling, say that we had no end in view hut 
 that of raising a military government on the ruins of the 
 kingly one P Nay, Richard, thou art one of our goodly 
 pillars, and shouldst uphold us in our labour of love. Credit 
 me, who yearnest after thee in strong brotherly affection, 
 that I could he well content to turn back from the field and 
 leave this bereaved land, rather than see thee take thy hand 
 from the plough, now that it is rooting out the impure 
 weeds and preparing the earth for an abundant harvest. 
 Thou art the mouth-piece of the Parliament, our masters; 
 and as it representeth the people, whose rights the man 
 Charles has trampled upon, it is only by and in the name 
 of the Parliament that he should be brought to trial. 
 
 Richard Whalley. —“And the army, friend Oliver, 
 of which thou art the right hand and head ? 
 
 Cromwell. —“ Shall assist thee in the good work. 
 Trust me, Richard, it is not from fear of men’s evil report 
 that I shrink from the whole responsibility; hut the Par¬ 
 liament is the true organ of the will of the nation. 
 
 Richard Whalley. —“Thou mayest remember, Oliver, 
 a discourse with Ireton upon this very subject, soon after 
 Cornet Joyce had carried off Charles from Holdenby— 
 
 ’twas a hold deed of Master Joyce. 
 
 Cromwell. —“ Heaven set him upon the goodly task. 
 
 Richard Whalley.— “ And thou didst not disapprove 
 
 of it ? 
 
8 
 
 The Regicide's Family. 
 
 Cromwell. —“ Thou sayest right, hut nathless my flesh 
 did tremble with very fear at the threats and anger of the 
 parliamentary commissioners. 
 
 Richard Whalley. —“ Truly, they were sorely amazed, 
 and wot not what to do; hut ’twas no use, they said, to 
 keep the stable locked when the steed was stolen, and so 
 they resolved to go hack to Parliament.” 
 
 Here Richard Whalley hurst into a laugh, and even 
 Cromwell hazarded a smile. 
 
 Richard Whalley. —“ But, setting aside all unseemly 
 mirth, when thou didst touch upon bringing the king to 
 trial, I put it to thee, in the presence of Ireton, what thou 
 didst purpose further with the king P 
 
 Cromwell. —“ The first step must be to pass a vote by 
 the Parliament against him for high treason. This done, 
 we shall appoint a High Court of Parliament for his trial. 
 Thou knowest we have scripture authority, for what says 
 the Psalmist?—‘Let the high praises of God he in the 
 mouths of their saints, and a two-fold sword in their hands 
 to execute vengeance upon the heathen ;* to hind their 
 kings with chains, and their nobles with fetters of iron, to 
 execute upon them the judgments written: this, however, 
 have all saints —• 
 
 Richard Whalley. —“ A truce, Oliver, to this appli- 
 
 * Cromwell omitted another purpose which this two-fold sword was to 
 execute—“ punishment upon the people.” He did not, however, forget this 
 purpose when he arrived at the sovereign power. 
 
The Regicide s Family . 
 
 9 
 
 cation of scriptural texts to the purposes of this world; 
 leave them to Mad Peter and his followers. Let us speak 
 like men of the world, who have to do the business of the 
 world. 
 
 Cromwell. —“ As you will, Eichard. We bring 
 Charles Stuart to trial, and he is found guilty, though 
 God knows the petitions I have got up night and day 
 for his restoration, if it might consist with God’s good 
 providence. Of necessity, if he be found guilty, sentence 
 must be pronounced upon him; for, wherefore bring him 
 to trial, if there is to be no result, and the court is not 
 to pronounce upon the charges laid against him ? Answer 
 me this, Eichard ? 
 
 Bichard W^halley. —“ Thus far, no doubt. 
 
 Cromwell. —“What other conclusion can we come to 
 than that sentence of death must he passed P There is no 
 lesser punishment for treason. 
 
 Eichard Whalley. —“ But thou canst not, darest not, 
 mean to execute it! 
 
 Cromwell. —“ Softly, softly ! Unless we pronounce 
 the sentence, and declare that he has forfeited the crown, 
 we cannot proceed to the settlement of the government 
 upon a republican basis. But means may be found, 
 do’st mind me, Eichard ?—to waive the execution of the 
 sentence—to change it to imprisonment, or perhaps to exile. 
 Means may he found, Eichard—mark me ! 
 
 Eichard Whalley. —“On that assurance, I will lend 
 
IO 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 my hand to the great work. But his life, Oliver—his 
 life !” 
 
 If such a conversation were actually held, it lessens the 
 guilt of Hi chard Whalley, though it shows him to have 
 been totally ignorant of the real character of Cromwell. 
 
 Richard Whalley, as is well known, was one of the 
 king’s judges, and signed the death-warrant, persuading 
 himself that it was not meant to be carried into execution. 
 To get rid of Whalley’s reproaches, Cromwell contrived 
 to send him on a mission to the north, which detained him 
 till after the king’s execution. 
 
 Whether my ancestor made any remonstrance to Crom¬ 
 well,—which, however, would have been useless, I know not. 
 But the events that followed abated his hostility to the 
 Stuart family, by showing him that a worse tyranny had 
 been established by Cromwell than was ever contemplated 
 by Charles. He retired, therefore, from public life to the 
 abbey, and remained there till the restoration. Excepted 
 from pardon, he had great difficulty in escaping arrest; but 
 the contiguity of the sea-coast, and the assistance of a 
 relation, enabled him to embark for America. Yet even 
 there concealment and safety were difficult ; the most 
 positive instructions having been sent to all the provincial 
 governors to seize and send him to England. But he 
 defeated all their efforts by finding an asylum in the most 
 western part of the province, near the Indian frontier. 
 
The Regicide s Family. 11 
 
 There, with few incidents to vary its monotony, he passed 
 the remainder of his life, which extended to the end of the 
 reign of Charles the Second. His wife and son, a youth of 
 about fifteen years of age, survived him ; to them he gave 
 injunctions to return to England, where his wife’s relations 
 resided, and where the mother would be better able to 
 promote the interests of her son. 
 
 Upon their arrival in London they were received with 
 little cordiality by her brother, whose principles were diame¬ 
 trically opposed to those of her husband. But he could not 
 withhold his protection, and the son was received into his 
 uncle’s counting-house. Amongst the few followers of the 
 adverse fortunes of James the Second, the uncle was one. 
 He arranged all his mercantile affairs soon after the landing 
 of King William; and, removing to Paris, was taken into 
 the councils and confidence of the exiled monarch. His 
 sister and nephew accompanied him; and, by a strange 
 fatality, the son of him who had signed the death-warrant 
 of Charles became one of the most strenuous supporters of 
 the claims of James. He was actively engaged in all the 
 attempts made to restore the family to the throne,—was the 
 bearer of the secret order to the Earl of Mar, in 1715, to 
 take up arms, and was present at all the battles as the Earl’s 
 aide-de-camp. Meanwhile, death had removed his uncle 
 and his mother from the scene; but he himself, who 
 had married soon after the rebellion, in 1/15, continued 
 faithful to the interests of the Stuarts, and, though seventy- 
 
12 
 
 The Regicides Family. 
 
 four years of age at the breaking out of the rebellion in 
 1745, joined Prince Edward’s army with his eldest son. At 
 the fatal battle of Culloden this son was killed; and the 
 father, taken prisoner, was executed with many of his 
 comrades at Carlisle. 
 
 There now remained of our family only his widow and his 
 second son, and they were in narrow circumstances ; for the 
 greater part of their wealth had been lavished in the royal 
 cause. The prince could not alleviate them, for his own 
 situation was nearly as forlorn as that of any of his adherents. 
 Neglect he might have expected, as he was no longer able 
 to assist the projects of the French government, hut he 
 could hardly have been prepared for the personal insult of 
 being hound like a malefactor and sent out of the kingdom. 
 To which power the greater share of infamy belongs—the 
 power which urged such a measure, or the power which had 
 the pusillanimity to comply with it—history must determine. 
 
 A long period now ensued—a period of continual struggles 
 against adversity; for the same misfortune which had over¬ 
 whelmed the Stuarts seemed to he the doom of all their 
 adherents. Thousands fell on the field of battle, and they 
 were perhaps the least to he deplored. Others pined in 
 secret, banished from the homes of their forefathers, from 
 relatives, and from friends. Many, ignorant of the language, 
 knew not how to make their wants known, and sought in 
 death that quiet which had been denied them in life. The 
 high-born were compelled to accept the most subordinate 
 
The Regicide s Family . 
 
 *3 
 
 situations, and to submit to tbe control of those to whom 
 their wishes had formerly been commands. 
 
 The place of clerk in a counting-house was at length 
 obtained for the solitary offspring who, with his mother, had 
 survived the fatal battle of Culloden. In a few years she 
 was gathered to her ancestors, and forty years of steady 
 application to business obtained for her son admission as a 
 partner in the house. He had married soon after the death 
 of his mother, and no events of any importance disturbed 
 the even tenor of his life to the period of the revolution. 
 I was the only offspring of his marriage. 
 
 History now opened her blackest page, and order and 
 law, morality and religion, were proscribed throughout the 
 land. Then began a system of persecution and of violence, 
 the like of which eye had never seen, nor tongue recounted, 
 nor human nature endured. But I mean not to dwell upon 
 the revolution further than as it affected our personal history. 
 The quiet pursuits of commerce and manufactures were all 
 deranged. Arts and sciences were disparaged, and even 
 considered criminal. The endearing enjoyments of domestic 
 life were abandoned, and home had no longer its charms 
 and its comforts. Political discussion occupied all conversa¬ 
 tion, and the rights of man were loudly proclaimed amidst 
 the violation of all these principles of honesty and justice. 
 Every one erected himself into the office of legislator and 
 statesman. Reason, judgment, and moderation seemed to 
 have fled from the earth and abandoned it to all the evils 
 
H 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 which result from the most brutal ignorance and the vilest 
 of passions. 
 
 There was this difference between my father and his 
 partner. He would have still pursued the unambitious 
 paths of commerce without mixing in the politics of the 
 day, but his partner had become a thorough revolutionist, 
 and a leading member of the clubs by which the legislature 
 was overawed and governed. Carrying into practice the 
 principle that “he who is not for me is against me/’ he 
 viewed the mild qualities of my father as indications of 
 hostility to the revolution, and such frequent quarrels ensued 
 that my father determined to dissolve the partnership and 
 retire from France. I was then (1793) about twenty years 
 of age, and was chiefly employed in travelling to the great 
 commercial cities of Lyons, Bordeaux, and Marseilles. 
 During my absence, in the spring of that year, there had 
 been increasing animosity between the partners, and my 
 father had so far departed from his usual moderation as to 
 express his fears that the revolution would become a curse 
 to the country instead of a blessing. This was a pretext of 
 which his partner did not fail to take immediate advantage. 
 He denounced him to the Jacobin club, and my good and 
 innocent father was sent to the Conciergcrie. Denunciation, 
 trial, condemnation, and death, followed quick. He was 
 brought before the revolutionary tribunal next day, and 
 upon the single evidence of his partner was found guilty 
 and condemned to die. My mother, who was present at the 
 
The Regicides Family. 15 
 
 trial, unable to restrain her feelings, exclaimed that if the 
 tribunal sentenced a man upon such testimony, they were 
 guilty of shedding innocent blood. Here was double proof 
 of disaffection; the sentiments of the wife, taken as proofs 
 of the principles of the husband, were considered as sufficient 
 evidence of the guilt of both, and my mother was immedi¬ 
 ately placed upon her trial. It occupied less time than I 
 have taken to relate it, and both were sentenced to death 
 within four-and-twenty hours. 
 
 It was in this interval that I returned from one of my 
 journeys, and, strange to say, with lighter spirits than I 
 had ever experienced before. I anticipated the warmth of 
 my parents’ welcome—I pictured to myself their anxious 
 watching at the gate to catch the earliest glimpse of my 
 approach—I felt myself already in their arms—I beheld 
 them fixing their looks upon me, to ascertain the state of 
 my health ; and in this delightful frame of mind I reached 
 our home. Our home ! Alas ! alas ! nor father nor mother 
 were ever doomed to see it more. 
 
 I entered the court-yard ; it was silent and desolate; 
 not a living creature was visible. Conceive—no; it is 
 not possible to conceive—the utter misery of that moment! 
 It seemed as if the grave had suddenly enclosed them in its 
 dark, dark hosom, and that no one had been left to break 
 the fatal tidings. I staggered into the house, and there 
 heard a voice I had never heard before,—stern, hoarse, and 
 vulgar. A door -was thrown open, and a gendarme stood 
 
i6 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 before me. Stupefied with borror and surprise, I was not 
 able to utter a word. I advanced, however, towards him, 
 and should have fallen to the ground had he not supported 
 me to a seat. It was our usual sitting room : there, fronting 
 me, were their dear portraits,—their eyes fixed upon me 
 with all the warmth of parental affection. The sight 
 roused me from my stupor, and an agony of tears recalled 
 me to myself. There were two gendarmes in the room, and 
 with a touch of feeling which their hard occupation had 
 not extinguished, they looked at each other in silence, and 
 then with a pitying expression at me. I seized the hands 
 of each; I adjured them, in the name of that God whose 
 children we all were, to keep a son no longer in suspense. 
 The fatal truth was then disclosed, and I fell to the ground 
 as if I had been shot. It was long before my senses re¬ 
 turned, or that I had any other than an indistinct and 
 confused recollection of some great and appalling calamity. 
 
 At length, the truth was revealed in all its horrors! 
 How I controlled, by an almost supernatural effort, the 
 agony of my grief, that it might not impair the power of 
 action, I know not. I impressed upon my mind that there 
 would always be a time for sorrow; that a few hours only re¬ 
 mained, beyond which all human assistance would be too late. 
 I flew to the house of the president of the revolutionary 
 tribunal. I prayed—I implored his mercy. I grovelled 
 on my knees before him. I offered him wealth. I desired 
 him to take my life, and spare that of my parents. He 
 
The Regicide's Family. 
 
 l 7 
 
 spurned me from him, and brutally told me that it had been 
 well for the public safety if I had been included in the 
 same proscription, for I was tainted with the same guilt. I 
 was indeed ! But this was no time for inactive sensibility. 
 On —on to action ! The authors of my being, my kind, 
 fond parents, are in the grasp of the tigers; the gloom of 
 the prison is about them; the darkness of death will soon 
 surround them. The day is waning; the sun is sinking in 
 the west ; and they are living. But—to-morrow !—to¬ 
 morrow ! 
 
 I hastened from the president’s house to the residence of 
 my parents’ murderer, his partner. I had the meanness 
 (hut what would I not have done to have saved their lives ?) 
 to fall down at his feet and to implore his mediation with the 
 revolutionary leaders. He was deaf to all my prayers, and, 
 indignation getting the better of prudence, I rose from the 
 ground with fury, and struck the villain to the earth. 
 
 No resource was now left. I had but one more duty to 
 perform ;—to see my parents for the last time, to bid and re¬ 
 ceive from them an eternal farewell.—“ Oh God! oh God! 
 Thou knowest the bitter agony of that moment! ” 
 
 The Conciergerie is, of all the prisons of Paris, the most 
 savage and appalling. But its horrors were increased by the 
 cruel conduct of the jailors, who were selected from the 
 coarsest and most brutal of the Jacobin faction. I had a 
 permission to see my dear parents, and the jailor told me, 
 after inspecting it, that as my father was going a long 
 
 c 
 
1 8 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 journey, he had a priest with him, 'pour graisser ses bottes. 
 He then pointed to a cell at the extremity of a long dark 
 passage. I was now within a few steps of that dear and 
 honoured father ; I heard his voice in earnest prayer, he was 
 calling upon his son and blessing him: “ It would have 
 softened the bitterness of death, had I been permitted to 
 hold him once more in my arms and give him my parting 
 blessing; hut if God shall not grant that permission, His 
 will he done.” My entrance into the cell threw a shade 
 over the holy hook in his hands; he looked up, and the 
 son and father were locked in each other’s arms : “ God has 
 heard my prayer.” He strained me in his embrace, and 
 then he laid his reverend head on my shoulder, and wept 
 bitterly and long. The priest withdrew into the passage to 
 leave us alone. My father had abandoned all hope of life, 
 hut I recounted to him my interviews with the president and 
 with his partner, which so alarmed him for my safety, that 
 he made me promise to leave France as soon and as secretly 
 as I could. Apprehensive of my being searched on quitting 
 the prison, he gave me a small key which opened a secret 
 recess in our house known only to himself. In that recess 
 he had deposited a considerable part of his property. The 
 key he concealed in one of the curls of my hair, and having 
 done this, he charged me with the tenderest message to my 
 mother, assuring her of his entire resignation to the will of 
 God, beseeching her forgiveness for having involved her in 
 his fate, and desiring us to pray that we might be re-united 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 l 9 
 
 in another and a better world. These directions were con¬ 
 veyed with many breaks and pauses, with exclamations of 
 the deepest anguish, and bursts of uncontrollable grief. The 
 good priest now warned us of the jailor’s approach, who, 
 seeing us cling to each other in the closest embrace, would 
 have torn us asunder; hut the priest, putting back his arm, 
 led me gently out of the cell. I staggered to a stone bench, 
 where the priest moistened my parched and quivering lips 
 with a draught of water. 
 
 My mother had been separated from my father as soon 
 as they arrived at the prison. Poor sufferer ! she had been 
 visited by successive fainting fits, and life seemed only to be 
 preserved by the unremitting care of one of those pious 
 females, a soevr de la charite , whose reward is not of this 
 world. She was in one of those fits when I entered the 
 cell, her head reclining on the neck of her humane attend¬ 
 ant ; but oh how changed! such deep deep lines of deso¬ 
 lation and sorrow. The good sister motioned to me to be 
 silent: I threw myself at my mother’s feet, I took her dear 
 cold hands in mine,—“ My mother ! my mother ! ” She 
 recovered suddenly, as the sound struck upon her ear, and, 
 looking at me, with a wild scream fell on my neck and wept: 
 “ My son, my son ! God is good, God is good ! ” She then 
 pushed me from her that she might survey me more intently, 
 and again strained me to her closer and closer : “ My boy, 
 my boy ! and your father and my dear husband ?” I dis¬ 
 closed to her his last wishes, and she said she would be 
 
20 
 
 The Regicides Family. 
 
 $ 
 
 comforted, and then she wept more bitterly, and we prayed 
 together as my father had enjoined us, and we knelt to bid 
 each other a last last farewell. “ But no ! no ! I cannot— 
 I cannot.” 
 
 The jailor tore us from each other’s arms, and my mother 
 fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 Morning came, and I was an orphan. 
 
 The good priest had waited for me, and led me from the 
 prison to his own house, and there I remained for many days, 
 wholly insensible, and in a brain fever. It was some time 
 before I could walk, or arrange my ideas with any clearness 
 and distinctness. The good priest and his sister, the soeur 
 de la charite, had been my patient and kind nurses; and 
 from them I learned that my dear father and mother had 
 submitted to their fate with the most pious resignation. 
 
 It now became necessary for me to find out the best 
 means of following my father’s injunctions; but to do this 
 it was requisite in the first instance to get possession of the 
 contents of my father’s recess, the key of which had been 
 found by the priest during my illness. There were title 
 deeds, and bonds, and securities for money, but these were 
 all worthless,- for the estate had been confiscated; there was 
 however gold which would be of the utmost service, could 
 any safe'means be found of getting at the recess. To have 
 gone myself would have been madness ; it would have been 
 dangerous either for the priest or his sister; but the latter 
 recollected a gendarme whose daughter she had attended 
 
The Regicides Family. 21 
 
 and whose recovery she had effected by her skill, kindness, 
 and perseverance. Deeply grateful for such a service, the 
 gendarme was consulted and trusted. It was besides to him 
 neither a difficult nor a dangerous commission, for it might 
 be supposed that he was acting by superior orders. He 
 found the recess, and brought away the gold in safety. Part 
 of it I forced upon the priest, to enable him to assist the 
 unfortunate more effectually, and to the gendarme I gave a 
 sum as a marriage portion for his daughter. 
 
 My situation was full of peril. It was necessary to quit 
 Paris—but the difficulty! 
 
 “ There is no flying hence, nor tarrying here!” 
 
 The reign of terror was at its height; cruelty and crime 
 were triumphant throughout a land favoured almost above 
 every other by the bounties of Providence. Revolutionary 
 tribunals in every town, scaffolds in every village; religion 
 scoffed at and banished from the earth, the existence of 
 God denied, and the hope of a better world, which sustains 
 us in all sickness and in all sorrow, proclaimed to be vain 
 and delusive,—death was decreed to be eternal sleep. 
 
 It was about a month after the murder of my parents 
 that my protectors and myself were sitting together dis¬ 
 coursing on the necessity, yet danger, of my departure. It 
 was nearly midnight, for domiciliary visits were so frequent 
 that the time of going to rest was protracted to as late an 
 hour as possible, that the inmates might not be roused from 
 their beds by those terrible agents of tyranny. We were 
 
22 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 startled by a low tap at tbe door. We remained silent and 
 motionless. In about three or four minutes the tap was re¬ 
 peated. The priest moved towards the door; we would 
 have prevented his opening it, but he remarked that had it 
 proceeded from an officer of the police, it would have been 
 louder and more imperative. As soon as the door was ajar, 
 a hand was thrust forward, which dropped a note, and was 
 instantly withdrawn. It was as follows :— 
 
 “ There will be a domiciliary visit in the course of the 
 night. He must set off at once. ,, 
 
 This was decisive. To have disregarded it would not 
 only have been fatal to myself, but to my protectors, and this 
 was not to be thought of. Little preparation was necessary. 
 My gold was secured in a belt round my body; my dress 
 was such as is usually worn by tradesmen. I left the house 
 by a door which opened into an obscure and little frequented 
 street, near the Rue des Carmes. 
 
 Behold me now, on the 20th October, 1793, in the 
 streets of Paris, at one o’clock in the morning, a lonely, 
 solitary being. What path to take I knew not, for every 
 one was full of danger. After a few minutes’ deliberation, 
 I took the direction of the Barriere de St. Denis, not with 
 the intention of passing it, which I knew to be imprac¬ 
 ticable, but with the hope of finding some unwatched and 
 decayed part of a wall on the right side of the barrier. 
 The darkness of the night was favourable, inasmuch as it 
 enabled me to proceed with more security ; but it prevented 
 
The Regicides Family. 
 
 2 3 
 
 me from ascertaining the exact route, and created consider¬ 
 able delay. On turning the angle of a street, I came sud¬ 
 denly upon a night patrol. They were vociferating one of 
 their republican songs, and, as they were intoxicated, I 
 hoped to escape notice. “ Qui va la ?” and I was instantly 
 surrounded. With a presence of mind which extremity of 
 peril sometimes gives us, I affected the gait and manner of 
 a drunken man, repeated the refrain of a song, without 
 appearing to attend to them, and went on staggering and 
 singing. I was suffered to proceed without molestation. 
 About two in the morning I reached the wall, and easily 
 climbed it; but I had no sooner got to the other side than 
 a gun was fired, which made me run as fast as I could till 
 I arrived at the foot of Montmartre. The road from Mont¬ 
 martre to St. Denis is extremely flat and monotonous, and 
 so open that any attempt at concealment during the day¬ 
 time would have been unavailing. I was, therefore, anxious 
 to get beyond St. Denis before daybreak, knowing that the 
 country from thence to Luzarches and Chantilly is more 
 enclosed and woody. St. Denis is always full of troops and 
 gendarmes, and my heart sank within me as I approached 
 it. There are, as at the entrance of all towns, a bureau de 
 police and the octroi. To be discovered and taken befoie 
 any of the officers without a passport was certain destruc¬ 
 tion ; besides, there might have been an order to arrest me, 
 and a description, or signalement, of my person, features, 
 colour of my hair, eyes, &c. Fortunately the night was so 
 
24 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 cold, dark, and windy, that the officers were not on the alert, 
 preferring the inside of the bureau, and thinking probably 
 that few would venture out on such a night as this. I 
 passed, therefore, without being seen, and got into the 
 middle of the town. There was not a human creature 
 visible; even the dog ceased to hark, and sought a refuge 
 from the inclemency of the night; so profound was the 
 silence that every step I took was loud and distinct enough 
 to he heard at a street’s distance. I turned up a narrow 
 street that leads to the venerable abbaye, which the sacri¬ 
 legious hand of the revolution had already defaced, destroy¬ 
 ing its tombs, and scattering to the air the bones and ashes 
 of a hundred kings. By an obscure street, and by crossing 
 one or two fields, I found myself at length on the other side 
 of the town, and on the high road to Ecouen. Five o’clock 
 had just struck, and in less than an hour day would 
 dawn; but I reached Ecouen, and concealed myself in the 
 thickest part of the woody hill, on the declivity of which 
 the town is situated. Here I was compelled to remain till 
 night, with the additional misery of hunger and thirst. 
 Ho traveller ever hailed the dawn with so much transport 
 as I did the approach of night. I set forward to Luzarches. 
 Everyone who has travelled that road knows that there are 
 many small public-houses or cabarets on the road-side for 
 the accommodation of the poorer sort of travellers, carters, 
 peasants, and postilions. Fainting almost with fatigue and 
 the want of food, I passed two, but they were full of guests, 
 
The Regicides Family. 
 
 25 
 
 and I dared not enter. The third was more propitious, two 
 females only being in the kitchen, the mistress, seemingly, 
 and her daughter. I staggered rather than walked in, and 
 requested to have some food as quick as possible. There 
 was, I suppose, something in my look and manner that 
 arrested the attention of the mother. “ You do indeed look 
 worn out; why do you travel on foot by night, and in times 
 like these ?” I stammered out a reply that I had a long 
 journey and little time, and was obliged to travel night and 
 day. “ Poor youth ! your parents should have spared you 
 such fatigue ! ” Parents !—the very word, added to the 
 fatigue and peril I had endured, quite unmanned me, and 
 I hurst into an agony of tears. I became immediately 
 the object of the tenderest attention, and, whilst both 
 of them attempted to comfort me, they bestirred them¬ 
 selves with redoubled diligence to set a comfortable meal 
 before me. Hungry as I was, my eyes were constantly 
 directed to the door ; observing which, they immediately 
 shut and fastened it. We then conversed upon the pre¬ 
 sent state of affairs, for Luzarches had already felt the 
 tyranny of the revolution. The good pastor of Luzarches, 
 whose whole life had been spent in acts of kindness and 
 benevolence, had been denounced in his seventieth year, 
 taken up, tried, and executed within the period of tv 0 
 days. “ May the vengeance of heaven overtake his ene¬ 
 mies ! ” It was impossible to doubt her sincerity and 
 humanity, and I resolved to make known to her my melan- 
 
26 
 
 The Regicides Family . 
 
 choly story. It was heard with tears and pity, and many 
 an honest hurst of indignation against the authors of such 
 atrocious cruelty. But the humanity of woman is not a 
 mere passing feeling ; it does not think that it has done its 
 duty when it has given vent to tears and lamentations. It 
 is essentially stirring and active. It tries all means to 
 baffle the machinations of the oppressor; it takes to its 
 protection the cause and the person of the oppressed; it 
 thinks nothing done so long as anything remains to be done.— 
 Nil actum reputans, si quid superesset agendum. 
 
 The night proved so tempestuous that no travellers 
 intruded upon us, and we had full leisure for a long and 
 uninterrupted conversation. 
 
 The husband and son of my hostess were carriers of 
 goods between Paris, Amiens, and Abbeville. They were 
 now on the road from Paris with goods for all the towns 
 between the capital and Abbeville, and were expected at 
 Luzarches during the course of the night. They would he 
 able, in the opinion of my hostess, to convey me as far as 
 
 Abbeville. But the danger in which I might involve the 
 
 ¥ 
 
 whole family! She made light of it. “ If kind actions 
 could always be done without danger, where would be the 
 merit of them ?” 
 
 During the night the husband and son arrived from 
 Paris, and whilst I was enjoying a long and sound sleep 
 they consulted on the best means of assisting my escape. 
 It was resolved that I should pass for a friend of his son, 
 
The Regicide s Family . 
 
 27 
 
 who was obliged to remain at home on account of illness. 
 Towards the evening, we prepared for our departure. The 
 last act of my hostess was equally delicate and humane; 
 as it was probable that I might he poor as well as desolate, 
 she forced upon me two pieces of six francs with earnest¬ 
 ness, hut not without timidity. I accepted them under a 
 promise that, at some happier period, she should see how 
 carefully I had preserved them; at the same time, I in¬ 
 sisted that she should exchange her gift for four pieces 
 of gold, which I put into her hands, and the same sum into 
 her daughter Nannette’s. And then, with an affected gaiety, 
 and a promise to he present at Nannette’s wedding, we 
 parted, with many a prayer for our mutual welfare. 
 
 It is unnecessary to enter into the details of our journey 
 till we arrived at Amiens. We did not meet with any 
 obstacle, for my friendly carrier was known along the whole 
 road, which he had travelled for upwards of twenty years. 
 At Amiens we halted at a cabaret, the usual rendezvous of 
 all the carriers from Paris to every part of the north of 
 France. They were a frank and jovial set, with whom, 
 in happier times, I should have been highly amused. Of 
 political matters they seemed either to he as ignorant as if 
 no such event as the revolution had taken place, or as if it 
 would be presumption in them to make it the subject 
 of conversation and discussion. The jest and the son 0 vent 
 round, and all was one scene of gaiety and laughter. In 
 this manner was the night wearing away, when thiec 
 
28 
 
 The Regicide s Family . 
 
 gendarmes made their appearance. To me, it may well be 
 conceived, they were objects of infinite apprehension,—for, 
 being known to most of the carriers, their presence neither 
 imposed silence, nor checked the merriment of the company. 
 It afforded rather an additional motive for prolonging the 
 festivities of the night. But the gendarmes had been 
 despatched from Paris upon affairs of moment; for, to this 
 corps, in every part of France, was committed the task of 
 discovering and arresting suspected persons, deserters from 
 the army, and travellers without passports. They were 
 employed on such a service at present; and, entertaining 
 no suspicion of any of the present company, mixed in the 
 jollity of the moment, and began to be communicative. 
 They informed us that many more aristocrats had been 
 guillotined, and many suspicious persons taken up, in con¬ 
 sequence of the domiciliary visits. In some instances, how¬ 
 ever, they had failed. One person, to whose arrest the 
 greatest importance was attached, because, from his frequent 
 journies to the south and east of France, he was supposed 
 to be in close correspondence with the emigrants, had 
 escaped, and was believed to be on his way to the coast. 
 One of the gendarmes then produced a placard or signalement , 
 which he read, that any of the carriers, who might fall in 
 with such a person, might know and arrest him. What 
 were my feelings when I found it was my own P Setting 
 forth my name and former employment; describing my 
 person accurately ; imputing to me designs of the most 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 29 
 
 anti-revolutionary nature ; and actually accusing me of an 
 attempt to murder a good and active citizen, who had 
 attempted to deliver me up to justice. (This was the 
 partner whom I had struck to the earth, and who had in 
 revenge denounced me.) “ The villain !” I exclaimed, “ the 
 base, treacherous villain !” Every eye was fixed upon me. 
 All conversation was suspended ; for a minute or two not a 
 word was spoken. But the presence of mind of the kind 
 carrier saved me. “Villain indeed,” he said, “to attempt 
 such a murder; no wonder that it excites the indignation of 
 all good citizens !” The gendarmes were thus put upon the 
 wrong scent, and my friend’s explanation removed all sus¬ 
 picion from their minds, if indeed they had entertained any. 
 They then proceeded to inform us of the effect of some of 
 the domiciliary visits ; and they read from a public journal 
 one account which, whilst it filled me with grief and indig¬ 
 nation, might at once have put an end to all expectations of 
 escape, and even to life itself. It was the account of the 
 domiciliary visit at the house of the good priest on the night 
 of my departure. 
 
 “ The officers of the police, in consequence of informa¬ 
 tion that the son of a notorious aristocrat, who, with his 
 wife, had justly suffered death a few weeks before, (my 
 good and virtuous parents!) was concealed in the house 
 of the Cure Duran^on, made a domiciliary visit on the 
 night of the 20th of October; hut after the most rigorous 
 search, the object of their visit was not accomplished. But 
 
30 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 the cure and his sister, a soeur de la charite, were arrested 
 and sent to prison.” 
 
 “ Merciful God !—the good cure and his sister taken 
 up ! ” The whole company were struck with astonishment. 
 “Do you know them?” asked one of the gendarmes. 
 “ The good sister restored one of my family to health : can 
 I he otherwise than shocked at her imprisonment P ” 
 
 “ The cure and his sister were immediately carried 
 before the Committee of Public Safety and examined. The 
 cure replied, that he had administered the last console,tions 
 of religion to the father,—that his death, with that of his 
 wife, had deprived the son of his senses,—that he had received 
 him into his house, where he had been attended by himself and 
 his sister, and that he had left it suddenly before he was 
 perfectly restored to health. To the question, why he had 
 not informed the authorities of his having sheltered him, 
 he replied, that no mandat d'arret had been issued against 
 him, nor any charge of infraction of the law. That in 
 receiving him, he had only listened to the voice of duty,' 
 which hade him assist ‘the fatherless and all that are 
 desolate.’ At this crisis a gendarme stated to the com¬ 
 mittee, that the soeur de la charite had, to his know¬ 
 ledge, nursed and restored to health many of the brave 
 defenders of the country who had been wounded in bat¬ 
 tle.” The cure and his sister were released after a severe 
 reprimand. 
 
 “ Thank God ! thank God! they are safe ! ” an ex- 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 3 i 
 
 clamation which now seemed to he so natural that it neither 
 created surprise nor animadversion. 
 
 We resumed our journey next morning, not without 
 earnest remonstrances on the part of my friend against my 
 imprudence, and repeated cautions to he more upon my 
 guard. Nothing of importance occurred till our arrival 
 at Abbeville. We passed the gates without examination or 
 suspicion, and took up our quarters at a cabaret on the 
 brow of the hill, on the other side of Abbeville. This 
 was the limit of my protector’s journey. Here we were 
 to part. The most perilous part of my journey remained. 
 It may well be conceived, that these gloomy thoughts gave 
 additional bitterness to the last night I was to pass with 
 my good and kind friend. He attempted to calm and 
 comfort me, by opening the prospect of happier days. He 
 would not but believe that Providence, which had hitherto 
 preserved me, would still watch over me in the dark hour 
 of calamity and danger. We shall meet again at his home 
 at Luzarches, and be present at Nannette’s wedding. 
 
 Here, as at Amiens, a great number of persons were 
 assembled, mostly consisting of travellers and carriers 
 between the different towns. There were, however, three 
 or four who appeared to be otherwise employed. Hard and 
 weatherbeaten in their appearance, rough and boisterous 
 in their manners, without, however, being offensive, they 
 used few but sea terms and phrases, and made no secret 
 of their occupation, which was that of carrying on a 
 
3 ^ 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 contraband trade between England and France. They bad 
 been to Abbeville and Amiens with English cutlery and 
 drugs, and were about to take to England a cargo of brandies 
 and tobacco. Their vessel was at St. Yallery, a port about 
 five leagues from Abbeville. My friend listened to them 
 with the greatest interest, encouraged them to dwell upon 
 their exploits, and, by the aid of an additional bottle or 
 two of wine, gained their entire confidence and good 
 opinion. Turning towards me on a sudden, he inveighed 
 against me as a restless discontented fellow, who, not satis¬ 
 fied with the safe and quiet life of a carrier, was always 
 talking of the superiority of a sea life, boasting that though 
 there was more danger, there was more glory, and that 
 the peril was more than balanced by the profit. Such 
 idle notions, he said, he should be glad if they would assist 
 him in curing. Not they, indeed ! they liked me the better 
 for them, for they showed a daring and generous spirit 
 which they would much rather encourage than check. 
 This was the point to which my friend wished to lead them. 
 Would they take me a trip with them, which, he was 
 sure, would effectually put an end to all my seafaring in¬ 
 clinations? They should have one hundred francs, which 
 would defray my expenses out and home, and enable them 
 to bring me back to Abbeville. The bargain was soon 
 struck, a fresh bottle ordered, and it was settled that, as 
 soon as day dawned, we should set off for St. Yallery, 
 where they would arrive time enough to put to sea in the 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 33 
 
 evening, and run over to the coast of Kent during the 
 night. My friend and myself now retired to take a few 
 hours’ rest before my departure. And we were now to 
 part! It was a bitter moment, hut I struggled against it 
 as well as I could; and whilst he hoped for and anticipated 
 my escape from France, I prayed that his humanity might 
 not expose him to danger. I charged him with my warmest 
 thanks to his wife and daughter, and entreated him, for 
 letters were unsafe, to convey to the good cure and his 
 sister verbal assurances of my safety. 
 
 My new companions were sufficiently attentive to me, 
 and, during our journey to St. Vallery, recounted the ad¬ 
 ventures they had met with, and the hair-breadth escapes 
 which gave such an interest and charm to their occupation. 
 Well acquainted with every road, they took the most un¬ 
 frequented one, to avoid falling in with any of the douaniers 
 who patrolled the coast. They had depots in solitary farm¬ 
 houses, or in rocky caves. Signals were made both day 
 and night to warn them of danger; and no expeditions were 
 hazarded, nor runs attempted, but in the darkest nights. 
 
 We reached a lone house about half-a-mile from the 
 shore in the evening. We did not venture to enter it till 
 one of my companions had made a signal, which was quickly 
 answered. We then proceeded through a passage, and, 
 descending by a trap-door, were admitted into a large and 
 comfortable kitchen: there were two young men in it and a 
 mother and her two daughters. My history was told in a 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 few words, and we lost no time in making preparations for 
 our departure. A boat was waiting for us, into which we 
 jumped and pulled away for the vessel, which was lying-to 
 about half-a-mile off. The night was so dark that I won¬ 
 dered at their being able to find her, but upon a light being 
 shown from the boat it was answered by a light from the 
 vessel. We soon reached her, got on board with some fresh 
 packages, hoisted in the boat, and made sail. 
 
 The night was propitious, the wind strong and steady, 
 and we made the coast of Kent long before daybreak. 
 Standing off and on for about half-an-hour, we saw a signal 
 from a headland, and were thus assured that all was safe. 
 We pushed on for the shore immediately and began to unload 
 our cargo without loss of time. I went in the first boat, and 
 there was every prospect of our running the whole cargo safely, 
 when a gun was fired, followed quickly by another; this 
 was the signal of danger. Hurrying back instantly to their 
 boats, the men jumped in, pulled away for the vessel, and 
 spread all sail for the opposite coast, leaving me on the beach. 
 
 It was so dark, that, in total ignorance of the road, I 
 resolved to walk the beach till daylight. I then found my¬ 
 self near a town, and congratulated myself on the termina¬ 
 tion of my dangers, and my escape from France. I entered 
 the first cabaret I came to, and eagerly called for food ; a 
 stare of surprise was the only answer, and two men imme¬ 
 diately left the house. Food, however, on my laying a piece 
 of gold upon the table, was quickly furnished me; and 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 35 
 
 whilst I was thus engaged, three soldiers entered with 
 fixed bayonets, and, placing me between them, marched off 
 with me to the .mayor. I was there closely interrogated, as 
 to my home, occupation, business, and the manner in which 
 I had left France and landed in England without a passport. 
 
 I was exposed to the suspicion of being an agent of the 
 Jacobins. I rejected it with disdain: they were my persecu¬ 
 tors, and the objects of my deadliest hatred. Being asked for 
 my papers, I replied that as my object was to escape, papers 
 would have been dangerous ; I had only a quantity of gold, 
 which I produced, to the amount of 150 louis d’or; these 
 were sealed up, and it was finally resolved that I should be 
 sent to the Secretary of State’s office, in the custody of two 
 officers. This was immediately carried into effect, and yet 
 were not my feelings those of fear or anger. I felt no fear. 
 I was not in any real danger, for innocence lived under the 
 safeguard of the laws; accusation must be supported by 
 evidence, and guilt must be proved by other means than the 
 mere charge of a denunciator. The courts were here real 
 courts of justice, not revolutionary tribunals. 
 
 The day after my arrival in London I was carried before 
 one of the secretaries of state. He was attended only by 
 his private secretary. After reading the letter from the 
 mayor, containing the particulars of my arrest and exami¬ 
 nation, he addressed me in French. He remarked that the 
 answers I had given to the mayor were all general, and that 
 I had studiously avoided entering into any details. The 
 
36 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 justice of this remark I admitted at once, and added, as 
 my reason, that the account of my examination might have 
 been published, in which case the safety of innocent persons 
 would have been compromised, and the lives of those who 
 had enabled me to preserve mine would have been endangered. 
 At present, however, when there was no likelihood of such 
 publicity, I was willing and even anxious to enter into the 
 fullest explanation. I began my narrative with an account 
 of my father’s early struggles after the failure of the last 
 effort of the Stuarts. I traced his career from that period 
 to the French revolution; his subsequent differences with 
 his partner; the treachery of the latter, and the arrest, 
 trial, and death of both my parents; my consequent misery 
 and illness; my escape from Paris ; and, finally, my debark¬ 
 ation from a smuggling vessel on the English coast. I re¬ 
 marked with pleasure that his Excellency listened to my 
 statement with that kind of attention which seemed to 
 imply that he gave credit to it. After I had finished, he 
 addressed a few words to his secretary, who laid before him 
 a bundle of printed papers, which he examined with atten¬ 
 tion, and apparently with satisfaction, for he complimented 
 me upon my candour, and pitied me for the miseries and 
 the dangers to which I had been so undeservedly exposed. 
 In England I need not apprehend such treatment. But 
 what were my projects and intentions ? I replied that I 
 had hitherto thought of nothing but effecting my escape, 
 but that, having been brought up as a merchant, I trusted I 
 
The Regicides Family. 
 
 37 
 
 should find some mercantile employment in this vast com¬ 
 mercial metropolis. 
 
 And thus I had fulfilled the last injunction of my 
 parents! and might they not still watch over their child ? 
 There is a joy in the belief that we are yet the objects of 
 solicitude to those whom death has taken from us, and that, 
 however they may he prevented from mingling in or direct¬ 
 ing our sublunary concerns, they are still not debarred from 
 all acquaintance with them. If the dead be sometimes 
 suffered to appear again, as is the concurrent and unvaried 
 belief of all ages, may we not suppose that they are also 
 permitted to be acquainted with the events which occur in 
 the fives of those from whom they have been separated ? 
 The mind outlives the tenement it inhabited, the soul sur¬ 
 vives the body; yet does it at once lose all recollection of 
 earthly events, all consciousness of its former abode ? These 
 are questions which no man can answer. Still let us cling to 
 the belief (it is surely a harmless, and may be a virtuous 
 one) that there is yet some fink and correspondence between 
 the living and the dead ; and that, as the minds of the living 
 have a constant recollection of the dead, the souls of the 
 dead may still have a consciousness or knowledge of the 
 actions of the living. In its sleeping state, the body is as 
 though it were dead ; hut the mind is still active : it treads 
 the path, it traces the progress of events long past; it con¬ 
 verts the past into the present, holds converse with the 
 earliest objects of its care and its affection, recollects the 
 
38 The Regicides Family. 
 
 features of friends now mouldering in the tomb, renews the 
 pleasures of former days in all their freshness, and takes 
 an active part in scenes, though all the actors have long since 
 disappeared from the stage. 
 
 Though I had effected my escape, and had thus preserved 
 my life, the means of living were yet to he provided, and 
 here I encountered difficulties which I was far from ex¬ 
 pecting. Yet they are common to all who, driven from 
 their own country, have to carve the means of subsistence 
 in a foreign one, without friends or acquaintance, intro¬ 
 duction or protection. So many of my unfortunate country¬ 
 men were in London, that every situation which I could 
 have undertaken was already filled. Many who had once 
 large domains and great riches were glad to earn a scanty 
 livelihood by engaging as assistants in the public schools. 
 One, a duke, devoted his whole day to the copying of music; 
 another, of higher rank, of which he has since proved him¬ 
 self so unworthy, taught the first rudiments of mathematics, 
 and thus kept himself from absolute want. Meanwhile, my 
 small means were becoming less and less, and I began to 
 entertain the gloomiest apprehensions of the future, when, 
 as a forlorn hope, I resolved to make my situation known to 
 a mercantile house for which I recollected my father had 
 executed one or two commissions. My first interview with 
 the partners was not propitious; but the illness of one of 
 the clerks soon after my first application created a vacancy, 
 and I was engaged as junior clerk. In this situation, with- 
 
The Regicide's Family . 
 
 39 
 
 out any incident of importance, I remained till the prelimi¬ 
 naries of peace were signed in 1801. The house were then 
 desirous of extending their connexions in France, and I was 
 selected to carry their intentions into effect. 
 
 With what different feelings I returned to France! I 
 left it in difficulty and danger: I returned in comfort and 
 safety. I was then without home, without friends : I had 
 now a station in society, and a character which had gained 
 me confidence and credit. It would have been a journey of 
 unqualified pleasure had not the marks of the revolution so 
 frequently obtruded themselves in ruined, desolate, and de¬ 
 serted chateaux. Where now were their former proprietors ? 
 Some had perished on the scaffold, others had emigrated. 
 The scenes of their former enjoyment were to know them 
 no more. The beautiful, and the gay, and the noble, had 
 vanished from the land, and the raven croaked from the 
 battlements, and the fox and the wolf usurped the hall 
 which had once witnessed the triumphs of the tournament, 
 and displayed the pomp and the power of the lord and his 
 vassals. Few spectacles are more calculated to create 
 melancholy emotions than the ruins of ancient buildings, 
 and the decay of ancient families, even when they may 
 have been the slow work of time. But here the feeling 
 was deeper; for man had forestalled the march of time, and 
 devoted to premature destruction the chateau and its lord, 
 the building which had been the scene of gallant deeds, 
 and the family which it had sheltered for a thousand years. 
 
40 
 
 The Regicide s Family . 
 
 My first object, after my arrival at Paris, was to ascer¬ 
 tain tbe fate of the good priest and his sister. I had not 
 received any tidings from them since my departure, nor dared 
 I write to them during the dark and troubled times which 
 preceded the peace. The good priest was still living, though 
 in extreme old age. The sceur de la charite had gone to 
 receive, in another world the reward of her pure and pious 
 conduct in this. They had been furnished, however, with 
 the intelligence of my escape by the good carrier of Lu- 
 zarches. The place of the sceur de la charite was supplied 
 by the cure’s niece, the daughter of a sister whose husband 
 had fallen on the field of battle, and whom she survived 
 only a month. Her only child, then about eight years of 
 age, was left to the care of her uncle. 
 
 My second visit was to Luzarches. In what a different 
 guise and garb did I approach it this second time! Yet I 
 know not why our feelings, in returning to any dear spot 
 after a long absence, are always of a mixed nature. There 
 is joy, but there is also fear: and the delight, instead of 
 being pure and unmixed, is alloyed with apprehensions and 
 prognostications of evil. We can hardly think that the in¬ 
 terval of our absence has been unmarked by some calamity, 
 and we half expect that our first greeting will be ac¬ 
 companied by some unwelcome tidings. Death may have 
 diminished the number of our friends, or absence chilled the 
 warmth of their affection. 
 
 I determined not to announce myself at once, for I sup- 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 4i 
 
 posed that eight years had made a considerable change in 
 my features and appearance. I entered the kitchen of the 
 cabaret as a stranger desirous of refreshment. There were 
 the mother and daughter; the mother little altered, the 
 daughter rather more embonpoint. But their kindness 
 and activity were undiminished, and they bestirred them¬ 
 selves with the same zeal which they last displayed under 
 circumstances very different indeed from the present. I 
 expressed a wish to take my dinner with the family rather 
 than alone, and whilst they were employed in getting it ready, 
 I directed my conversation to the events which had occurred 
 in the earlier part of the revolution. I spoke of a friend 
 whom I had left in England, and who had made his escape 
 during the reign of terror by the assistance of some peasants 
 who had given him shelter. I touched upon the misery which 
 had involved so many families in ruin, and was delighted to 
 find, from a burst of gratitude for the goodness of Provi¬ 
 dence, that her own family had escaped the storm. The 
 son, indeed, had been compelled by the conscription to enter 
 the army; but he had risen to the rank of serjeant, and, as 
 peace existed, had obtained leave of absence to visit his 
 parents; whilst Nannette’s lover, who had also been a 
 soldier, had obtained his discharge, and was to be married 
 to her as soon as the son arrived. 
 
 The carrier and Nannette entered as my hostess was 
 concluding her little family history, and we sate down to 
 dinner. Still preserving my incognito, I chatted with 
 
42 
 
 The Regicides Family. 
 
 Nannette about tbe wedding, soliciting her permission to 
 be present. “ It is too much honour for the like of us,” 
 said the mother; “ but there is one, who, if he be yet 
 alive, and knew of the wedding, would have been here, I 
 am sure, for he promised faithfully, and we have all reason 
 to wish it, for it is to him Nannette owes her dowry.” 
 “ Aye, good wife,” said the honest carrier, “ and who knows 
 but he may? stranger things have come to pass. You 
 recollect the dream I told you of last Saturday morning, 
 and dreams of a Saturday morning, sir, they say, very often 
 come true. Well, sir, I dreamed that as we were going to 
 church, all in our wedding dresses,—wife, Nannette, Robin, 
 and Guillaume,—who should be standing at the church 
 door but the gentleman himself; and he laid hold, instantly, 
 of Nannette’s hand, and led her into the church.” “ Hold 
 your nonsense, husband,” said the wife ; “ how should he be 
 here, for he does not know when it is to take place. But 
 he has the best right to be if he is alive, and God send he 
 may be as happy as he has helped to make us.” A shade 
 of sorrow clouded, for a moment, the countenance of each, 
 which the mother at length dissipated, by turning the con¬ 
 versation upon Nannette’s dot. She then related the cir¬ 
 cumstances which had attended my first visit; the gold I 
 had given her and Nannette had been employed in a small 
 way of commerce, and so successfully, that it had produced 
 sufficient, with her lover’s fortune, to stock a small farm in 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
The Regicides Family. 
 
 43 
 
 “ It is odd,” I said, “ that a similar adventure should 
 have happened to me.” They were all attention. “ I was 
 once travelling, and put up at a cabaret so like this, in 
 every respect, that I could almost believe it to he the same. 
 The family consisted of a husband and wife, a son and 
 daughter. There was some talk, too, of a wedding ; but I 
 was ill, for I had suffered much, and remember nothing so 
 well as the humanity of the good mother, who, fearing I 
 might be in want, placed a small sum of money in my 
 hands, which I have never parted with, in the hope I 
 might see her once again.” I took from a small purse the 
 two six-franc pieces she had given me. “ These are the 
 identical pieces of money; you may remember them, though 
 you have forgotten me.” Up jumped the whole family—it 
 was who should be the first to embrace me. The mother 
 scolded herself for not having recognized me; the father 
 held up his hands in astonishment that he should not at 
 once have known the companion with whom he had travelled 
 for so many days ; Nannette cried and laughed at the same 
 moment,—she cried lest I should think her ungrateful, and 
 laughed at my having returned so a projoos. It was some 
 time before we could descend to a reasonable state of feeling 
 and conversation. Then came enquiries into the events 
 that had occurred after my separation from the carrier at 
 the cabaret beyond Abbeville. These I recounted in all 
 their details, exciting, as I proceeded, the different feelings 
 of pity, surprise, and pleasure, and finally concluding with 
 
44 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 thanks to the Almighty for having preserved me amidst so 
 many perils. Of all the evenings I ever spent, this was 
 one of the happiest. Nannette’s brother and her lover 
 arrived in the course of the evening, and on the second day 
 after my arrival the wedding was celebrated. 
 
 From this scene of domestic felicity more active duties 
 recalled me, and the establishment of commercial relations 
 left me little leisure for any other pursuit. What time I 
 could spare was devoted to the good priest, whose declining 
 years I endeavoured to soothe. In this labour of love I 
 was assisted by the niece, about eighteen years of age, and 
 eminently endowed with every charm that could ensure 
 affection, and every virtue that could command respect. It 
 was scarcely possible to he in her company without loving 
 her: hence the feeling of admiration with which I first 
 beheld her was soon mixed with tenderer sentiments, and 
 my happiness was at length completed by the confession, on 
 her part, of a mutual passion. 
 
 The health of the good cure had been declining for 
 some months, and it was obvious that the final scene was 
 rapidly approaching. To him it approached without ex¬ 
 citing either dread or sorrow. He had long contemplated 
 it; and if a whole life spent in virtuous actions may fit a 
 man for that world which is to come, who had rendered 
 himself more worthy of it than the cure ? If he felt any 
 uneasiness, it was at his separation from us, who had be¬ 
 come the objects of his fondest affection. It was in one of 
 
The Regicide s Family . 
 
 45 
 
 those moments in which he was expressing his deep anxiety 
 for his niece, that I ventured to disclose onr mutual passion, 
 and to invoke his consent and blessing upon our union. A 
 sudden gleam of pleasure brightened his features. He 
 clasped his hands in prayer over our heads, and exclaiming, 
 “Lord, I thank Thee that Thou hast heard me !” laid his 
 head calmly on his pillow and expired. 
 
 In a few weeks after his death I was married to 
 Mathilde. In the meantime the war had been renewed, 
 and all intercourse with England, and all ideas of establish¬ 
 ing a commercial correspondence with the English house, 
 were abandoned. But having established commercial re¬ 
 lations with several French houses, I was enabled to enter 
 upon business on my own account. It prospered beyond 
 my expectations; and years glided away with Mathilde in 
 happiness and ease. The consular power passed away; the 
 imperial dignity, raised to such a height of splendour only 
 to have a more fatal fall,— 
 
 “-tolluntur in altum, 
 
 Ut lapsu graviore cadant.”—C laudian. 
 
 had been destroyed ; the old dynasty had been restored, but, 
 without an effort in its favour, had been, ere a year had 
 elapsed, driven again into exile. The island prisoner had 
 returned a conqueror ; and, after plunging France into 
 fresh calamities, had disappeared altogether from the stage. 
 Again had the old family taken possession of the throne 
 without opposition, and, to a superficial observer, the tran- 
 
46 
 
 The Regicides Family. 
 
 quillity of the kingdom seemed at length, to be secured. In 
 none of these changes did I take any part. I was disgusted 
 with political intrigues and parties, contented with being 
 a calm observer, whose opinions no one was anxious to ascer¬ 
 tain, and who was generally believed to he wholly engrossed 
 in the sordid pursuit of riches. To me the whole frame and 
 structure of society, as well as the French character, seemed to 
 he altogether altered. That levity and passiveness of submis¬ 
 sion which existed before the revolution had been exchanged 
 for a stubbornness and constant desire of change. A free 
 constitution might have been established at the outset of the 
 revolution under a good and pious monarch;— 
 
 “-nunquam libertas gratior extat, 
 
 Quam sub rege pio 
 
 hut the golden opportunity was lost. The king was sacri¬ 
 ficed, and his mild and merciful sway replaced by the most 
 brutal and bloody tyranny that ever cursed the earth. Every 
 successive alteration, every new constitution, changed as fre¬ 
 quently as the seasons, and, scarcely put in motion before 
 it was consigned to destruction, kept the people as far from 
 any system of real liberty as they had been before the 
 revolution. Jacobins succeeded Girondists ; the despotism 
 of clubs was exchanged for the tawdry tinsel of the Direc¬ 
 tory, whose tyranny, though more disguised, was not less 
 effectual and extensive. The Directory were removed to 
 make room for the consular power ; the consular power 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 47 
 
 yielded to the imperial dignity; and the imperial dignity 
 achieved its own destruction by its own excesses. A quarter 
 of a century had thus elapsed, and France was as remote 
 from real freedom as she was at the commencement of it. 
 She had songs and speeches, stirring music and rounded 
 phrases ; hut this was all mere “ mouth honour.” 
 
 The constitution was no living principle, it had no vital 
 existence, it afforded no protection, it interposed no obstacle 
 to the abuse of power; it was to true freedom what the 
 shrunk and shapeless skeleton is to the living man. 
 There seems in my countrymen to he always a conviction 
 that to he free it is only necessary to will it; that a con¬ 
 stitution is nothing more than an affair of architecture— 
 that it may be built up with as much facility, beauty, 
 and solidity as the palace or the temple, which is the work 
 of man’s hands, and the edifice of his own creation. They 
 think that obedience must be the immediate consequence of 
 command, and that when they say “ Let there be freedom,” 
 there must be freedom. They will have to learn (but the 
 time is not yet come) that a good constitution is not the 
 business of a moment, nor the production of one man, how¬ 
 ever wise ; that it is the slow growth of ages ; that it must 
 be congenial to the soil, or it will never strike its roots deeply 
 and widely; it must be assisted by fortunate conjunctures, 
 and avail itself of favourable opportunities; yield often to 
 the prejudices of the people, and partake of the imperfec¬ 
 tions of our nature ; that it must be won by many a struggle, 
 
4 8 
 
 The Regicides Family. 
 
 and fought for in many a field; that it must have a due bal¬ 
 ance of powers, which shall keep the monarchical from en¬ 
 croaching upon the aristocratical and democratical branches, 
 and restrain the latter from encroaching upon the monarch¬ 
 ical. Never was the ignorance or the indifference to the true 
 principles of freedom, which can never he separated from 
 moral and religious principles, so apparent as at the return 
 of Bonaparte from Elba. The people knew that from him 
 no system favourable to liberty could be expected, they were 
 certain that his desperate attempt would involve the 
 country in fresh and unprofitable warfare, that blood and 
 treasure would be lavished in vain, and that he would leave 
 to the powers of Europe a legal claim to exact the amplest 
 indemnity. It is to him alone that France owes the heavy 
 contributions that were levied upon her, the second conquest 
 of her capital, the military possession of her territory by 
 foreign troops, and the loss, so painful to her vanity, of all 
 those trophies of victory, all those works of art and genius, 
 which had rendered her capital the envy and admiration of 
 the world. All these treasures might have remained at Paris 
 but for the last mad effort of Bonaparte. Yet the people 
 express no indignation, impute no blame to him; their 
 whole rage is directed against those, who, in removing them, 
 exercised the same right of conquest with themselves, but 
 exercised it in a more equitable manner, by restoring them 
 to their original possessors. 
 
 Unaffected by any of these political events, my life glided 
 
The Regicide s Family . 
 
 49 
 
 on smoothly and happily. Our only son was the object of 
 all our tenderness and care, and amply he repaid it by his filial 
 duty and affection, until he had completed his twentieth year. 
 “ Oh Theodore !—my son !—my beautiful!—my brave! that 
 the wound which destroyed our domestic peace should have 
 been inflicted by thee ! But thou art gone ! and may thy 
 offence be forgiven by thy heavenly Father as it has been 
 forgiven by thy earthly one ! ” 
 
 My dear boy had one failing,-—the failing of a too 
 yielding disposition, which made him unwilling to refuse 
 compliance with any request, lest his refusal should give 
 pain. Surely of all failings this is the most dangerous ! It 
 was this which induced him to accompany an intimate ac¬ 
 quaintance to the gaming table, after having vainly dissuaded 
 him from frequenting it. 
 
 The progress and termination of his short hut fatal career, 
 may be traced in the fragments which he left behind him. 
 
 Fragment the First. 
 
 “ For the first time, and I trust for the last, I have accom¬ 
 panied Theodolphe to Frascati’s. What a scene ! To see the 
 human countenance so disfigured, every feature exhibiting 
 the most intense anxiety, agony succeeding exultation, 
 hope giving place to despair; the savings of industry, the 
 means of subsistence, all staked on the turn of a card or 
 the cast of a die; the son beggaring his father, the father 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 The Regicides Family. 
 
 ruining his children; home, reputation, domestic ties, staked 
 and sacrificed! Take a single being of the group : watch 
 that wretched victim whose lips are turning alternately pale 
 and red. How they quiver as he watches the progress of 
 the deal! what drops of perspiration hurst from every pore 
 of his face ! how his hands are clenched, as if he longed to 
 bury his nails in the flesh! how he starts as the dealer 
 proclaims the event! what execrations over his loss! what 
 desperate madness of perseverance! He has one more 
 stake—it is his last. He trembles as he risks it; he seems 
 half inclined to snatch it hack:—it is hut the prudence of 
 a moment; he leaves it abruptly to its fate, and it is 
 gone for ever. That hollow groan ! it is heaved up from 
 the inmost recesses of a bursting heart; he staggers from 
 the fatal scene, and, as he dashes himself into some solitary 
 seat, the ruined gamester determines upon suicide ! ” 
 
 Who could have suspected that he who felt such horror 
 and disgust, would himself become the victim he had so 
 feelingly and faithfully portrayed ? 
 
 Fragment the Second. 
 
 “ I have been with Theodolphe a second time. He had 
 been successful, and, according to the wise motto of the 
 gamester, he ought to follow up his luck. Experience, the 
 certainty of eventual loss, and, possibly, ruin, do not deter 
 
The Regicide s Family. 
 
 5i 
 
 anyone; all rush on with the same madness. The rooms 
 were crowded; the gamesters as numerous and as desperate 
 as before. Theodolphe plunged at once into the thickest of 
 the contest, whilst I watched the different parties, and 
 marked the alternations of the game. Theodolphe was 
 again fortunate, and, probably, it was this circumstance 
 that enabled me to contemplate the scene with less horror 
 and disgust than at first.” 
 
 Fragment the Third. 
 
 “ Theodolphe’s success has overcome my reluctance, and 
 I have been persuaded to play. Could I have believed this 
 possible ! But why did I render it possible ? Ought I not 
 to have fled from this earthly pandemonium P What 
 opinion have I not expressed of the victims of this hateful 
 passion !—Bad parents—bad husbands—bad sons ! Bad 
 sons !—-let me not dwell on that!” 
 
 During all this time, neither his mother nor I had the 
 least suspicion of what was going on. There was the same 
 regularity and punctuality in the counting-house, the same 
 filial affection; but he seemed paler and thinner, which his 
 mother imputed to too close an application to business, and 
 she pressed him to mix more in society. 
 
52 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 Fragment the Fourth. 
 
 “ Madman! I have broken my oath not to risk a large 
 sum! But I bad been so repeatedly unfortunate, that I 
 thought fortune might at last declare in my favour. So 
 thought Theodolphe ; and I quadrupled my stakes. Five 
 thousand francs might be doubled, and trebled, and the noir 
 might have a run—and all would be well! Well! The 
 dreams of idiots and drivellers ! The turn was still against 
 me. I lost all temper—all prudence. In desperation I 
 doubled the stake and lost; doubled it again, and lost again; 
 exhausted all my resources ; borrowed as long as I was able; 
 and, finally, left off with the loss of 50,000 francs ! What 
 is to be done ?” 
 
 Fragment the Fifth. 
 
 “ I am the veriest wretch that breathes the breath of 
 life! Hypocrite! how hast thou deceived thy parents! 
 Parricide! how hast thou murdered all their hopes! 
 Bobber! how hast thou plundered thy father’s hoards! 
 Fraudulent debtor! how art thou to repay the sums thou 
 hast borrowed! Look back I dare not. I dare not stand 
 still. I must on—on! Desperation alone can extricate 
 me ! Extricate me P Aye, and ruin me past hope ! But 
 on—on ! No reflection ! All must be risked! I have 
 seized the sums that were to take up our commercial bills! 
 In three days they will be due ! Three days ! And what 
 then ?—no matter! no matter ! Salvation or ruin ! ” 
 
The Regicides Family. 
 
 S3 
 
 Fragment the Last. 
 
 “It is accomplished ! All is lost! Ruin and disgrace 
 have overtaken me. Peace of mind,—good home,—all are 
 gone. I have hut one task left: one path—and it leads to— 
 
 “Father!—Mother!—pardon! No; you cannot pardon 
 me! 4 Father, which art in heaven/ dare I implore Thee 
 to look with mercy upon such a sinner ? 
 
 44 Oh, good and beloved parents, bless you! bless you! 
 In a few minutes—.” 
 
 Poor child ! It is probable that as soon as he had finished 
 the last fragment he swallowed the fatal draught. My hoy ! 
 my boy! 
 
 In the morning we missed him at our usual breakfast 
 hour. He came not—he sent not—as he would have done 
 had he gone out upon business. He might be unwell. Had 
 any one been into his chamber P I went there myself. 
 There he lay, dressed as he had been during the day, pale 
 and cold; but dead! dead! In one hand he grasped a 
 locket with his mother’s hair; in the other he held the 
 fatal manuscript. 
 
 What became of me I know not—a sudden faintness 
 came over me—my sight grew dim. I recollect nothing; 
 and in this senseless state I remained for hours. But over 
 the agony of parents deprived of their only hope, and so 
 deprived, let me draw a veil. 
 
54 
 
 The Regicides Family. 
 
 It was not till some time afterwards that I was acquainted 
 with the contents of those harrowing fragments. A kind 
 friend had concealed them from both of us: he had taken 
 my affairs into his own hands, paid my acceptances, and 
 carried on my mercantile correspondence. 
 
 Upon my poor Mathilde the death of our child operated 
 more fatally. The first tidings neither produced sigh, nor 
 tear, nor word. It seemed as if she had been stunned by a 
 sudden blow, which had deprived her of consciousness and 
 speech. The eyes assumed a strange unnatural look : at 
 times wild and wandering; at others fixed intently upon 
 some external object. She did not speak for three days; 
 seemed insensible to everything about her; hut remained 
 the whole time in our son’s chamber. On the fourth day 
 the body was to he laid in the coffin for interment, and we 
 tried to withdraw her from the sad scene. But it was in 
 vain; and the physician at last advised that she should he 
 present, as the sight might give a different turn to her 
 feelings, and rouse her to speech or tears. As the assistants 
 raised the body gently, she gasped for breath, her lips 
 quivered, she put aside the arm of one of the men, and 
 screamed, “ Theodore ! your mother ! your mother ! ” The 
 words unlocked at once the source of tears, and she wept 
 bitterly and long. Then she hung over the coffin and would 
 not he moved from it, looking upon the features of the dead 
 as if she expected to hear him speak and move. “Theodore! 
 speak to me ! You used to love me!” On a sudden, the 
 
The Regicides Family. 
 
 55 
 
 truth burst upon her mind. “ He’s dead ! I know it! Oh, 
 he will speak no more ! Never ! never ! never ! ” She im¬ 
 mediately became insensible, and whilst she remained so 
 the coffin was closed and removed for interment. But she 
 recovered time enough to rush out of the room and follow 
 the mournful procession, which she reached as they were 
 lowering the coffin into the grave. Her shrieks were piercing. 
 She would have thrown herself into the grave. She would 
 not have him buried—he should be removed home. “ Don’t 
 send him from me !—I will watch by him. Theodore ! my 
 own Theodore ! Let me have one kiss of him—one last— 
 last—kiss ! Indeed, indeed, he loved me so dearly ! ” She 
 became now too feeble to contend with the assistants, who 
 bore her away; and the grave of my son was closed for 
 ever. 
 
 Her grief became less violent, but more settled and 
 silent. She was fast following him to the tomb. Sleep did 
 not refresh her—food did not nourish her—exercise did not 
 strengthen her. She shunned all society—conversation dis¬ 
 tressed her—she preferred being alone, and frequently 
 retired to our dear boy’s chamber, where she would kneel 
 by his bedside and lay her head upon the pillow which had 
 been once pressed by his. The physician’s skill availed 
 her nothing, and, as a last forlorn hope, change of scene was 
 recommended. I resolved upon an immediate trial. I soon 
 closed all my mercantile concerns: the only being whom 
 they would have benefitted was gone. 1 had completed 
 
56 
 
 The Regicide s Family. 
 
 every arrangement for our departure: the carriage even 
 was at the gate ; and I waited only for my Mathilde. She 
 had gone to shed one more tear upon the pillow of her son. 
 I found her on her knees ;—but life was extinct. She had 
 breathed her last sigh upon the pillow which had received 
 his! 
 
 I remained only long enough to lay her dear remains by 
 the side of our poor boy, and then set out a wretched 
 solitary wanderer upon the face of the earth. 
 
 The world was all before me. But where was I to choose 
 —where to find— 
 
 My Place of Best ? 
 
57 
 
 LEAF THE SECOND. 
 
 THE DEAF AND DUMB TWINS. 
 
 After visiting several parts of Germany, in quest of a 
 habitation, I found out a retired spot not far from Hesse- 
 Darmstadt, so retired, indeed, that few persons in the city, 
 though only fifteen miles distance, ever visited, or even 
 heard of it. There is no road through it to any town. It is 
 a solitary heath bordered by forest trees, with a few cottages 
 scattered irregularly over it; an old chateau and its woods 
 are its limits on the western side ; and at the entrance of the 
 heath, as if placed by way of sentinel, stands a small inn. 
 
 My house is a low tenement, and when I hired it was 
 much dilapidated. Its grounds had been sadly neglected, 
 and were nearly filled with weeds. The last inhabitants 
 had seen better days, but little of them was known beyond 
 their names. They seldom stirred out in the day time,— 
 were sometimes seen at night stealing through the garden to 
 gather the few vegetables it produced, and to pick up some 
 sticks for firing. At length they disappeared, and were 
 heard of no more. 
 
 The situation of the house is pleasant; it has a southern 
 
58 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 aspect, with a view of cultivated fields and distant hills and 
 woods, dotted with the cottages of wood cutters and gardes 
 forestiere >*. 
 
 I have always had a strange propensity to dawdle and 
 saunter about, to hang over the paling of a garden or a 
 gate, and moralize over flowers and all the quiet beauties of 
 nature; to contrast the silent progress of vegetation and the 
 noiseless growth of the fruits of the earth, the calm and 
 sweet aspect of fields and valleys, and mountains and woods, 
 with the frivolous pursuits, the restless desires, the lust after 
 wealth and honours, which mark the intercourse between 
 man and man in crowded cities. 
 
 The landlord of the small inn to which I have alluded 
 seemed, upon my first acquaintance with him, to he one of 
 the most silent, if not sullen, of human beings ; so slow in his 
 movements, and so much attached to his meerschaum pipe, 
 which was his constant companion by day, that I had no 
 doubt he hung it over his pillow at night, that it might he 
 ready to drop into his mouth the first thing in the morning. 
 Nothing could exceed the dislike I felt towards him in the 
 beginning. I tried all those modes of civility by which we at¬ 
 tempt to ingratiate ourselves: I praised the cleanliness of his 
 inn, the beauty of its situation, the neatness of his garden. 
 A short and abrupt sentence was his only reply. At length 
 he favoured me with a few words asking what my object 
 was in coming among them. I replied that I had reasons for 
 leaving my own country, and that I hoped to prove myself 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 59 
 
 a friendly neighbour. “ Reasons ! ” he repeated, as if he 
 suspected I could not give any good ones, and I saw plainly 
 that he regarded me with increasing distrust. Despairing 
 at length of rendering him more humane, I left him to his 
 sullenness and suspicions. , He had a wife whose character 
 seemed in every respect the reverse of his: gentle in 
 speech and quiet in manner, with a look which I find it 
 difficult to describe; as it gave to her eyes an expression at 
 once of grief and resignation, which at times was succeeded 
 by a certain wildness and impatience, as if resignation had 
 for a time lost its power. I frequently remarked that, when 
 she looked at her husband, a deeper shade of melancholy 
 overspread her countenance, as if she knew that he was 
 struggling with a secret sorrow which he would fain hide 
 from the world. There was evidently some deep grief, and 
 this induced me to study their characters more closely, that 
 I might he able, if not to remove, at least to lighten the load 
 that weighed them down so heavily. I saw no children 
 about the house, and at first persuaded myself that they 
 had none, but I was at length undeceived by an event which, 
 whilst it proved the error of my conjectures, let me at once 
 into their history. 
 
 I had been wandering on the borders of the heath later 
 than usual when, from a clump of oaks in a dell at a short 
 distance, I heard an extraordinary noise. It was not a 
 scream, but a hollow guttural sound, as if it proceeded from 
 a person in the act of being strangled. It was short and 
 
6o 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 quick, and soon became fainter and fainter. I went always 
 armed, not only with a stout stick, but with a brace of 
 pocket pistols. I hastened to tbe spot, and beheld a young 
 man struggling with two ruffians, one of whom was grasp¬ 
 ing his throat. I called out to the villains to desist, and 
 advanced with a pistol in my hand. One of them imme¬ 
 diately fired, but missed me. I returned his fire with more 
 effect, for his right arm dropped as if the ball had shattered 
 it. Exclaiming with an oath, that he was killed, he made 
 a signal to the other ruffian, and they both fled. 
 
 Instead of pursuing them, I directed my attention to 
 
 the young man. He lay quite exhausted on the ground, 
 
 % 
 
 and to my repeated inquiries did not make the least reply. 
 I felt his pulse ; I examined his head ; there was no wound, 
 but his throat bore evident marks of the assassin’s gripe. 
 I raised him from the ground, and by degrees he recovered, 
 but did not speak a word. Uttering a low and mournful 
 sound, he clasped his hands together, as if in thanks, and, 
 pointing to his mouth and ears, made a signal which ex¬ 
 plained to me that he was deaf and dumb. On a sudden I 
 heard shouts in the distance, and saw lights glancing in diffe¬ 
 rent directions. “Fritzer! mein Fritzer !” My dumb com¬ 
 panion turned to me with a joyful countenance. Presently 
 I saw my landlord of the inn and his wife. No sooner did 
 they catch a glimpse of Fritzer, the name of the dumb 
 youth, than he flew into their arms ; he then turned to me, 
 drew me to his father and mother, and, falling on his knees 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 61 
 
 before me, made them comprehend that I had saved his 
 life. 
 
 We returned to the inn, where I had to undergo a repe¬ 
 tition of thanks and blessings, which I cut short by explain¬ 
 ing the necessity of examining and applying some medicine 
 to their son’s throat. I found that the grasp of the ruffian 
 must have been so determined that but for my intervention 
 life would soon have been extinguished. 
 
 The father remained for some time in deep thought. 
 He then inquired by signs of his son whether the men had 
 robbed him, or attempted it. By a sign he made his father 
 understand that no such attempt had been made, accom¬ 
 panying this information with a gesture which explained to 
 us that they had dragged him into the plantation and 
 fastened instantly upon his throat. This circumstance 
 afforded matter for deep reflection. It was evident that 
 
 i 
 
 murder, not robbery, was their intention. But why should 
 Fritzer he the object of their vengeance, and why was he 
 wandering alone at such an hour ? “ It is an hour,” said 
 
 the father, “ at which he is never abroad. I do not suffer 
 him to be on the heath at times when he might be exposed 
 to the taunts and ill-usage of the village lads, who would 
 make sport of his affliction. He walks with me in early 
 morning, and by paths which are seldom frequented ; the 
 rest of the day he dedicates to reading and drawing.” 
 Fritzer, who seemed to have been lost in thought, now 
 jumped up as if he had made some discovery; he felt in 
 
62 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 this pocket, then in that, and at last drew out a scrap of 
 paper in the shape of a note which he eagerly handed 
 to his father. 
 
 “Eritzer Ebersdorff, —You are desired to go this 
 evening to the clump of oaks on the edge of the heath, 
 where your father will come to you. As he is engaged at 
 present with the cure, he has desired a friend to write this 
 in his name.” 
 
 The father and mother lifted up their hands in astonish¬ 
 ment. The father had not written, nor caused to be 
 written, any such note. Here, then, was proof of a plan 
 for depriving the young man of his life. “ But the 
 object,” I asked, “what object was meant to he accom¬ 
 plished by the murder P ” The father paused for some 
 minutes, and after exchanging looks with his wife, began,— 
 
 “ I have no right nor wish to conceal any part of our 
 sad story from our benefactor. If he did not hesitate to 
 risk his life for our son, his parents ought not from any 
 false shame to forbear disclosing to him those events which 
 have saddened theirs. 
 
 “I was one of the gardes foresticres of Count Plauer- 
 feldt, who resided at his chateau about five miles from the 
 heath. As I was active and faithful in the discharge of my 
 duty, and had discovered and defeated some attempts to 
 injure the property of the count, he distinguished me by 
 many proofs of kindness and approbation. I had become 
 acquainted with the daughter of the former landlord of this 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 63 
 
 inn, and, with the count’s consent, made proposals to her 
 father, who, ascertaining the sentiments of his daughter, 
 and proud of having been spoken to by the count, gave his 
 consent to the marriage. We were accordingly married, 
 and hut for the calamity which befell us (not, thank God, 
 from any crimes of our own), our happiness would have 
 been nearly perfect.” His wife, leaning her arm upon his 
 shoulder, fixed her eyes upon him with much affection, as 
 if to confirm the truth of his assertion. He pressed her 
 hand warmly, and then proceeded. “ I removed with my 
 wife to the cottage which I occupied as garde forestiere, and 
 in a few months afterwards she became pregnant. It is not 
 to he supposed that I had been a faithful servant to the count 
 without having incurred the hatred of those whose designs 
 I had thwarted. To such a pitch had it risen, that they 
 determined upon taking away my life. I had been sent for 
 one night by my father-in-law. It was the night fixed 
 upon for my death ; and, with the cowardice which marks 
 the assassin, it was resolved that the murder should he 
 committed after I had gone to bed, when I should he un¬ 
 armed, and might be surprised in my sleep. It is easy to 
 enter a cottage ; for what has poverty to do with locks and 
 bars ? They got in without any one hearing them. My 
 wife, who was within a short time of her delivery, had gone 
 to bed. No one was in the cottage hut herself. They stole 
 gently up stairs, one holding a dark lanthorn and a dagger, 
 the other armed with pistols. As they opened the bedroom 
 
6 4 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 door, my wife, supposing I had returned, asked a question 
 about her father. No reply was made, hut they placed 
 themselves on each side the bed, and one of them aiming a 
 blow with his dagger, exclaimed, ‘ Louis, take that; you 
 will trouble us no more/ The other ruffian, throwing sud¬ 
 denly the light of the lanthorn upon the bed, observed to 
 his companion, with an oath, that Louis was not there. 
 The dagger had only penetrated the pillow. The terror of 
 my wife upon seeing the ruffians by her bedside may easily 
 be conceived. She uttered one loud scream ; but to the 
 repeated demands to know where I was she did not reply a 
 word ; fear had struck her dumb. I had just reached our 
 cottage when I heard the scream. I found the door open, 
 and strange voices above. I made but one spring up the 
 stairs, and, bursting into the room, saw my wife, as I 
 thought, dead. The ruffians were hanging over her. I 
 flew upon the nearest villain, and grasping him by the 
 throat, tore him from the bedside and hurled him down 
 stairs. The other, seeing the fate of his comrade, attempted 
 to rush by me; but foiled in his attempt, he fired a pistol, 
 which did no other damage than shattering the window. 
 He then, by a sudden effort, extricated himself from my 
 hold, and, darting down stairs, fled after his companion. By 
 degrees my wife recovered, though she remained speech¬ 
 less for some hours. She could not, however, leave her 
 bed, and in a short time was delivered of twins. But her 
 fright had had a fatal effect upon them; they were born 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 65 
 
 deaf and dumb. A sad calamity this, but it behoved us to 
 bear it with fortitude, and not to fail in our duty because 
 our children would never delight us with them prattle in 
 infancy, or cheer us with their conversation at a more 
 advanced period of their lives. They grew up sweet and 
 docile children, and, as if their common calamity linked 
 them together more closely, they loved each other with the 
 utmost affection. Knowing that they could not hold any 
 intercourse with us by speech, they seemed more eager to be 
 taught everything by which they could render themselves 
 more useful. Thus they grew up, till at last we were 
 enabled to bear the calamity with calmness and resignation. 
 The count, who had known the circumstances under which 
 the children were born, and the cause of that hatred which 
 had exposed my life to danger, continued his favour towards 
 me. My daughter Ella was one of the loveliest girls I 
 ever beheld.” He paused for a few moments ; nature was 
 working too strongly within him. He attempted to check 
 himself, but the effort was in vain; he actually groaned 
 with anguish, whilst large drops of sweat stood upon 
 his forehead. The wife remained fixed to her seat, and 
 silent, as if in secret prayer. The father, waving his hand 
 towards her, made a strong effort to master his feelings, 
 and at length continued— 
 
 “ She grew up the pride and delight of her parents ; 
 and the countess, who would sometimes honour our cottage 
 with a visit, took great notice of her. At length she offered 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 to take her as her own immediate attendant. Grieved were 
 we to part with her, sure enough, hut we had to think 
 what was to become of her should death deprive her of her 
 parents; and thus, after much consultation, we accepted the 
 countess’s offer. Oh God ! that any consideration should 
 have induced us to accept it! But who could foresee the 
 misery into which this step would plunge her? Ella had just 
 reached her sixteenth year, when we went with her to the 
 chateau. It was painful enough for her parents to part with 
 her—it was agony to her brother; they had never been sepa¬ 
 rated ; had worked together, read together, and had estab¬ 
 lished certain signs, by which they could converse together. 
 He was going to lose his other self, and to he left almost 
 a solitary being in the world. 
 
 “ I had a strong presentiment of evil; I had a weight 
 and oppression upon my heart which every one, I suppose, 
 has felt before the visitation of some great calamity. We 
 cannot divine the cause, nor the quarter from whence it is to 
 proceed, nor its extent, nor the manner of its operation, nor 
 why it should come at all; we only feel that it will come. 
 
 “ Yet everything seemed to assure us that our Ella could 
 not be in safer hands. The count and countess were amiable 
 and virtuous, and Ella was treated with the greatest kind¬ 
 ness. Months passed on without any event of importance; 
 but still, still, I could not shake off the load which weighed 
 upon me. 
 
 “ The family of the count consisted of two sons, who 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 67 
 
 were in the army, and who were making a campaign in the 
 Austrian service, when my daughter was taken into that of 
 the countess. At the end of a year they returned, and with 
 them an officer who —” 
 
 The father was forced to leave off abruptly from exhaus¬ 
 tion, and to defer the continuation of his narrative till the 
 following evening. 
 
 “ The sons of Count Plauerfeldt brought with them an 
 officer who had made the campaign with them, and was 
 come to spend a few months at the chateau. He was the 
 son of the Baron de Lauerstadt, a noble family in Saxony. 
 
 “ Ella, who had gained upon the affections of the countess 
 by the grace and gentleness of her manners, was treated more 
 as a companion than a servant; and this kindness became 
 more marked after a dangerous illness, through which Ella 
 had nursed her with the utmost care, and until her own 
 health began perceptibly to suffer. The medical attend¬ 
 ant upon the countess ordered her to take a daily walk 
 in the gardens and grounds of the chateau. It was in 
 one of these walks that she was observed by Lauerstadt. 
 He had been informed that there was such a person in the 
 countess’s train, hut had never seen her. He was struck 
 with admiration at the sight of so graceful and lovely a 
 woman, and addressed her with much seeming respect. 
 The next day, and the next, and the next, he was found in 
 the walk she frequented, and was her constant companion. 
 He taught her also the method of conversing with him by the 
 
68 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 aid of the fingers. These daily attentions could not fail of 
 producing their effect upon a young and innocent girl, and 
 Lauerstadt was not slow in discovering it. He loved her, 
 hut it was not that love which combines its own gratification 
 with the happiness of its object; it was a sensual and selfish 
 passion. Hers, on the contrary, was of that tender and vir¬ 
 tuous kind which truly has for its end the happiness of its 
 object, and in which her own is inseparably bound up. It 
 was long, however, before she gave him the advantage 
 which a woman always affords when her affection becomes 
 known. The disparity between their rank in life was so 
 great that she dared not indulge the hope that his family 
 would consent to such a marriage; and, all innocence her¬ 
 self, she did not suppose that any other than virtuous 
 intentions could enter into the heart of the baron. But I 
 will not dwell upon the arts he employed, and the projects 
 he formed to seduce her from the path of virtue. Failing, 
 however, in these, he at last proffered her marriage. She 
 replied, by the signs which he had taught her, that the 
 consent of both their parents must he obtained. Lauerstadt 
 rejected the suggestion at once : his parents would never 
 consent to the marriage, which must be concealed from 
 them, and never acknowledged till after their death ;— 
 nay, the same concealment must be adopted towards her 
 own parents ; and to this they must mutually and solemnly 
 pledge themselves. 
 
 “ For some time my poor child would not listen to such 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 6 9 
 
 a proposal;—would to Gfod that she had persisted in that vir¬ 
 tuous resolution ! But, pressed by entreaties constantly urged 
 by the man she loved, and affected by the grief he pre¬ 
 tended to feel, and moved, moreover, by his pathetic decla¬ 
 ration that he might soon he called into active service, and 
 grow careless of life if he were to depart without calling 
 her his wife, he wrung from her a reluctant consent to their 
 union, accompanied by a condition that her brother should 
 be present at the ceremony. 
 
 “The chateau had its chapel for the celebration of 
 religious ceremonies, and there, in the presence of her 
 brother and one of the baron’s servants, she was—married! 
 
 “After the marriage had been celebrated, the priest gave 
 Fritzer secretly a certificate, and by signs made him under¬ 
 stand that it must he kept with the utmost care. 
 
 “ In about seven months afterwards Lauerstadt left the 
 chateau, under the pretext of his father’s illness, but with 
 the promise of returning as soon as his recovery would permit 
 of it. Ella was then pregnant. The delicacy and distress of 
 her situation were extreme; her solemn oath bound her to 
 secrecy, hut she wrote to Lauerstadt imploring him to release 
 her from so much of it as bound her not to divulge it to her 
 own parents. He took no notice of her letter. In a subse¬ 
 quent one she repeated her request in the most moving terms: 
 he was as regardless of this as of the previous one. It would 
 seem as if her distress could not have been susceptible of 
 aggravation, hut it was absolute happiness when contrasted 
 
yo 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 with the event which followed her last letter to the baron. It 
 was a letter from him, but not in answer to hers, which he 
 did not even notice. He assured her that he still loved her 
 with the truest affection; that her happiness should always be 
 his peculiar care; that his parents were urging him in the 
 strongest manner to marry a noble lady, the only daughter 
 of the late Count Pahlen; that, however averse he was to 
 such a union, he feared he should not be able to withstand 
 the intercessions of both families ; that the ceremony which 
 had passed between them was only a pretended marriage, not 
 having been solemnized according to the form of the church, 
 nor celebrated by a priest: it was therefore null and void. 
 
 “ Conceive—no ; you cannot conceive—the feelings of 
 my poor child upon the perusal of a letter so cruel and un¬ 
 expected. She fell to the ground as if death had struck her, 
 and in that situation was found by the countess. The fatal 
 letter lay beside her, and its contents sufficiently explained 
 the cause. With the most considerate humanity the countess 
 employed herself in restoring her to her senses, and would 
 not call in any assistance lest the secret should transpire: 
 but she sent for my wife and me. 
 
 “ I pass over, for I cannot, I cannot describe, the grief, 
 the agony that seized us. We removed our poor child, 
 whose reason had become impaired, and who for weeks was 
 unconscious of her situation. At length the period of her 
 delivery arrived, and she was restored to consciousness and to 
 misery. The infant was put out to nurse, for Ella could not 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 71 
 
 rear it, and we returned to our cottage; but not to that 
 peace and happiness which once had blessed it. 
 
 “ My wife’s father died soon afterwards, and bequeathed 
 us this inn; but the company and conversation of the 
 persons who frequented it were too much for the spirit of 
 my poor broken-hearted child, and she took up her abode 
 with the nurse and her infant. 
 
 “In this manner two years elapsed. We heard of 
 the Baron Lauerstadt’s marriage, but carefully concealed it 
 from Ella, though his barbarous letter must, in a measure, 
 have prepared her for it. 
 
 “ This morning I was surprised by the arrival of a 
 notary from Darmstadt with the information that the 
 baron had been arrested on a charge of bigamy by the 
 Count Pahlen, that the trial is to take place in a month, and 
 that the evidence of Ella and her brother will be absolutely 
 necessary. I know not what to think, and dare not indulge 
 hope ; but the orders of the criminal tribunal must at any rate 
 be obeyed, and Ella and Fritzer must proceed in a few days 
 to Darmstadt. How their evidence is to be given, deprived 
 as they are of speech, I am unable to comprehend, but steps 
 must be taken to find out an advocate who may watch over 
 Ella’s interests and protect her character.” 
 
 As I knew that my landlord was unacquainted with legal 
 proceedings, and was besides but little conversant in the 
 ways of the world, I offered my services, which were readily 
 and gratefully accepted. On my arrival at Darmstadt, I 
 
72 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins, 
 
 procured an introduction to a young advocate of the highest 
 promise, the nephew of the celebrated Schiller. I laid be¬ 
 fore him all the particulars of which the reader is informed. 
 His first opinion was not favourable, even supposing that a 
 legal marriage had been celebrated, for means might have been 
 found to remove the priest, without whom every effort would 
 he unavailing; but he seemed more inclined to fear that a 
 pretended marriage had taken place, such instances of base¬ 
 ness not being rare. It was resolved however that we should 
 open a communication with the advocate of Count Pahlen, 
 whose case might be strengthened by the evidence with 
 which we could furnish him. This was accordingly done. 
 The manner of taking the evidence of the deaf and dumb 
 sister and brother perplexed us; hut we resolved to consult 
 the director of the establishment for the deaf and dumb, 
 who was a pupil of the Abbe Sicard. He soon took the 
 deepest interest in the case: but we had only three weeks 
 to make our arrangements. By the advice of M. de Mont¬ 
 calm, for that was his name, we sent for the brother and 
 sister, and placed them under his care. 
 
 Ella and her brother arrived at Darmstadt with their 
 father. I had never seen her, but the first glance was suffi¬ 
 cient to convince me of the perfect truth and purity of her 
 heart. I never beheld a countenance so calculated to excite 
 love and admiration. The enthusiasm of the lover and 
 the imagination of the poet accord to the objects of their 
 adoration the beauty of angels : without either the enthu- 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 73 
 
 siasm of the one, or the imagination of the other, I must 
 confess that she personified all that we conceive of such im¬ 
 mortal beings. Her grief had been softened by piety and 
 resignation, which gave to her features a touching interest 
 utterly impossible to describe. You could not say her 
 face was pale:—“ Oh call it fair, not pale! ” Her eyes 
 were of the softest blue, and, before sorrow and tears had 
 dimmed their lustre, must have been most expressive. Her 
 figure, though slight, was not deficient in roundness ; and if 
 misery had not driven all joy and gladness from her heart, 
 one might have expected to see her bound with all the grace 
 and elasticity of a wood nymph. 
 
 Ella, who had been partially instructed by the baron in 
 the art of communicating her ideas by the fingers, made 
 rapid progress under the humane instruction of M. de 
 Montcalm. 
 
 The day of trial arrived. 
 
 The Trial. 
 
 Perhaps few trials have ever excited more interest; nor 
 do I recollect above one or two more curious and important, 
 even amongst the causes cblebres. 
 
 Count Pahlen had secured the talents of one of the most 
 eminent advocates in Darmstadt, M. Carlsdorff. Baron 
 Lauerstadt was defended by an advocate of equal eminence, 
 M. de Florsberg. M. Schiller, our advocate, had had few 
 opportunities of distinguishing himself, but those who were 
 
74 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 most intimate with him knew that to great legal knowledge 
 he added an intimate acquaintance with the classics, which 
 had refined his taste, and given greater scope and animation 
 to his genius; his eloquence was so impassioned and earnest, 
 that he appeared to he pleading his own cause rather than 
 that of his client. With this he combined quickness of 
 perception, great depth of reasoning, and a remarkable dex¬ 
 terity in weeding and clearing a cause of all extraneous and 
 irrelevant matter. 
 
 The friends of the accuser and the accused were in 
 court, formidable from their influence and rank; whilst on 
 our side there were the advocate Schiller, M. de Montcalm, 
 the father and his deaf and dumb children, and myself. 
 
 As soon as the three judges entered the court, the baron 
 was placed at the bar. It was to us a moment of fearful 
 interest on account of Ella. I had placed her so that she 
 could not immediately see any person entering the court 
 from that side. The baron cast a haughty glance at the 
 assembled multitude, affected an air of carelessness and in¬ 
 difference, and recognizing with a look of familiarity some 
 of his friends, surveyed the different groups more particularly, 
 till at length he caught a view of his hapless victim. There 
 was no longer any haughtiness of look, or carelessness of 
 manner; his countenance became of an ashy paleness, and 
 then as red as blood, his lips quivered, and his whole frame 
 seemed convulsed. It was at this moment that Ella by a 
 sudden turn first saw him. 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 75 
 
 The sight quite overpowered her. She clasped her hands 
 in anguish, and fell senseless into her father’s arms. I had 
 foreseen this, and had provided the necessary remedies. But 
 the business of the court was for a time suspended. 
 
 The chief judge opened the proceedings, confining him¬ 
 self to a dry statement of the nature of the process. 
 
 M. Carlsdorff then rose. Had it been midnight, with¬ 
 out the presence of a human being in court, there could 
 not have been a deeper and more awful silence. 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“ My lords, before I proceed, in the 
 presence of this august tribunal, to lay before your lordships 
 the facts of a case which has few parallels in the annals of 
 crime, I must direct your attention to the scene which has 
 just passed before us, and which, though it has created a 
 temporary delay, has added a link to the chain of evidence 
 which we did not expect. It is amongst the inscrutable 
 ways of Providence to act sometimes by means apparently 
 the most insignificant. Guilt may weave the most cunning 
 web, surround itself with every artifice that shall shroud it 
 from the eye of man, build up a fortress which it believes 
 to he impregnable, and boast that it has baffled detection. 
 Shallow contrivers ! In an instant the gentlest breath, a 
 word only whispered, the slightest touch, breaks the meshes 
 of this curious web, drags every artifice into open day, and 
 levels the impregnable fortress with the dust. A dream, a 
 groan in sleep, a knife dropped by chance on the spot where 
 a great crime has been committed, a foot-mark in the snow, 
 
7 6 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 a spot of blood on tbe floor, have been the means of track¬ 
 ing the murderer to his cave, and of furnishing a clue * to 
 his detection. May we not hope that the scene we have 
 just witnessed, slight as it may appear to be, will assist us 
 in detecting the crime and the criminal, the murder and the 
 murderer! ” 
 
 M. de Florsberg instantly rose. “ Murder and mur¬ 
 derer ! I protest, my lords, against the use of expressions 
 which may aggravate the public mind against my client, 
 mislead the court, and impute a crime which is not in 
 the indictment. Let me entreat my learned brother to 
 descend from the lofty flights of fancy into the humbler 
 region of fact, and to recollect that the charge against 
 the baron is simply one of bigamy.” 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“ Simply one of bigamy ! I can 
 easily pardon the indiscreet zeal of my learned friend, who 
 is anxious that his client should not be suspected of being 
 guilty of any crime but simply that of bigamy! But I re¬ 
 tract not a sentence, not a word I have uttered. I will not 
 qualify nor soften a single expression. My lords, the man 
 who takes another’s life is not the only murderer—perhaps 
 not the cruellest. Poverty or despair may have armed him 
 against his fellow-man. The fatal blow has been struck, and 
 the agony may be momentary. But the man who, with the 
 power which rank and wealth supply, and for the gratifica¬ 
 tion of his own debasing lust, allures innocence from the 
 paths of virtue, wins and abuses the affection of confiding 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 77 
 
 woman, and then leaves her as an object of contempt and 
 scorn, a desolate and broken-hearted wanderer upon the 
 face of the earth,—he is the cruellest of all murderers, for 
 the death he causes is a slow and lingering one. 
 
 “My lords, the eye, the look, sometimes open to us a 
 view of the inmost recesses of the heart. When the 
 prisoner came into court, his air was haughty, his demeanour 
 careless. But no sooner does he fix his eyes in one direc¬ 
 tion than his manner changes, his face becomes alternately 
 pale and red, his eyes quiver, and mental agitation shakes 
 his whole frame. Do not all your hearts tell you what is 
 the cause P Look at that ill-fated object!—at that coun¬ 
 tenance, so interesting in its grief, so beautiful in its desola¬ 
 tion. You would hardty believe that this is the work of a 
 human being, for you are good men! still less dare I expect 
 you to credit the monstrous assertion that so lovely a girl 
 should have been deserted! deserted too at the moment of 
 her utmost need, in that hour of pain and peril when life 
 is held by a thread, and the grave seems half open to receive 
 its victim! 
 
 “ I fear that I am harrowing the feelings of all who 
 hear me ; I am sure I am wounding my own. I pro¬ 
 ceed therefore at once to a detail of facts, and a review of 
 the evidence by which I hope to establish the charge against 
 the prisoner. 
 
 “ Young Lauerstadt, after one of his campaigns, was 
 received as the intimate friend of Count Plaueifeldt s sons 
 
7 8 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 at the chateau of Plauerfeldt. The countess, their mother, 
 had taken into her service a young and innocent female, the 
 daughter of one of his gardes forestieres. Her close atten¬ 
 tion to the countess during her illness had impaired her 
 health, and air and exercise were prescribed for her. In one 
 of her walks in the gardens of the chateau it was her un¬ 
 happy fate to meet the baron. An acquaintance commenced, 
 and the baron, always on the watch for her, was her daily 
 companion in her walks. At length he made an avowal of 
 the affection with which she had inspired him. 
 
 “ That the baron’s intentions where dishonourable ; that 
 his wish was to gain possession of this innocent girl upon 
 his own terms, cannot he doubted. But her virtue was more 
 powerful than his arts, and eventually he offered her marriage. 
 
 “My lords, I am aware of the prejudices of rank, 
 and that unequal marriages are generally regarded with dis¬ 
 dain and dread both by the affluent and the noble. Hence 
 those selfish and heartless betrayals which consign so many 
 victims to a life of misery and shame; and hence, too, it 
 arises that jDalliations are so constantly advanced and ad¬ 
 mitted in extenuation of wrongs so cruelly inflicted and so 
 lightly considered. Beauty and innocence, when allied to 
 poverty, can offer but a feeble resistance to the accessories of 
 wealth, rank, and passion. Love, in its purest form, seldom 
 sits enthroned in the heart of the aristocrat when the object 
 of his admiration is a poor, humble, and, it may he, beautiful 
 girl. But love, in its carnal sense, reigns there supreme: 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 79 
 
 here it acquires the character of a brutal and debasing lust; 
 a lust that sets at nought the claims of honour, decency, 
 and pity, and suffers no impediment to stand between it and 
 its gratification; a lust that must be satiated, even though 
 woman’s virtue, woman’s happiness, and, possibly, woman’s 
 life, should be the sacrifice, 
 
 “ As I said before, the man who takes another’s life is 
 not the only murderer. But to proceed. The marriage was 
 celebrated in the chapel of the chateau, in the presence of 
 the bride’s brother and a domestic of the baron. 
 
 “ A few months were passed—they were but few—in 
 happiness. The baron then left the chateau under the pre¬ 
 text of his father’s illness, and returned to it no more. 
 Letter after letter was sent to him, urging the delicacy of 
 his wife’s situation, and imploring his return ; but he never 
 condescended a reply. He had obtained the object of his 
 desires, and was impatient to throw his injured victim, ‘ like 
 a loathsome weed’ away. As the final act of his villany, 
 he addressed to her, on the eve of her confinement, the 
 letter I hold in my hand, and which by permission of the 
 court I will now read.” 
 
 [The letter, of which I have already given the sub¬ 
 stance, was read to the court, and received with expressions 
 of indignation and disgust.] 
 
 “ My lords, I shall not occupy much more of your time. 
 What the agony of this woman must have been at the re¬ 
 ceipt of such a letter, at such a moment, I will not attempt 
 
8o 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 to describe. The painter wisely draws a veil over the grief 
 which he cannot pourtray. But Providence has ordained 
 that sorrow, however great, is capable of mitigation. The 
 wife, whose sanity had at first given way, was delivered of 
 a male child, and was restored to her senses, and to the 
 consciousness also of her desolate condition. The baron, 
 meanwhile, celebrated his second marriage. 
 
 “ Before, however, entering upon the evidence, it will be 
 necessary to state some circumstances which I have avoided 
 touching upon myself, because I am sure they will be urged 
 with far greater force by my young friend near me, who, 
 having made that part of the case more peculiarly his 
 study, is more competent, and indeed has the better right, 
 to discuss it.” 
 
 M. Schiller rose. “ My lords, if I felt before that I 
 had undertaken a task for which I am totally incompetent, 
 I am sure that that feeling has been rendered doubly embar¬ 
 rassing by the compliment which closed the address of the 
 learned advocate. He runs no risk of any diminution of 
 his fame by any panegyric he may bestow upon others; 
 for wdiere can he fear or find a rival P How different is 
 my case! An unknown individual, without experience, 
 without any of those qualities which are so prominent in 
 the learned advocate, with no other recommendation than 
 the desire and the determination to do my duty fearlessly 
 and conscientiously, I stand before you undeterred by the 
 heavy responsibility of my position; but, at the same time, 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 81 
 
 with a full sense of the important results involved in this 
 trial to all the parties concerned. 
 
 “ My lords, there are two features in this case which 
 have rarely, if ever, been found in any other. The bride 
 and her brother are deaf and dumb. God, who has given 
 us the faculty of expressing our wants and wishes, and the 
 power of holding converse with our fellow-men, has denied 
 it to them. Unhappy fate! that bars them from the en¬ 
 joyment of that social intercourse which alone makes life 
 supportable in the midst of all its cares and troubles. 
 
 “ The common herd of sensualists would have shrunk 
 from the thought of injuring a young creature so desolate and 
 forlorn. That she could not speak her sorrow or proclaim 
 her wrongs would have shaken the purpose of any one who 
 had not calculated that it was that very want of speech 
 which afforded an impunity to guilt, and would, most prob¬ 
 ably, shield it from discovery. Happily, my lords, the 
 contrivances of the wicked are never so perfect as to defy 
 detection. There is always some error in the conception, 
 some fault or blemish in the execution; there is always 
 
 some contingency which has not been foreseen, and against 
 
 « 
 
 which no provision has been made. There is ever a flaw in 
 the indictment, if I may use a technical expression, which 
 disconcerts their calculations and defeats their designs. 
 What a merciful boon, my lords, is this from the hand of 
 Providence ! It shows the impolicy as well as the wicked¬ 
 ness of crime even in this life; and though we are sure that 
 
 G 
 
82 The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 guilt will meet with its punishment in another world, it is 
 still consolatory to know that it seldom goes undetected or 
 unpunished even in this. 
 
 “But if the dumb cannot speak, they are able to con¬ 
 verse in a language which has been invented by one of 
 those good men whose lives are devoted to the benefit of 
 their fellow-creatures. Such a man was the Abbe Sicard ; 
 such a man is M. de Montcalm. Our difficulty, however, 
 was as to the way by which the dumb wife and brother 
 could give their evidence. It could not, of course, be viva 
 voce; and the forms of the court do not admit of written 
 evidence. M. Montcalm, however, soon removed all diffi¬ 
 culty. They had been under his tuition, and he, being a 
 sworn interpreter between the court and them, the ends of 
 justice would thus be completely served.” 
 
 M. de Florsberg strongly objected to a course of pro¬ 
 ceeding which was not sanctioned by any law that could be 
 found in the reports, nor by any precedent that could be 
 produced from the records of the court. Here was a mode 
 of taking evidence which the judges did not understand, 
 and upon which, therefore, they could not give any decisive 
 opinion. Where, too, was the power of cross-examination ? 
 Besides, the interpreter might be deficient in competency 
 or in impartiality. He might suppress, or add, or misre¬ 
 present, without the possibility of detection. 
 
 M. Schiller.— “ I will not undertake so needless a task 
 as to defend M. de Montcalm from such an insinuation; but 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 83 
 
 I will suggest an easy mode by wbicb the accuracy of the in¬ 
 terpretation may be ascertained. Let any written question 
 be placed before the witnesses without its having been seen 
 by the interpreter, and let it be repeated to him by the 
 finger alphabet. If be interpret it rightly, we shall be 
 quite sure of his ability—I will not doubt his inclination 
 —to convey the evidence correctly.” 
 
 The judges coincided in opinion as to the difficulty and 
 novelty of the point involved. But when the ends of jus¬ 
 tice require that a precedent shall be set, they must establish 
 it. The interpreter being a man of known celebrity and 
 character, the court admitted this mode of taking the evi¬ 
 dence, not, however, without reluctance, and only from a 
 conviction that no other mode for receiving it could be 
 devised. 
 
 The decision of the judges gave general satisfaction. 
 
 M. Carlsdorff.— “ It now remains for me, my lords, to 
 produce my evidence. I know that in doing so I must of 
 necessity lacerate the feelings of one individual, for whose 
 unhappy position I feel the profoundest sorrow. If the 
 issue of this investigation should deprive the sister of 
 Count Pahlen of those rights and of that name which 
 she fondly thought she had secured in the sight of God 
 and man, let it be some consolation to her that her sorrow 
 is not the sorrow of the sinner; that she has fallen a 
 victim to deceit and treachery, which no human foresight 
 could have anticipated, and from which no prudence could 
 
8 4 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 have secured her. Her virtue is as unsullied, and her 
 purity as stainless, as when she plighted her faith at 
 the altar, and thought that she was giving her heart and 
 hand to the man whose heart and honour were as spotless 
 as her own. 
 
 “ Assuming the legality of the first marriage, the con¬ 
 traction of a second would neither release the baron from 
 his obligations, nor lessen the amount of his guilt. He 
 proffered marriage without intending to celebrate it ac¬ 
 cording to the forms of religion. He profaned the altar 
 by perjury; and inwardly resolved that the ceremony, being 
 a mockery, should bind him no longer than suited his con¬ 
 venience and his lust. In both cases, I repeat, he stands 
 alone in his guilt. Establish the first or the second mar¬ 
 riage, declare which you will to be legal, the baron will 
 still rest under the imputation of having basely deceived 
 both of these hapless women. The guilt will all be his, 
 whilst they will remain without taint or stain; both pure, 
 both innocent, both objects of our highest respect, and, 
 alas ! of our deepest commiseration. 
 
 “ I now propose to call before you the Count Pahlen, 
 who will depose to some very important facts connected 
 with this case. I may here observe that the families of 
 Lauerstadt and Pahlen had for years been on the most in¬ 
 timate terms. Their estates, indeed, joined; and it was 
 sought to unite the two families more closely in the ties of 
 friendship by arranging a marriage between the only son of 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 85 
 
 the baron and the only sister of the Count Pahlen. In the 
 meantime the baron died, and his son, the subject of the 
 present enquiry, succeeded to the title and estates, and, as 
 no difficulties existed to his union with Count Pahlen’s 
 sister, the requisite arrangements were made for the mar¬ 
 riage, which was performed by the abbot, Count Pahlen’s 
 uncle.” 
 
 The learned advocate concluded an eloquent and im¬ 
 pressive address by calling into court the Count Pahlen. 
 The substance of the evidence deposed to by the count 
 was as follows:—That a few months back a monk of the 
 Carmelite order came to the chateau and desired a private 
 conference with the count. That, as he imagined it might 
 relate to the business of his order, he referred him to his 
 uncle the abbot. But this the monk declined ; to the count 
 alone would he unburthen himself. That the monk then 
 began by stating that about three years ago he received the 
 confession of a man who desired absolution not only for sins 
 he had committed, but for one he was about to commit. 
 That the monk reminded him that absolution was pro¬ 
 nounced for sins which had been committed and repented 
 of; but that to absolve a man from a sin which he only 
 meditated, was to hold out a temptation to commit it; he, 
 therefore, strongly remonstrated against it, and entreated 
 the man to consider that by abstaining from the sin not yet 
 perpetrated he might obtain pardon for those crimes of 
 which he had been guilty. That the man then confessed 
 
86 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 that he was in the service of a nohleman, who, failing to 
 induce a young girl to consent to his dishonourable pro¬ 
 posals, had offered her marriage; that, with the view of 
 rendering the marriage invalid, he proposed that the servant 
 should disguise himself as a priest and perform the ceremony. 
 That the monk reprehended in the strongest terms the enor¬ 
 mity of the offence, not only in the eye of the law, hut in 
 the eye of the church, whose ministers would be indignant 
 at the insult offered to their sacred order. All the terrible 
 powers which the church possessed would be put in force. 
 Exclusion from mass and confession, refusal of the sacra¬ 
 ment, and of extreme unction in articulo mortis , denial of 
 sepulture in holy ground, of all funeral rites, of all the 
 benefits of prayer and mass for the souls of the departed. 
 That all these menaces were held out to the man, who trem¬ 
 bled at the idea of hurthening his conscience with such a sin. 
 That the monk then suggested that another person, un¬ 
 known to the baron, hut whose silence and secrecy could 
 equally he relied upon, might he prevailed upon to per¬ 
 form the service. That the baron yielded to the arguments 
 which the monk had put into the mouth of his servant, 
 for providing a substitute who should he utterly unknown 
 to every one but the servant himself. That the monk 
 was that substitute, and that he performed the ceremony 
 without the least suspicion on the part of the bride¬ 
 groom ; and that after the celebration of the marriage a 
 certificate of it was secretly given to the brother of the 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 87 
 
 bride, who was made to understand by signs that it was to 
 be carefully preserved. 
 
 The court here interposed, and asked, “Who was the 
 bridegroom, and where was the marriage performed ? ” 
 
 “ Lauerstadt was the name of the bridegroom, and the 
 place the chapel of the Chateau de Plauerfeldt,” replied the 
 Count. 
 
 The evidence of Count Pahlen then went on to show 
 that the monk had been summoned to administer the ex¬ 
 treme unction to the baron’s servant, who was at the point 
 of death : that the servant handed him a small box, de¬ 
 siring that it might be opened, and the injunctions found 
 in it fulfilled. That this box contained a paper releasing 
 the monk from the obligation of secrecy, which the con¬ 
 fession of the penitent servant had imposed upon him. 
 That this paper was still in the monk’s possession, and that 
 the monk had promised to produce it when required to 
 do so. 
 
 The Chief Judge.— “ He is in court, we presume ? ” 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“The last messenger despatched for 
 him is not yet returned, but his arrival is expected every 
 moment.” 
 
 The baron, who had listened to Count Pahlen’s evidence 
 with the greatest attention, and who could not conceal his 
 agitation during some parts of it, now transmitted a note to 
 his advocate, who addressed the court. 
 
 M. de Florsberg. —“ The moment is not yet arrived 
 
88 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 for me to dissect the strange body of evidence we have just 
 heard, but I demand of the court that it shall forthwith 
 order the monk to he called. If, after three proclamations 
 he do not appear, it will not he denied that I have a right 
 to require that his evidence he not received afterwards, and 
 that the court should proceed to judgment upon the count’s 
 evidence, which being merely hearsay, is not entitled to the 
 least weight.” 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“ The impatience of the learned ad¬ 
 vocate is somewhat out of place. If he believe the baron 
 to he innocent of the charge, he will not shrink from the 
 minutest enquiry. Innocence is proved by investigation as 
 gold is purified by fire. I should have expected that he 
 would have been the loudest in calling for the monk, 
 and that he would have interceded with the court to 
 pronounce no sentence till it had had the benefit of his 
 testimony. If indeed he have doubts of his client’s in¬ 
 nocence, if he is not quite clear that it will bear the 
 test of examination, he acts like a prudent advocate in 
 wishing to exclude the evidence of the monk. But I ap¬ 
 prehend that the court will not feel the same impatience. 
 Besides, there is one trifling fact which he has forgotten. 
 There are other witnesses; and these I intend to call be¬ 
 fore I avail myself of the evidence of the monk. Call 
 the Baroness Ella Lauerstadt! ” concluded M. Carlsdorff, 
 laying particular stress upon her title. 
 
 M. Montcalm was first sworn to interpret faithfully the 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 89 
 
 evidence given, in the only way in which the want of speech 
 could allow it to he given. 
 
 There was now a pause of the deepest interest, whilst 
 Ella was sent for, she having remained out of court during 
 the whole of Count Pahlen’s evidence. When she made 
 her appearance every voice was hushed in silence, and every 
 eye fixed with intense interest upon the mourner. She 
 entered the court leaning upon her father, and holding 
 her little child to her bosom. Her step was slow and 
 trembling, her eyes one minute cast down to the earth, the 
 next lifted up to her father’s for comfort and pity. It was a 
 sad sight to see the venerable old man dashing with mixed 
 grief and anger the tears from his furrowed cheeks. Ella’s 
 face was flushed, hut this momentary hectic gave place to 
 a paleness which made her an object of more tender and 
 touching interest. She seated herself upon a chair which, 
 being in an elevated situation, enabled her to be seen by 
 every person in court. 
 
 The bible was tendered to her upon which she was to 
 take the oath; she kissed the sacred hook with reverence, 
 and then, by signs, asked the interpreter what she was re¬ 
 quired to do. It was answered that she must give a full 
 and true evidence against the prisoner. 
 
 It was now that the secret workings of her soul burst 
 upon the astonished audience, in an interpretation given by 
 M. Montcalm of the words she would have spoken, had 
 God blessed her with the power of utterance. 
 
9° 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 “Bear witness against him! Never! I swore before 
 God to obey him, and be has not released me from my 
 oath; I swore to love him till death, and I will keep my 
 oath. This is his child. Force not the wife and mother to 
 turn against the father and the husband. Oh merciful 
 judges! press me not to so unnatural an act! I am told 
 I have no right to call myself his wife; but I believe 
 myself to he so in the sight of God, before whose altar 
 I received him as my husband. It cannot make me happy 
 to know that he is punished; the hope of happiness is dead 
 within me. But it would make me infinitely more wretched 
 to think that I had been the means of punishing him. The 
 child would hold up his hands and pray for mercy for his 
 father, if he could speak. Oh spare and forgive him for 
 the sake of his miserable wife and helpless infant. I five 
 in penitence, and I pray for mercy. Judge him therefore 
 in mercy, forgive him as I forgive him, and may God 
 forgive him also ! ” 
 
 Such was the passionate appeal of Ella, as delivered by 
 signs, and interpreted by M. de Montcalm. It may easily 
 be conceived what an effect it produced. There was a low 
 but general burst of sympathy; and pity and admiration 
 were visible in the countenances of the judges. Her 
 feelings had evidently overpowered her; for she sank down 
 exhausted on her seat, folded her child in her arms, was 
 raised by her father, and conducted out of court. 
 
 We had all expected that she would have given a more 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 9 i 
 
 particular narrative of tlie events that had occurred from her 
 first knowledge of the baron, but after she had spoken, we 
 agreed that nothing could have been more impressive. She 
 little thought that her unwillingness to give evidence against 
 the baron aggravated the general indignation against him, 
 and confirmed the universal belief in his guilt. 
 
 The brother was next examined. But his evidence re¬ 
 lated only to his being present at the celebration of the 
 marriage, and receiving afterwards the certificate which he 
 produced, and which was read in court. 
 
 The Court. —“ M. Carlsdorff, you will now produce the 
 monk.” 
 
 This was a most painful moment. “ Father Anselm !” 
 the name of the monk, was called, but no one answered. 
 Our anxiety became most painful. No one answered, no 
 one appeared. M. Carlsdorff threw down his papers— 
 M. Schiller clasped his hands—Count Pahlen was in dis¬ 
 may. All seemed to feel the deepest regret, except the 
 baron and M. de Florsherg. 
 
 M. Schiller, after a few minutes’ consultation with 
 M. Carlsdorff, claimed a right to have the monk’s evidence 
 admitted if he should arrive before the judges had given 
 their decision. 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“ I suspect (looking sternly at the 
 baron) that there is one in court who could give us the 
 latest intelligence of the monk.” 
 
 M. de Florsherg strenuously opposed M. Schiller’s de- 
 
92 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 mand. The case of the complainant had been closed. It 
 could not be re-opened. 
 
 The court did not think itself called upon to declare 
 what it would do in a case not regularly before it, nor, 
 according to present probability, likely to he. The baron’s 
 advocate was now called upon to proceed. 
 
 M. de Florsberg.— My lords, the time is at length 
 arrived. Calumny has had its day. My client is now pre¬ 
 pared, through me, to repel the charge which has been 
 brought against his honour, and to prove that his only 
 lawful wife is the Countess Sophia, of the noble and illus¬ 
 trious family of Pahlen. 
 
 “ Perhaps I might think myself entitled to demand an 
 acquittal without saying one word in the baron’s defence. 
 I might contend that the very evidence against him is not 
 only insufficient to convict, hut rather calculated to exone¬ 
 rate him altogether. For of what does it consist P Entirely 
 of hearsay testimony—of a strange and clumsy narrative of a 
 monk to the brother-in-law of the baron. A man whom the 
 count had never seen, and of whose character he is perfectly 
 ignorant, demands an audience of him. He brings the 
 most serious charge against his sister’s husband, claims to 
 be believed upon his own assertion, hut does not furnish a 
 single proof. An unknown monk, or person pretending to be 
 one, is listened to with eagerness, because he attempts to 
 destroy the reputation of a nobleman who had a right to 
 expect, hut has not found, a defender in the brother of his 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 93 
 
 wife. No attempt is made to confront tlie accused with, the 
 accuser; no disposition is shown on the part of the count to 
 reject with disdain so infamous a charge. He feels no sus¬ 
 picion of its being fabricated. He gives credit to it at once, 
 and pronounces condemnation without the slightest evidence. 
 My lords, let us not inveigh against the revolutionary tri¬ 
 bunals of France after this. At that sanguinary period the 
 minds of men were acted upon by cunning and heartless 
 demagogues, and were inflamed to madness. In their 
 paroxysms they did acts from which in their sober moments 
 they would have shrunk with horror. They were mad, and 
 they acted like madmen. But in the present case there is no 
 such plea as aberration of mind. Everything is done with 
 coolness and deliberation. The baron is accused, and that 
 is sufficient evidence of his guilt. No longer, therefore, I 
 repeat, my lords, let us complain of the facility with which 
 charges were admitted by the Inquisition! no longer let us 
 inveigh against the practice of throwing accusations into the 
 lion’s mouth at Venice ! My lords, the credulity of the 
 count is so extraordinary, that it justifies our gravest suspi¬ 
 cions. If the marriage of his sister could be set aside, and 
 her offspring bastardized, the succession to the property which 
 he would have inherited might descend to the count. I make 
 no assertion, but if such a suspicion pass through our minds, 
 the count must thank his own credulity for having given rise 
 to it. Why did he not detain the accuser P why did he not 
 insist upon his repeating the story before the abbot, his 
 
94 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 uncle ? why did he not demand the paper which the dying 
 man had placed in the hands of the priest ? But no, no ; 
 he does none of these things; he suffers the monk to carry 
 away the paper, and is quite satisfied with receiving the 
 monk’s address, with a promise that he will be forth¬ 
 coming whenever his presence might he required. His 
 address! how did he ascertain that it was correct ? His 
 promise ! oh, he has kept it most punctually. Where is 
 the monk P calumniator and coward appear! Ho, no, 
 my lords, he comes not; he never will come. But I will 
 produce the priest.” 
 
 The whole court were struck with astonishment, and 
 eager looks were directed to every part of the court. 
 
 “ I have thus, my lords, disposed of the count’s evi¬ 
 dence. It is levelled with the dust, it is dispersed to the 
 winds of heaven. 
 
 “But there are two other witnesses, incompetent wit¬ 
 nesses, I shall always contend, in a court of justice, because 
 they can neither he examined viva voce, nor be subject to a 
 proper cross-examination. But I waive that objection, be¬ 
 cause I am instructed to give certain explanations connected 
 with the evidence of the young woman, Ella Ebersdorff. 
 
 “ My lords, I am not prepared to assert that the conduct 
 of the baron has been strictly virtuous and discreet. He 
 had those failings which, if youth cannot justify, it may 
 palliate. The girl was beautiful—you see how beautiful. 
 The lover was ardent,—the temptation above his power of 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 95 
 
 resistance. I am sure there must be many present who 
 will readily enter into the feelings of my client. Hurried on 
 by irresistible passion, he proffered marriage, and I am bound 
 to add that a ceremony was gone through, though it had 
 not the sanction of religion, nor was it according to the forms 
 of the church. It was not celebrated by a regular priest. 
 (Here there was an universal expression of ‘Shame! shame! ’) 
 I see the feeling with which this avowal is received. I 
 cannot blame it; but it is my duty to clear my client 
 from the charge of bigamy, which I can only do by proving 
 that the first marriage was no marriage at all in the eye 
 either of the church or of the law; that the second mar¬ 
 riage is the only legal one. I shall produce the pretended 
 priest, who was a domestic of the baron. Call Gaspar 
 Wooller.” 
 
 Gaspar Wooller instantly appeared—a man whose aspect 
 was most forbidding, and whose whole exterior utterly belied 
 the description given of him as being in the service of a 
 nobleman. This, however, will not appear strange when it 
 is remembered that the baron’s servant—the man who was 
 really present when the baron plighted his faith to Ella 
 Ebersdorff in the chapel of the Chateau Plauerfeldt—was 
 supposed to be no longer living, and could not therefore be 
 produced in court. Consequently, a substitute had to be 
 procured to give evidence in the place of the defunct ser¬ 
 vant; and this Gaspar Wooller was selected, by reason of 
 his loose and unscrupulous character, for that purpose. 
 
96 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins, 
 
 As Gaspar Wooller stepped into the witness box, 
 M. de Florsberg, addressing the court, said,—“ This, my 
 lords, is the mock priest.” 
 
 The man was then examined, and he stated that he 
 had been in the baron’s service, who employed him to dis¬ 
 guise himself as a priest, and perform the marriage cere¬ 
 mony in the chapel of the Chateau de Plauerfeldt. He 
 did perform it, under the idea that he was serving his 
 master in a matter of little moment to the girl, and of less 
 consideration to the baron himself. 
 
 M. de Florsberg.— “ I have nothing further to ask of 
 this witness, my lords, and therefore he can retire, unless my 
 learned friend on the other side should wish to put any 
 questions to him. 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“ Let him remain. How listen to 
 me, sir. You have given very clear and concise evidence 
 as regards the part you took in this so-called ‘pretended 
 marriage ; 5 but I now wish you to remember a few circum¬ 
 stances which my learned brother does not care that we 
 should know. How, at the conclusion of the ceremony, did 
 you not give a certificate of the marriage ?” 
 
 Gaspar Wooller.— “Ho, I did not, for I was not 
 asked for one ; and if I had been, I could not have given 
 it, for I cannot write.” 
 
 The whole court was in astonishment. The certificate 
 was shown to the witness. 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“ Is that the certificate you gave P ” 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 97 
 
 Gaspar Wooller. —“ I gave none. I cannot write.” 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“ There is gross perjury somewhere, 
 and there can be little doubt of the quarter from whence 
 it proceeds. However, though you have forgotten every¬ 
 thing about the certificate, you may remember the person 
 of the bride and the day of the marriage P Was she 
 of a fair or dark complexion ? had she light eyes or 
 dark ?” 
 
 Gaspar Wooller. —“ I did not look at her, and I 
 have forgotten the day.” 
 
 M. Carlsdorff.— “ Oh! well-tutored witness! ” 
 
 M. de Florsberg. —“ I call no new witnesses, nor 
 are any necessary. The testimony of Gaspar Wooller 
 shows the falsehood of all that narrative so strongly con¬ 
 veyed to the too credulous count. And though that testi¬ 
 mony has been impeached, yet it is not very wonderful that 
 the man, intent upon an office which required all his 
 
 t 
 
 attention, should have had little time or inclination to 
 contemplate the features of the woman; still less won¬ 
 derful is it that he should have forgotten the day, which 
 he had no interest in remembering, and which he had no 
 suspicion he should ever he called upon to recollect. As to 
 the certificate, that is one of the features of the plot which 
 has been got up against the life and honour of my client. 
 The fact is that no certificate was given.” 
 
 The court at this moment presented a singular spec- 
 
 H 
 
9 8 
 
 The Deaf and Dzimb Twins. 
 
 tacle. There was a profound silence which lasted several 
 minutes. The countenance of every one, with the ex¬ 
 ception of the baron and his advocate, expressed surprise 
 and disappointment. The judges exchanged looks which 
 seemed to say that the evidence was incomplete. They 
 conferred together long and anxiously, and intently was 
 every eye fixed upon them. It was a scene of the 
 deepest interest. Every person’s heart heat as if his 
 own life and honour were implicated in the result. At 
 the slightest noise in any part of the court, every look 
 was directed to the place from whence it proceeded, as 
 if some one was to appear who would unravel the 
 mystery in which this transaction was at present so 
 inextricably involved. It seemed almost as if a miracle 
 were expected, that should elicit the truth and avenge the 
 innocent. 
 
 The baron’s advocate, aware of the feeling against 
 the baron, was desirous of bringing the trial to as speedy 
 a conclusion as possible. He entreated the court, in jus¬ 
 tice to the position of his injured client, to give judg¬ 
 ment with as little delay as possible. 
 
 The senior judge, a venerable old nobleman, rose from 
 his seat, after a conference with his colleagues. 
 
 The Judge.— “It is seldom that the court has been 
 called upon to deliver its judgment under circumstances 
 more painful and embarrassing: It fears that it may not 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 99 
 
 have all the facts and proofs, all the evidence which would 
 enable it to pronounce such a judgment as should satisfy 
 the ends of justice, defeat the machinations of the guilty, 
 and protect the innocent. Such are the fears of the court. 
 But, however it may lament that deficiency, whatever sus¬ 
 picions it may entertain, it is hound to decide according 
 to the evidence before it. If that he incomplete, if any 
 has been kept back, the blame cannot be said to rest with 
 the court. 
 
 “ The charge against Baron Lauerstadt is the heaviest 
 that can he imagined short of murder, and therefore it 
 behoves us to see that it is clearly established, before we 
 venture to pronounce a judgment of guilty, and award the 
 punishment due to such a crime. 
 
 “ The accused is entitled to the benefit of every doubt. 
 The law must not be strained against him, nor interpreted • 
 largely for the purpose of bringing him within it. Where 
 the evidence is deficient, that deficiency should operate in his 
 favour; and no conclusion, no inference of guilt, must be 
 drawn from any other source than that of clear and undis¬ 
 puted testimony. Suspicion, however strong or probable, 
 should have no influence upon our decision, which, I repeat, 
 must be given according to the evidence, and according to 
 the evidence alone.” 
 
 The baron and his advocate exchanged looks of satis¬ 
 faction. 
 
IOO 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 “ The court is of opinion that many of the reflections 
 which the advocate of the accused cast upon Count Pahlen 
 were wholly irregular and uncalled for. There was nothing 
 in the evidence of the count calculated to throw doubt upon 
 his veracity. It was clear and connected, and did not bear 
 the least mark of fabrication. What purpose could it have 
 answered ? What object could it have accomplished? The 
 count is sufficiently well acquainted with the nature of 
 criminal proceedings to know that the repetition of any 
 declaration or facts stated to him by another person can¬ 
 not be received as evidence; that it is only hearsay evi¬ 
 dence which our common law and common sense reject 
 as inadmissible. The principal, the other person, must be 
 produced, and give his evidence in open court. This has 
 not been done in the present case; and, whilst the court is 
 bound to say that the count's evidence cannot be received, 
 it is bound also to declare its implicit belief that the count 
 relied upon the appearance of the person from whom he 
 had received his information. At the same time the court 
 cannot refrain from remarking that the count seems to have 
 been deficient in prudence, and to have neglected the pre¬ 
 cautions he ought to have adopted. He placed too implicit 
 a reliance upon the promise of his informant, with whom 
 he had no previous intimacy, and with whose character he 
 was utterly unacquainted. 
 
 “ Having dismissed this part of the case, I proceed with 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 IOI 
 
 other feelings to the evidence of the dumb witnesses. It 
 requires all that calm and equal temper which a judge 
 should possess to dwell with perfect coolness upon the testi¬ 
 mony of the lady. 
 
 “ The evidence of the brother has one remarkable fea¬ 
 ture in it—I mean the certificate of the marriage, to which 
 I shall allude more particularly. 
 
 “ I now proceed to the nature of the defence and the evi¬ 
 dence adduced in behalf of the baron. The court is shocked 
 at such a scene of iniquity,—at such a series of base and 
 unmanly artifices. What a lesson does it afford against the 
 indulgence of criminal passions ! What a contempt does it 
 exhibit of all those ties which hold society together, and 
 prevent it from degenerating into the most lawless violence 
 and brutality ! If the innocence and beauty of the un¬ 
 happy lady were insufficient to secure her from injury, 
 surely the sad calamity which cuts her off from all converse 
 with her fellow-creatures entitled her to find in the heart of 
 every man a shield of protection. The very fact of her 
 inability to proclaim an injury, ought to have deterred 
 any one from inflicting it. But why do I dwell upon 
 the improbability of such a crime? It is avowed, and 
 almost gloried in. Habemus confitentem reum ! The accused 
 seems quite willing to bear the moral, provided he can be 
 cleared from the legal guilt. If human law declares him 
 innocent, he has no objection to incur the infamy of having 
 
102 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 violated divine law. He proceeds in his career of crime 
 with the utmost deliberation. He does not pause one 
 moment. Her unlimited confidence in his honour, the 
 purity and sincerity of her affection, awoke no corresponding 
 feeling in his breast; they appear only to have afforded an 
 additional stimulus to his lust. 
 
 “ The evidence produced on the part of the accused 
 stands upon the unsupported testimony of a doubtful witness. 
 It comes from the mouth of a participator in his projects, of 
 a man who was his willing and paid agent. The evidence of 
 this servant who officiated as priest is liable to great suspicion. 
 The certificate and the evidence by which its authenticity is 
 supported, bear the stamp of probability. If it were forged, 
 I can see no benefit that could have accrued from the 
 forgery. If the ceremony was performed by a person not 
 duly qualified, a certificate from such a person could not have 
 rendered the marriage the more legal. The witness swears 
 that he did not give any certificate, for he cannot write. 
 No evidence is offered to prove that he can; no witnesses 
 are brought forward to contradict his statement, and there¬ 
 fore whatever our doubts and suspicions may be—and they 
 are strong—however we may be inclined to discredit his 
 testimony, we are bound to resist that inclination, and to 
 decide solely upon the evidence before us. 
 
 “ The court, therefore, feels itself bound, in virtue of that 
 obligation, and in the absence of all other evidence, to pro- 
 
 nounce' 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 103 
 
 At this moment a loud noise was heard at the outer 
 gate of the hall. The judge sternly rebuked this interrup¬ 
 tion ; but his voice was drowned in the cries of 4 ‘Father 
 Anselm ! make way there ! it is the monk ! Father Anselm! 
 Father Anselm ! ” 
 
 Every person rose as if actuated by a common impulse. 
 Some expressed their exultation by words, others by clapping 
 of hands. Carlsdorff and the count exchanged the warmest 
 congratulations. Not so the baron and his advocate. The 
 disappointment of the latter could only he felt in his pro¬ 
 fessional character. But the baron had received a sudden 
 and stunning blow. He grasped the iron rails that sepa¬ 
 rated him from the body of the court, and sunk into the 
 seat which had been provided for him. 
 
 Meanwhile the judge paused in delivering judgment, hut 
 paused, as if he expected an appeal from Count Pahlen’s 
 advocate. 
 
 A passage having been opened, Father Anselm, accom¬ 
 panied by a man closely muffled up, took his seat near the 
 count, directing his attendant to seat himself behind him. 
 
 The baron’s advocate meanwhile was busily engaged in 
 referring to some reports before him, less, it should seem, 
 with the hope of finding anything in them applicable to the 
 present case, than of concealing his confusion at the sudden 
 turn which affairs had taken. 
 
 M. Carlsdorff rose with a dignity that had something 
 peculiarly solemn in it. 
 
104 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 “ I must request tlie indulgence of the court for a few 
 moments to recollect myself, and to regain that self-posses¬ 
 sion which this unexpected appearance of the monk has 
 temporarily disturbed.” After the lapse of some minutes 
 he proceeded:— 
 
 “ In the early part of this day’s proceedings, my young 
 and learned friend claimed a right to have Father Anselm’s 
 evidence admitted should he arrive before judgment was 
 finally given. I knew that your lordships would have been 
 compelled to pronounce judgment upon the evidence as it 
 stood. But I have now to tender fresh evidence. I should 
 have bowed to your decision, however I might have lamented 
 it, or however convinced I might have been that it did not 
 satisfy the ends of justice. The court felt the difficulty in 
 which it was placed. It feared that it had not all the 
 facts before it; hut in the absence of any further evidence, 
 it was obliged to discharge the duty of deciding according 
 to such as had been produced. 
 
 “ In commenting upon the evidence of the Count Pahlen, 
 the court very properly held, that as it was merely hearsay, 
 and had not been corroborated by any direct evidence, it 
 was clearly inadmissible. But we are now in a position 
 to supply that evidence. Father Anselm’s presence will 
 give consistency and confirmation to that narrative, which, 
 from the unsupported testimony of the Count Pahlen, was 
 not entitled to credit in a court of law. Will any man 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 105 
 
 contend that the court is not hound to receive that which 
 can alone remove all doubts, and throw light upon what 
 has hitherto been dark and mysterious? Can any one 
 call upon the court so to stultify itself as to say that 
 though it felt the evidence to be incomplete, it would 
 reject fresh evidence which would have rendered it perfect ? 
 Consider for a moment in what a position such rejection 
 would place the court. It is nothing less than to decide 
 wrongfully, because that which would have enabled it to 
 decide justly has not been tendered at the precise moment 
 when, by the ordinary rules of court, it ought to have been. 
 
 “ But perhaps I am taking unnecessary trouble. I am 
 replying to objections which may never be urged. What 
 says my learned friend ? ” 
 
 M. de Florsberg.— “ He says, my lords, that the course 
 recommended by the learned advocate is irregular, unprece¬ 
 dented, and inadmissible. It would be a re-opening of the 
 case after it has been closed on the part of the prosecution. 
 The judge, when called upon to give judgment, is bound 
 to believe that sufficient evidence has been laid before him 
 whereon a satisfactory decision may be founded. He pro¬ 
 ceeds to pronounce that decision, and from that moment 
 the mouths of the contending parties are hermetically 
 sealed. They cannot intrude any more matter upon the 
 attention of the judge, but must await his decision, founded 
 solely upon the evidence already adduced. If other evi- 
 
io 6 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 dence could have been procured, why was it not procured 
 in time P The trial was not precipitated: sufficient notice 
 was given. If witnesses neglect attending, whose and 
 where is the blame? if damage or injury be done by 
 their neglect, they alone are responsible for it: they must 
 abide the consequences of their own act. The case was 
 closed, I repeat, both on the part of the accuser and 
 the accused, the moment the judge opened his lips to 
 pronounce judgment. It cannot be re-opened, and therefore 
 the evidence of the monk, or whoever he may be, or what¬ 
 ever he may chose to allege, is inadmissible.” 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“ I have been disappointed. I ex¬ 
 pected my learned friend to have assumed his highest and 
 haughtiest tone. I was prepared to hear him decline all 
 objections, and take his stand not upon the narrow foundation 
 of a legal subtlety, but upon the broad basis of immutable 
 truth. I thought I should have heard him exult at the 
 opportunity afforded him of furnishing fresh proofs of his 
 client’s innocence, and of the injury done to his pure and 
 unsullied character.” 
 
 The Court. —“ The court has no difficulty in coming 
 to a decision. It is bound to receive all the evidence which 
 bears upon every case brought before it. It does not provide 
 evidence; but it is not to reject evidence, legally admissible. 
 Evidence may be withheld, but the court is not to be 
 blamed, because the fact must be unknown to it. It acts 
 in obedience to its oath of office, which is to decide all 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 107 
 
 cases according to such evidence as shall be brought before 
 it, and according to that alone. Had no other evidence 
 been tendered hut that which preceded the speech of the 
 president of the court, its decision must have been framed 
 and founded upon it; but the question assumes a very dif¬ 
 ferent shape when fresh evidence is offered. To demand of 
 the court that it should be hound only by the one, and reject 
 the other, is to ask it to give a partial judgment, and to refuse 
 having recourse to those lights which might enable it to 
 pronounce a clear and conscientious decision. The court 
 accedes to the demand of admitting further evidence.” 
 
 “ Call Father Anselm ! ” 
 
 Father Anselm immediately rose—a man not old in 
 point of years—scarcely, indeed, beyond his prime; hut 
 whose pale face and emaciated frame showed evident traces 
 of a long and wasting grief. 
 
 The Court.— “ The court would know from the reverend 
 father why he delayed obeying the order to attend the trial?” 
 
 Father Anselm produced a paper, which was read by 
 the proper officer. It purported to be a letter from the 
 clerk of the tribunal, informing him that the trial had been 
 put off, and that due notice would be sent him when it was 
 to come on. 
 
 The clerk of the tribunal declared it to be a forgery, no 
 such letter having been written by him. Everybody, I 
 believe, was more shocked than surprised. 
 
 Father Anselm. — “I should certainly have given im- 
 
108 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 plicit credit to that letter, had not a second messenger arrived 
 from Count Pahlen pressing my immediate presence, and 
 making no mention of any postponement of the trial. I set 
 off at once, and by dint of travelling night and day, reached 
 the gates of the tribunal before the judge had pronounced 
 the final decision of the court.” 
 
 M. Carlsdorff proceeded to examine the monk. He 
 corroborated every part of Count Pahlen’s testimony. When 
 he came to that part which related to the substitution of 
 himself for the baron’s servant, and the consequent celebra¬ 
 tion of the marriage, the court summoned the usher of the 
 tribunal. 
 
 The Court. —“Let the man who swore to the celebration 
 of the marriage, Gaspar Wooller, he secured ! ” 
 
 The officer having informed the court that he had left 
 it, orders were forthwith issued to make the strictest search 
 after him. 
 
 Father Anselm. — “I had drawn up a certificate of 
 the marriage, which I delivered to the brother of the bride, 
 with an injunction to keep it about his person, and never to 
 part with it out of his hands.” 
 
 Being shown the certificate, he declared that that was 
 the one he had given, written by himself. 
 
 M. Carlsdorff. —“So decisive a testimony would he quite 
 sufficient for me to stop at once and demand the decision of 
 the court. But let me first ask my learned friend if he has 
 any wish to cross-examine Father Anselm? ” 
 
The Deaf a7id Dumb Twins. 
 
 109 
 
 M. de Florsberg looked at the baron, who neither spoke 
 nor made any sign to him. The advocate remained silent. 
 
 M. Cahlsdorff. —“ I might here, I repeat, close my 
 case, and assert that the crime of bigamy has been clearly es¬ 
 tablished ; but there are other circumstances which must be 
 stated, and which are of a deeper and darker dye. The 
 court will recollect that both the count and Father Anselm 
 alluded to a paper which was delivered to the latter by a 
 dying man, which paper I now propose to read.” 
 
 It stated that the writer, believing himself to be at 
 the point of death, desired to unburthen his conscience of 
 the sins he had committed in the flesh. He had been in 
 the employment of Baron Lauerstadt, who, on account of 
 some intrepidity he had evinced in a night brawl in which 
 the baron was concerned, took him into his confidence. His 
 passion for Ella, his fruitless attempts to seduce her, and 
 his subsequent determination to deceive her by a feigned 
 marriage, were imparted to him, and, as we have already 
 seen, were communicated to, and defeated by, the monk. 
 But the servant followed his master to a distant country, 
 and, no longer strengthened in good principles by Father 
 Anselm, returned to those vicious courses which had recom¬ 
 mended him to the favour of the baron. He took no steps 
 to prevent the celebration of the second marriage, but, on 
 the eve of the ceremony, divulged to his master the deceit 
 which had been practised with respect to the first marriage; 
 for fearing, he pretended, to expose himself to the vengeance 
 
I IO 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 of the Church, he had engaged a regular priest to perform it. 
 This disclosure was made for the purpose of giving him in¬ 
 creased influence over his master, who, though indignant in the 
 first instance at the deceit, contented himself with bribing his 
 servant to secrecy. The second marriage was then celebrated. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding this marriage, the baron pursued 
 the same career of profligacy, and at length proposed to his 
 servant to carry off from the arms of an aged mother her 
 only child. Then it was that his conscience began to take 
 the alarm, an effect which no doubt was accelerated, if not 
 produced, by the fact that the girl against whom such an 
 outrage was meditated was one whose affections he had en¬ 
 deavoured to secure for himself. The baron expected as 
 prompt a compliance with this command as he had been ac¬ 
 customed to exact upon all former occasions. But the servant 
 refused, and, persisting in his refusal, was struck down by a 
 blow from the baron. The situation of affairs was changed 
 in a moment; the crouching domestic was converted into 
 a commanding master, and the tyrant was compelled to hear 
 the language of reproach from his slave. Smarting and 
 humiliated by the blow, he warned him in no measured 
 terms that his life and honour were at his mercy; that 
 a word from him could hold him up to the scorn and con¬ 
 tempt of the whole world, and to the vengeance of the law. 
 But the baron, recovering his self-possession, expressed his 
 sorrow for the blow, declared his readiness to desist from 
 all attempts upon the girl, and desired to see him in a 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 111 
 
 retired part of the park, where they might resume the con¬ 
 versation with more calmness, and devise some means 
 whereby the mother of the girl might be induced to give 
 her consent to his union with her daughter. 
 
 But any design to conciliate his servant was far from 
 the baron’s intention. He might bribe him into temporary 
 silence, hut his present conduct had shown him of what he 
 was capable, should any demand, however insolent or ex¬ 
 travagant, he rejected. He felt himself to be in his power, 
 and resolved upon putting him to death. There, whilst 
 he was conversing calmly with the servant, he suddenly 
 drew out a pistol and fired. The man fell. The baron 
 quitted the place with all speed, and the man, after remain¬ 
 ing some time where he had fallen, was found by some 
 labourers, and conveyed to a neighbouring farm-house. The 
 surgeon pronounced the danger to he imminent, and the 
 man desired to have a priest sent for. For some days, how¬ 
 ever, no priest could he procured. At the end of a week, 
 Father Anselm arrived, and discovered in the wounded 
 man the domestic whom he had attended about three years 
 before. The penitent was able now to commit his confes¬ 
 sion to writing, and enjoined the father to make an imme¬ 
 diate disclosure to the count. 
 
 Such a narrative excited, in the highest degree, the 
 indignation of the court. But, during the reading of it, the 
 baron never raised his head, resting it on his hand, and 
 seeming to take no farther interest in the proceedings. 
 
I 12 
 
 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 M. de Florsberg. —“ Having received no instructions 
 from my client respecting this paper, and the court not 
 having interfered to prevent its being read, I have not urged 
 any objection. But surely the court does not mean to attach 
 any importance to such a document. We have no proof 
 of its authenticity; we have no evidence that it was really 
 written by the man in question. He is dead, and cannot he 
 questioned. But how do we know that advantage has not 
 been taken of his death to fabricate the paper, and lay it to 
 his account. ‘ Dead men tell no tales.’ It is not worth 
 more than hearsay evidence, and is inadmissible.” 
 
 The court agreed in opinion that it could not he re¬ 
 ceived, no proof having been given that it was really 
 written by the man. 
 
 A smile stole over the pale face of the monk, and, 
 as soon as the court had given this decision, he rose. 
 ‘‘That proof, my lords, I can furnish. Summon Carl 
 Webber.” 
 
 The man who had come with the monk into court, and 
 who had remained muffled up in such a manner as to con¬ 
 ceal his face, now stood up and threw off his disguise. 
 
 The Baron. —“Carl Webber! Carl Webber, alive! ” 
 
 Carl Webber.— “Yes, my lord baron, though your 
 lordship did your best to send me to my long account. 
 
 “After I had delivered that paper to Father Anselm, I 
 fell into a deep sleep. My wound assumed a more healthy 
 appearance, and I recovered. Making my recovery known 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. • 11 j 
 
 to Father Anselm, I remained with him for some days, after 
 
 which it was settled that I should fix my residence as near 
 
 % 
 
 as possible to the Baroness Ella, for we feared that some 
 efforts might be made to seize both her and the child. And 
 strong reasons had I for thinking (and he fixed a stern eye 
 upon the baron) that my fears were not without foundation. 
 I did not leave my place of residence till summoned by 
 Father Anselm to attend him to the trial.” 
 
 But the events of this extraordinary day were yet to 
 receive an addition. Gaspar Wooller was here brought into 
 court. He was immediately ordered to be placed by the 
 side of the baron, whom he looked at with an expression of 
 the deepest malice. 
 
 The Court.— “ Gaspar Wooller, you have sworn that 
 the marriage ceremony between Baron Lauerstadt and Ella 
 Ebersdorff was performed by yourself. Bo you mean to 
 persist in that oath P But before you answer, I forewarn 
 you, that evidence has been given in direct contradiction to 
 your own, by the priest who did perform the ceremony, and 
 who has sworn that he delivered a certificate to the brother 
 of the baroness. What say you ? ” 
 
 Gaspar Wooller looked at the judge, and then ex¬ 
 claimed in his harsh discordant voice,— 
 
 “It is false ! all false ! Every thing I said and swore 
 to was false as hell. I will make a full and true confession. 
 (The baron must have made some movement, or touched the 
 witness.) It is of no use now. I will do your devil’s job no 
 
 i 
 
114 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 longer. You cannot save me from the gallows, and I will 
 do one act of justice, in assisting you to go there also. 
 
 “ Please your lordships, when Carl Webber was dis¬ 
 missed, as I was told, for robbing the baron, I was taken 
 into his service. He spoke to me over and over again, of 
 Webber’s ingratitude, so that I looked upon him as one of 
 the greatest villains that ever existed. I was to replace 
 him, and he boasted what he would do for me, if I proved 
 an obedient servant. I promised to obey him, and I kept 
 my word. I never made any objections, and for why P 
 My master always put it to me in this way: Gaspar, you 
 know that if you do what I command you, you are not 
 answerable for it yourself, no more than a soldier for obey¬ 
 ing the commands of his superior officer. I thought this 
 but fair, and as he was to bear all the blame, I never stopped 
 to find out any reasons for not doing his will. He was very 
 familiar in his talk with me, and would often laugh at the 
 arts he had used to seduce such females as attracted his 
 fancy. Well, please your lordships, we went on in this way 
 for a long time, when one morning he calls me to him and 
 says, 4 Gaspar, what do you think has happened?’ ‘I don’t 
 know,’ I replied, ‘ but I can guess,—the old game.’ ‘ Ho, 
 no, Gaspar, nothing of the kind. My brother-in-law has 
 always been against my marriage with his sister, as he 
 wished her to take the veil, in order that he might inherit 
 her fortune. So, Gaspar, he has got somebody to swear I 
 have another wife, and to forge a certificate of the mar- 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 ”5 
 
 riage. That certificate is now in the possession of a person 
 who is deaf and dumb, and who, I understand, always 
 carries it about with him. We must have it at all hazards ; 
 and therefore you must contrive to decoy him into some 
 lonely place, and, if you cannot get it by any other means, 
 he must be put out of the way.’ (There was a general 
 shudder throughout the court.) I took a comrade with 
 me in case of need, and decoyed the young man by a note, 
 supposed to he written by his father’s order, into a dark 
 corner of the heath, and there we set upon him. Just as 
 we had overpowered him, and at the very moment when 
 my hand was plunged into his pocket for the purpose of 
 seizing the document, a blow on the head announced to me 
 that somebody had come to his assistance. Turning round, 
 I confronted a man, with a pistol in his hand. I had one 
 too, and instantly discharged it. The devil, however, for 
 once deserted me, for it missed. The fire was returned by the 
 stranger, and with better effect, as the ball had broken my arm. 
 Nothing was now to be done, but to get off as fast as we 
 could. After I had got my arm put to rights, I had several 
 other commissions, all about the same business. I was not 
 to lose sight of the person who had the certificate, but 
 somehow or other I never could get within arm’s length 
 of him again. I was next to secure the mother and 
 child, who, the baron said, were to be passed upon him as 
 his wife and son, by a first marriage. Here again I was 
 at fault, for some one always crossed my path, just as I was 
 
116 The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 
 
 on the point of executing my purpose. My master then 
 sent me a letter, which I was to dispatch by a special mes¬ 
 senger to Father Anselm, as if it came from the clerk of the 
 court, to put off his attendance, upon the assurance that 
 the trial had been postponed. I was also suborned by the 
 baron to swear that I had personated the priest, and per¬ 
 formed the ceremony between him and a girl called Ella 
 Ebersdorff. 
 
 “ All these services I performed, my master having con¬ 
 vinced me, as I have before said, that I was bound to obey 
 him, and need not fear the consequences, because he was 
 responsible for them himself. 
 
 “ But I find now that he has been deceiving me, and that 
 he can neither save himself from punishment nor me. So 
 thinking myself ill-treated, I will no longer keep a silent 
 tongue, when I find it will not save my neck. And now I 
 have made a clean breast, and have nothing more to say.” 
 
 The blunt, coarse, but explicit manner in which this 
 narrative was given ; the brutal ignorance of the man, and 
 the indifference with which he avowed such a series of 
 crimes, impressed every person in court with feelings of in¬ 
 describable disgust and horror. A new and darker leaf 
 seemed to have been opened in the book of human nature. 
 
 The solemn and awful judgment of the court was now 
 to be given, and though the nature of it might be antici¬ 
 pated, everybody expected it with intense interest. 
 
 The court first demanded whether any other evidence 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 117 
 
 was meant to be offered, either on behalf of the accuser or 
 the accused. Both advocates replied in the negative. The 
 judges then retired and remained in deliberation about an 
 hour—and a long and anxious hour it was. 
 
 The President then rose:—“ The court has now had 
 placed before it the fullest information on this most im¬ 
 portant case, and so clear and conclusive is the evidence 
 on the points of identity and collusion, in criminating the 
 accused, that it has no difficulty in pronouncing such a 
 judgment as must satisfy every one who has heard that 
 evidence. There is nothing now upon which to hang a 
 doubt, nothing is concealed, not a link of the chain is 
 wanting. To this consummation we have been led by 
 that fortunate, I had almost said miraculous, event, which 
 furnishing us with fresh evidence at a most critical period, 
 saved the court from pronouncing a judgment which, founded 
 as it must have been upon the evidence then before it, would 
 have been erroneous and unjust. 
 
 “ It happens in this case—it rarely happens in others, 
 that the court is not compelled to weigh the credibility of 
 one witness against the credibility of another. The evidence 
 for the accused has been destroyed by his own hands : Gfaspar 
 Wooller has put down Gaspar Wooller, and the conviction 
 of the accused has been less the work of the witnesses in 
 support of the accusation than of the accused himself. 
 
 “ But there is one point which I must particularly enforce. 
 The charge against the accused was confined to bigamy, but 
 
118 The Deaf and Dumb Twins . 
 
 it has been proved during the course of the trial, that it 
 might have assumed a more serious and formidable a shape; 
 that perjury had been committed, and attempts at murder 
 were executed as well as bigamy. But the court is called 
 upon by the indictment to confine its attention to the latter 
 offence. 
 
 “ Graspar Wooller, deep as is your guilt, it has one shade 
 of atrocity less than that of your master. You appear to 
 have been impressed with the strange belief, that obedience 
 to the commands of your master was a duty which re¬ 
 lieved you from the sin, and the penalties of any act you 
 might commit by his order. Let all who hear me know 
 that obedience becomes criminal when it is paid to com¬ 
 mands which are in violation of religion, morality and 
 law; you are not to shelter yourselves under these orders, 
 and to conceive that he who gave them can shield you 
 from the consequences, either here or hereafter. You can¬ 
 not fail to know the difference between vice and virtue, 
 and this knowledge renders you, and you alone, responsible 
 for your actions. 
 
 “ The sentence of the court is, that you, Gaspar Wooller, 
 be sent to the fortress of Kuffstein, and be kept there to hard 
 labour for the remainder of your life.” 
 
 The baron had for some time seemed wholly indifferent 
 to what was passing. He paid no attention to the judge’s 
 address, but looked about him once or twice with wildness 
 and distraction. On a sudden, just as the judge had finished 
 
The Deaf and Dumb Twins. 119 
 
 passing sentence upon Wooller, and was on the point of 
 directing his address to him, he rose from his seat. His 
 face was of an ashy paleness; his whole frame was con¬ 
 vulsed; he attempted to speak, but, after two or three 
 efforts, desisted, as if he could not conquer a choking sen¬ 
 sation in his throat. A heavy groan was then heard; he 
 hurst into a horrid laugh, or rather yell, gave one piercing 
 scream, and fell forward upon his face. 
 
 . Upon lifting him up, life had left him ; he had breathed 
 his last. 
 
 After the surprise and horror of such an incident had 
 somewhat subsided, the judge concluded his judgment by 
 sentencing Baron Lauerstadt to be beheaded, and his body 
 buried without the city walls, in the ground allotted to 
 malefactors. 
 
 The latter part of the sentence was of course the only 
 one that could be carried into execution. 
 
 The marriage of Ella was declared to be legal, and her 
 son empowered to assume the title of his father. 
 
120 
 
 LEAF THE THIRD. 
 
 THE CHATEAU DE BRIENNE. 
 
 I mentioned an old chateau which, with its woods, 
 formed the western boundary of the heath. It had long 
 been unoccupied, and, like all old buildings, had the reputa¬ 
 tion of being haunted. 
 
 There was not a villager who had not seen some strange 
 sight himself, or who had not been assured by persons, who 
 had been assured by others, that lights suddenly appeared in 
 the windows of the chateau and were as suddenly extin¬ 
 guished. Some who had the hardihood to approach the 
 chateau nearer than their more timid neighbours had heard, 
 or fancied they heard, groans and screams as of persons in 
 distress. Hay, one or two went the length of declaring that 
 they had seen a figure actually glide from one window to 
 the other and then vanish. 
 
 Though I was convinced that these stories were mere 
 creations of the brain, I had still a curiosity to take a 
 view of the interior of the chateau. 
 
 I set out accordingly one morning about the middle of 
 autumn. The air was bracing; and the woods that sur- 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 I 2 1 
 
 rounded the chateau had assumed that appearance which 
 gives to this season a character, at once so beautiful and 
 picturesque. The expanse of foliage, with its varied hues 
 of green, brown, gold, and scarlet, glistening in the sun’s 
 last rays, and blended into one harmonious whole, was 
 spread along the horizon for many miles in circumference, 
 evidently denoting that an estate of considerable magnitude 
 had originally belonged to the lord of the chateau. The 
 gloomy and solemn grandeur of the chateau itself, awak¬ 
 ening in the mind a feeling almost akin to awe, contrasted 
 strangely with the rich and inspiriting tints which those 
 distant woods revealed to the enraptured sight. 
 
 The mind adapts itself to circumstances and places. In 
 contemplating these woods, now as, solitary and silent as if 
 man had either never been created, or had ceased to exist, 
 I experienced a similar degree of depression to that which 
 we feel when wandering among the graves of the dead, 
 certain that ere long we shall ourselves be as still and as 
 silent. 
 
 In such a train of thought I made my way towards the 
 chateau. It was a venerable edifice of the thirteenth 
 century—one of the gates bearing the date of 1225. It 
 had its moat and its drawbridge, (as all old castles had,) 
 which were not then, as now, scenes of recreation and 
 amusement, but more frequently those of bloodshed and 
 contention. The drawbridge was flanked on each side by 
 a tower, in which holes and fissures had been pierced, 
 
122 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 through which any hostile force might be assailed. The 
 outward walls of the chateau had been built for strength 
 rather than for elegance. The state apartments, as well 
 as those inhabited by the family, were in a pavilion, which 
 occupied the south side, and was erected on a gentle emi¬ 
 nence, sloping down to a wide and rapid stream, which, 
 crossing the park, dashed down a precipitous rock into 
 a glen, and then pursued its sinuous course to the Rhine. 
 
 The drawbridge had long disappeared, but the chains 
 which had raised and lowered it still remained. The 
 massive gate, too, with its frowning portcullis, opening 
 into the court yard, was still there. The moat was wide 
 and deep, but had for many years been dry, and was now 
 filled with rank grass and noxious plants. It was with 
 difficulty that I descended into it; but the ascent, that was 
 to conduct me to the chateau, was not only difficult but 
 perilous. That side of the moat, which encircled the area 
 enclosing the chateau, had been strengthened by a wall of 
 rude and irregular stones, which appeared at first sight to 
 afford every facility for scaling it; but on examination I 
 found that the crumbling earth, which scarcely held them 
 together, would most likely give way, and precipitate me to 
 the ground, and, possibly, from a considerable height. 
 However, I made the attempt, and, by a close and careful 
 scrutiny of each separate stone before trusting my weight 
 to it, I succeeded in reaching the summit. Arrived there, 
 I took a hurried survey of the chateau. The stems of ivy 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 123 
 
 which clung around its walls had nearly obscured the long- 
 pointed windows with which the building was studded. 
 The mullions, indeed, were nowhere visible, so completely 
 was the chateau enshrouded in its dark green coverlet. 
 The gates and doors had been securely fastened; hut here 
 and there was a broken window, where the fastenings had 
 given way. By these means I gained admission, and soon 
 found myself in the hall of the chateau. It was built of 
 dark oak or chestnut. The roof was arched and groined, 
 and round the hall ran a gallery capable of holding a 
 large concourse of spectators. Time was when tilts and 
 tournaments, and balls and feasts, were celebrated in the 
 vast area of this hall. But now, everything was silent and 
 still—nothing stirred, not even the tattered flags; and banners, 
 which hung above my head, told of battles long past, and of 
 heroes whose hones had long been mouldering in the tomb! 
 
 In the sides of the hall were niches containing suits of 
 armour, helmets, and cuirasses, covered with the dust and 
 cobwebs of many years. Two rows of marble pillars occu¬ 
 pied the whole length of the hall. The floor was mosaic. 
 The windows were of coloured glass, and the rays of the 
 setting sun threw a splendid stream of light across the 
 eastern side of the hall. 
 
 But this part of the building, reserved for pomp and 
 parade, did not suffice to gratify my curiosity. I was more 
 anxious to penetrate into the interior apartments, into those 
 which had always been set apart for the use of the family. 
 
124 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 It was possible I might find something there that would 
 give me a more intimate acquaintance with the former in¬ 
 habitants : some inscription, some old book, some manuscript 
 that might have been concealed in a drawer, or cabinet, or 
 panel. The stairs and the different apartments were much 
 less decayed than I expected to find them, though twenty 
 years had elapsed since the ch&teau had been inhabited. 
 The large mirrors of Venetian glass, with their dark frames 
 of oak or ebony, still rested against the wainscot; the 
 chairs, which had once been covered with velvet, fringed 
 with gold, were entire, as well as the massive tables. I 
 searched both tables and chairs, but they “ yielded no 
 information/’ The bed rooms were hung with tapestry, 
 but the colours had faded, and the countenances of the 
 figures had a pale and rueful expression, as if they mourned 
 the absence or death of their former lords. The beds of 
 velvet had been surmounted with plumes of feathers, but 
 the velvet yielded to the least touch, and the feathers had 
 disappeared. The frames of the windows had been gilt. 
 But there was one room which had been more richly orna¬ 
 mented than the others. It had two ante, or dressing, 
 rooms, from which a noble view of the river, the park, and 
 the distant hills was obtained. This room had a more 
 modern and a cleaner appearance than the rest, and I 
 indulged an idle fancy that it might have been lately 
 inhabited. There was a table, which had been drawn 
 close to the bed, and a chair beside it. 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 125 
 
 In reading what I am about to relate, suitable allow¬ 
 ance must be made for the place, and the feelings which 
 it was calculated to excite. I lifted up the hangings of 
 the bed, searched behind the tapestry, examined the frames 
 of the windows, in the hope of finding something that 
 might satisfy my curiosity. On a part of one of the arched 
 windows, where the arch was surmounted by a sculptured 
 rosette, I discovered a simple inscription in very small cha¬ 
 racters, in the centre of this emblem : Elieu mater ! cara et 
 infelix! Simple as it was, it was full of expression, and 
 conveyed a story of suffering and sorrow :—the suffering 
 of an unhappy and beloved parent, the sorrow of an 
 affectionate child. 
 
 Whilst I was thus engaged, a deep and hollow groan 
 seemed to issue from an apartment at the extremity of 
 the passage. Such a sound at such a moment was awful 
 and startling in the extreme. A cold perspiration burst 
 from every pore, and my limbs trembled convulsively. I 
 was then to prove the reality of the stories that had 
 been told me; to ascertain whether the fears of the 
 villagers were unfounded or not; and that the chateau 
 did indeed deserve the awful character which had been 
 given of it. I was about to see, perhaps, an inhabitant 
 of another world, some spirit that had been suffered to 
 re-visit our sublunary sphere; it might be to tell of 
 horrid deeds done in the flesh, of murders unavenged, of 
 victims confined in dungeons, dark, loathsome, and hideous. 
 
126 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 All these ideas rushed upon my mind, and kept me chained, 
 as it were, to the spot, unable to do more than fix my eyes 
 upon the place from whence the groan proceeded. My 
 fears were wound up to the highest pitch of agony, when 
 the groan was repeated: a heavy tread followed, the door 
 opened, and a pale spectre-like figure advanced towards 
 me. I heard no more, I saw no more. Nature could no 
 longer bear up against the terror of such a sight, and I 
 fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 How long I remained in this state I know not, but 
 when I came to myself I beheld Father Anselm supporting 
 me and bathing my face. “Father Anselm!” I exclaimed, 
 as soon as I had recovered the faculty of speech. But the 
 good monk made a sign to me to be silent, and taking 
 me by the arm led me out of the chateau by a passage 
 with which he seemed to be well acquainted. 
 
 As soon as we had reached the wood in my way back, 
 I again spoke to him, expressing my thanks for his sea¬ 
 sonable interference, which had saved me from the horror 
 of such a spectacle, for I still laboured under the belief 
 that I had seen some spirit or being of another world. 
 
 Father Anselm then explained that he had assumed this 
 spectral appearance for purposes of his own, and which had 
 given rise to the report of the chateau being haunted. He 
 begged me to pursue the subject no further that evening, 
 but requested me to meet him in the wood next day. 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 127 
 
 I did not fail to be at tbe appointed spot, where 
 Father Anselm was waiting for me. He was leaning 
 against one of the trees, and his look and figure combined, 
 seemed to be the personification of sorrow softened by 
 resignation. He greeted me in silence, and we proceeded 
 to the chateau. On one side of it there was a descent 
 to a door covered with ivy, which the father opened, and 
 which led by a passage, that had been made under the 
 bed of the moat, into the interior of the chateau. It 
 had been used in time of war to convey or to receive intel¬ 
 ligence ; an enemy could scarcely have discovered it, or 
 if he had, would have derived little advantage from the 
 discovery, the defence on the side of the chateau to which 
 it led being so strong. I followed the venerable father to 
 the apartment where I had been so alarmed the day before, 
 and which I did not even now enter without a feeling 
 of awe. We then took our seats, and he commenced his 
 explanation:— 
 
 “ I know not the motive that brought you here yes¬ 
 terday, whether it was mere curiosity, or some previous 
 acquaintance with the history of the owners of the 
 chateau. It matters not,” he continued, seeing me dis¬ 
 posed to satisfy him on the point. “ Some undefined pur¬ 
 pose often leads us to form projects which we had never 
 contemplated. We are irresistibly induced to visit par¬ 
 ticular spots, and to do particular acts ; but we cannot 
 
128 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne . 
 
 account for, nor explain, the impulse. We attribute it to 
 mere curiosity, but tbis curiosity bas a cause wbicb is 
 altogether bidden from us. Let us therefore beHeye that 
 it is one of those means wbicb Providence, in its super¬ 
 intending care, condescends to use for wise and beneficial 
 purposes. I have, perhaps, erred in keeping my sorrows 
 locked within the recesses of my own heart; I have never 
 spoken of them to a human creature; I have sought little 
 intercourse with the world, except in my character of 
 priest: but in this studied silence I have perhaps been 
 criminal. Our trials and our sorrows are not inflicted 
 upon us that we should keep them to ourselves. If they 
 be the punishment of misconduct they should he made 
 known, that they may operate as a beacon and an example 
 to others. We dare to commit sin which we know can¬ 
 not he concealed from the eye of God, and yet we dread 
 encountering the reproach of man by suffering our guilt 
 to he made known. It would almost seem as if our shame 
 were less on account of the commission of a crime than 
 of the discovery of it. I have resolved therefore to 
 cast off the veil I have worn too long, and to relate to you 
 the story of my life. 
 
 “ This chateau and the surrounding domain were the 
 property of my ancestors for many centuries. It is said to 
 have been built by one of them on his return from the fifth 
 Crusade, and he gave it the name of the Chateau de 
 Brienne, a knight of that name having saved his life. Here 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 129 
 
 his descendants lived through all the changes and revolu¬ 
 tions which have taken place during nearly six centuries; 
 and here I, the last of their race, might have lived in equal 
 honour and esteem. 
 
 “ My father, Count Otho, in one of his campaigns in 
 Italy, fell in love with the daughter of a noble Venetian. 
 She had a brother, Count Orsini, whose pride and ambition 
 were unbounded, and whose violence of temper was so des¬ 
 perate as to have overawed even his own parents. His sister 
 returned my father’s affection, but the brother thwarted it 
 in all possible ways, for he had determined that she should 
 take the veil, in order that the whole fortune of the family 
 might descend to him. It was in vain that my father 
 remonstrated against the cruelty of such a sacrifice, or 
 urged the right which his sister had of deciding whether 
 or not she would take the veil, and denounced the tyranny 
 of crushing all her hopes, that the wealth of the family 
 might centre in him. 
 
 “ To remonstrances so just he could not make any satis¬ 
 factory reply, but, in the haughtiness of his temper, he 
 dropped a hint of chastising my father’s insolence, and, 
 drawing his sword, made a pass at him before he had 
 time to put himself on guard. By springing back a few 
 steps he avoided the blow, and, unsheathing his own sword, 
 disarmed the count, whose weapon he broke over his 
 head. 
 
 “ Another passion now raged in the heart of the brother. 
 
 K 
 
130 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 Hatred of my father absorbed every other feeling, and be 
 determined upon revenge. I know not by what means 
 the Lady Paulina Orsini came to the knowledge of her 
 brother’s intentions, but she contrived to put my father on 
 bis guard, imploring him, as be loved her, to fly from the 
 country, and leave her to her fate, which doomed her to a 
 convent, to which she was to be conveyed next morning. 
 My father was not of a nature to put up with the loss of 
 such a treasure; he determined to sacrifice his life rather 
 than suffer her brother to execute his barbarous resolution. 
 The time was short, hut he had activity, zeal, courage, and 
 the truest affection for the lady, to support him. He 
 collected a hand of brave fellows, who were all masked, 
 ascertained the road which led to the convent, and, before 
 day-break, placed his men on each side a narrow pass at 
 the entrance of a wood. The count’s carriage no sooner 
 reached the pass than the men surrounded it. The count, 
 who had imagined that this was merely an attack of rob¬ 
 bers, pulled out his purse, but my father dragged him out 
 of the coach, and ordered him to be bound. He then 
 approached the Lady Paulina, who had expected nothing 
 less than the most ignominious treatment from a band of 
 lawless freebooters. You may easily conceive that my 
 father soon removed all uneasiness on this head, and suc¬ 
 ceeded in persuading the lady that she could no longer 
 trust to the protection of her brother, and that she could 
 only be released from danger by confiding herself to the 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 131 
 
 arms of her lover. To these arguments, strengthened by 
 her affection, she yielded, and they proceeded with all speed 
 to Venice. He there embarked in a gondola, which put 
 them on board a felucca bound to Trieste, where they 
 were safely landed, and immediately married. 
 
 “ Of a marriage brought about under such difficulties I 
 was the only issue, and, of course, engrossed the love of 
 both my parents. I was their idol; an object which could 
 not be less than perfect in everything. I was not suffered 
 to go to a public school, but masters were provided for me 
 at home. 
 
 “ The heir to such a name and such possessions could not 
 do otherwise than make the tour of Europe, that foreign travel 
 and foreign courts might complete what private education 
 had begun. I made the tour of Germany, visited Berlin, 
 Dresden, and Vienna. From Vienna I proceeded through 
 the Tyrol to Venice, for my parents were anxious I should 
 stay there some time, and my mother fondly hoped that I 
 might be the means of reuniting a family which had been 
 so long estranged. It was about the time of the Carnival 
 that I arrived at Venice, and immediately repaired to the 
 Orsini palace. I expected, of course, that I should receive 
 an invitation, or that some member of the family would 
 call upon me. Not a person came near me, nor was a 
 letter or a message sent, nor was the least notice taken of 
 me. This appeared singular. Twenty years ought to have 
 extinguished all animosity, and the desire of revenge should 
 
132 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 have ceased to exist when there was no longer any induce¬ 
 ment to gratify it. 
 
 “ Displeased as I was I had no means of showing my 
 displeasure, but resolved not to take any further steps 
 towards a reconciliation with so haughty a race. At last 
 chance brought about an introduction to them. I was at a 
 grand entertainment given by the Austrian charge d’affaires, 
 and was amongst the first persons that arrived. My name 
 was announced, and, on my entrance into the saloon, the 
 charge d’affaires took me by the hand, and, leading me 
 to a group at the further end of the saloon, said, ‘Give 
 me leave to introduce my young friend, Count Otho 
 Winceslaus, to the Count Orsini and his son, Stanislaus 
 Orsini.’ The count received me coldly, and surveyed 
 me sternly. ‘ I ought not,’ I replied, addressing myself 
 to the charge d’affaires, ‘ to have been indebted to your 
 excellency for an introduction to my uncle.’ He seemed 
 surprised. ‘ I made it my first duty to announce my 
 arrival to Count Orsini, and to leave for him a letter from 
 my mother.’ 
 
 “ ‘ True, true,’ replied the count, ‘ it had escaped my 
 memory; I had forgotten it.’ ‘ It is of no consequence, 
 count,’ and I turned to his son. ‘And are you, sir,’—I 
 spoke loud enough to be heard by his father—‘ blessed with 
 such a memory ? It is convenient to forget those whom we 
 cannot remember without recollecting the injuries we have 
 done them.’ ‘How, sir!’ exclaimed Stanislaus; but he 
 
The Chateau de Brmine. 133 
 
 checked himself, and was silent. I fixed my eyes npon 
 him. ‘ Do you address yourself to me, sir P ’ He made no 
 reply; and the charge d’affaires, seeing the awkwardness 
 of our position, put some questions relative to Vienna, and 
 the conversation soon became general. There was music 
 and dancing, and I had the happiness of having one of 
 the loveliest girls in the room for my partner. In the 
 intervals of dancing she was accosted by several of her 
 acquaintance, to whom she appeared to be an object of 
 much interest. ‘ Sophia Orsini,’ said a venerable old lady, 
 beckoning to her, and I found I had been dancing with 
 my cousin. She flew from me to her relation, and upon 
 her return I saw that something had discomposed her. 
 ‘ And is Sophia Orsini displeased because, without knowing 
 it, she has been dancing with her cousin?’ ‘No, no,’ she 
 said, ‘ don’t think so, but my grandmother, by my father’s 
 command, desires me not to fatigue myself by dancing any 
 more. I really am not fatigued, but I must obey my 
 father, and I came back to tell you.’ ‘ Adieu! my dear 
 cousin,’ I said, as I led her to a seat near her grand¬ 
 mother, ‘don’t suffer yourself to think ill of your cousin, 
 against whom your family seem to have taken such an un¬ 
 natural dislike.’ She bowed her head, and, as she took 
 her seat next to her venerable relative, I said to the latter, 
 
 ‘ Be not offended with me, madam, for availing myself of 
 this opportunity of paying my dutiful respects to the parent 
 of my mother. She has long pined over the neglect of her 
 
134 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 family, though she has the consolation of knowing that she 
 does not deserve it.” I bowed low and retired. 
 
 “ I waited next day upon the Austrian minister, to whom 
 I related the story of my father’s marriage, and the oppo¬ 
 sition made to it by my uncle. ‘ He is the object of general 
 dislike and fear/ replied the minister; ‘for his temper is 
 most unforgiving and revengeful, and there are no means 
 which he will not adopt to attain his end. He has neither 
 forgotten nor forgiven the manner in which his wishes were 
 frustrated by your father.’ ‘ They never do forgive who do 
 the wrong.’ ‘He hates you, because he hated your father. 
 The count is only known by his dissipated habits; he has 
 been married, and has but two children. Sophia Orsini is 
 the redeeming member of the family, and the only one who 
 is regarded with anything like affection and esteem.’ 
 
 “ I have dwelt thus long upon the early period of my 
 residence at Venice, because I wish to make you acquainted 
 with my mother’s family, and prepare you for the events that 
 followed. 
 
 “ Whether it was the difficulty that attended all inter¬ 
 course with Sophia Orsini, or her own surpassing loveliness, 
 that determined me to improve our acquaintance, I know 
 not. Perhaps, in the first instance, the former cause was 
 the most powerful; but the second soon superseded it. I 
 did not make any further effort to become acquainted with 
 the other members of the family; but I sought every op¬ 
 portunity of seeing Sophia. I frequented every public place 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 135 
 
 where she was likely to be present; but she was always 
 strictly watched, and therefore I could not approach her. 
 Of an age and disposition not to he deterred by difficulties, 
 I persevered in my purpose, and my vanity whispered to 
 me, that Sophia was as little satisfied with these attempts 
 to divide us as I was. My gondola was always nearest 
 hers ; I followed her to mass, and sometimes had an oppor¬ 
 tunity of addressing a few words to her. I lamented the 
 hostility of her family ; I spoke of the affection with 
 which she had inspired me, and interested her feelings 
 for her aunt, whom she resembled in the delicacy and 
 gentleness of her manners; finally I implored her not to 
 suffer herself to be the victim of family feud and animosity. 
 
 “ On a sudden a complete change took place in the 
 behaviour of part of the family. Stanislaus Orsini sought 
 my acquaintance as eagerly as he had at first appeared 
 to shun it, declaring that he would no longer suffer him¬ 
 self to be influenced by the absurd prejudices of his 
 father. We became very intimate ; and, as if to enhance 
 the value of his friendship, he would dwell upon the dis¬ 
 approbation which his father expressed of our intimacy, 
 and the commands he had imposed upon him to discontinue 
 it. Stanislaus was a man of boundless extravagance, and 
 had the mania for gambling to an extraordinary degree. I 
 would have snatched him from such ruinous pursuits, but 
 advice was useless—it always is to a gamester. I accom¬ 
 panied him in the hope of l?eing some check upon him, or at 
 
1 3 6 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 least of preventing him from becoming a dupe. I was for 
 some time a mere spectator; I felt no interest in the 
 game, and never ventured to play. But let no one fre¬ 
 quent the gaming-house, under the presumption that he 
 shall be able at all times to resist the constantly recurring 
 temptation. At first we look on without interest, and 
 lament the madness of the passion, hut the unguarded 
 moment arrives at last, when we catch the infection and 
 become perhaps the most ardent in the pursuit;—such 
 was my unhappy case. 
 
 “ I soon ridiculed all moderation—laughed at all 
 calmness—and thus played the game of my antagonists. 
 My rashness was their profit ; my intemperance their 
 gain. Occasionally they irritated me by their taunts; 
 sometimes they inflamed me, by advising me to be more 
 cool. I staked and lost—doubled—trebled—quadrupled— 
 lost—lost—lost. I exhausted my allowance, liberal as it 
 was; I drained my indulgent parents, under false pre¬ 
 tences, and then took up money at usurious interest. 
 Still, still, all had been well, or at least ruin had been 
 prevented, had I desisted then. But who ever heard of 
 a losing gamester stopping short of ruin? 
 
 “Meanwhile Stanislaus abandoned me and sided with 
 my adversaries. This did not appear to be very friendly, 
 but I consoled myself with the fact, that he was thereby 
 rescued from that ruin which was fast overtaking me. At 
 last, grown desperate with continued losses, I risked every- 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 l 37 
 
 thing in one venture ; at one throw of the dice I staked 
 all the property to which I was entitled upon the death of 
 my father. The throw was fatal, and I was utterly ruined. 
 
 “How I staggered out of this pandemonium—how I 
 found my way home, I know not ; hut I recollect that 
 
 just after I had played my last stake, the young Orsini 
 
 # 
 
 gave me a letter, which he had forgotten to deliver 
 sooner. My hrain seemed to he on fire—I threw my¬ 
 self in bitterness and anguish on my couch, and put¬ 
 ting my hand mechanically into my pocket, drew out the 
 letter. It was from Sophia Orsini, and was delivered to 
 the young count by a stranger, with the strictest injunc¬ 
 tions to deliver it on the instant and to hid me read it 
 without a moment’s delay. Judge of my feelings when I 
 read what follows :— 
 
 “‘Otho! dear Otho ! You are on the verge of a 
 precipice. One more step and nothing can save you. 
 Stop this instant! fly from the scene as from the plague. 
 I have involuntarily been privy to a private conference 
 between my father and mother who entered the. room, 
 and did not observe me seated in a recess. What do 
 I feel in making this disclosure ? hut I cannot save 
 you by any other means. Yet for my sake bear no 
 hostility towards them. Your ruin has long been planned ; 
 you are the son of the man whom my father hates, and 
 your ruin alone can gratify his revenge. You have been 
 enticed to the gaming-table. To-night the last great 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 138 
 
 blow is to bo struck, which is to complete your ruin. I 
 give you this warning; may it arrive in time. 
 
 ‘ Sophia/ 
 
 “Lost! lost Otho ! Had I received the note but one 
 minute before I seized the fatal dice—but one minute— 
 I had not been the veriest wretch that ever crawled upon 
 the earth. The thought maddened me, and, without al¬ 
 lowing a moment’s time for reflection, I resolved to go at 
 once to the Orsini palace. I flew rather than walked— 
 I rushed by the porter into the hall—I roared out 
 the names of the father and son, and brought them 
 both into the hall—I poured out the bitterest upbraid- 
 ings, heaped curse upon curse, and would have rushed 
 upon the son, had not the servants closed upon me, 
 and thrown me to the ground. They then bound me, 
 and carried me to my hotel, with strict injunctions 
 not to leave me. I struggled—I blasphemed—I invoked 
 the direst vengeance on the heads of the count and his 
 son, till at last I sank down exhausted by my efforts 
 and the anguish of my mind. Tor two days I remained 
 in a stupor, stunned and confused, recollecting generally 
 that a great calamity had overwhelmed me, but unable 
 to remember the details. Upon the third day I became 
 more calm. I thought of my parents, and wept. They 
 were balmy tears, acting like the dew upon the parched 
 flower. They refreshed my brain. 
 
The Chateau de Brienne . 
 
 l 39 
 
 “Towards the evening of the third day some of the 
 Doge’s officers came to my hotel, and arrested me upon 
 a charge of treason. I did not make the slightest resist¬ 
 ance,—it would have been useless, and they hurried me 
 to the state prison over the Bridge of Sighs. Being im¬ 
 mediately conveyed to a dungeon, I was left there, as I 
 believed, to perish. 
 
 “ In proportion as my situation became more desolate, 
 in proportion as all hope abandoned me, I was more humble 
 and resigned, only praying that my parents might remain 
 ignorant of my fate. From the dungeons of Venice light 
 is altogether excluded, and it is only conjectured to be 
 day when the jailer brings the wretched food which is to 
 keep soul and body together, till he returns after the 
 lapse of twenty-four hours. I had no means of computing 
 time, and did not know till afterwards that I had remained 
 in the dungeon six months. I was then ordered before the 
 Secret Conclave, and being told that there was no further 
 charge against me, was ordered to be set at liberty. Hope¬ 
 less as I had been of release, and still clinging to life, I 
 could not yet refrain from demanding the cause of my unjust 
 punishment, and the names of those who had brought 
 so infamous an accusation against me. ‘ The Conclave 
 does not suffer itself to be questioned/ was the only reply. 
 
 “ Being conveyed on board a gondola, I was carried to the 
 Austrian minister’s, who expected me; but no sooner did he 
 set eyes upon me, than he started back in amazement, so 
 
140 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 much had imprisonment altered me. He immediately gave 
 the necessary orders, and, by soothing attentions, soon 
 produced an improvement in my health and appearance. 
 But all cheerfulness had forsaken me; I have never ex¬ 
 perienced a happy moment since. In the course of con¬ 
 versation with the minister, I was informed that my dear 
 father had been in search of me three months after my 
 arrest. He waited upon his excellency, who could not give 
 him any information. He attempted to procure an interview 
 with his wife’s relations. He entreated them in the most 
 moving terms to give him some intelligence respecting me. 
 They refused to see him, and sent back his letters unopened. 
 
 “ My first impression was to return instantly to my 
 parents; hut an uncontrollable desire to find out the authors 
 of my imprisonment, and wreak on them a just vengeance, 
 stifled for a time all the dictates of love and duty. 
 
 “ My strength, however, not being sufficiently restored, 
 I remained with the minister, and was at length informed 
 of the cause of my imprisonment and of my liberation. 
 The minister had contracted an intimate friendship with the 
 family of Vincenti, which had given several Doges to Venice, 
 and which had always been at variance with the Orsini. 
 —One of those feuds was handed down as an heirloom from 
 generation to generation. But the Vincenti family were as 
 amiable and good as the Orsini were haughty and revenge¬ 
 ful. The Duke Vincenti was the present Doge, and he had 
 a son with whom the Austrian charge d’affaires was very 
 
The Chateau de Brienne . 
 
 141 
 
 intimate. He liad often done me the honour to speak of 
 me to the young duke, reprobating the enmity of the 
 Orsini, and suspecting that some scheme of vengeance 
 had been the cause of my sudden disappearance. The 
 young duke, struck with the account given him, made some 
 comments, and soon afterwards took his leave. The next 
 time he saw the minister, he informed him that he had 
 not been idle, but, by great intercession with the Doge, 
 had discovered that I had been arrested on a charge of 
 a plot against the state, brought by the Orsini, father and 
 son. The Austrian minister might now, without disclosing 
 the name of his informant, interfere, in his ministerial 
 capacity, and claim the release or trial of a subject of 
 the Germanic empire, whom the Emperor, his master, was 
 bound to protect. Accordingly he presented a strong re¬ 
 monstrance to the Doge, who naturally enquired the source 
 from whence he derived his information. The question was 
 evaded by a general reply, that bad men were not always 
 true to themselves, one rogue being always false to another 
 when his demands were not complied with. The minister 
 pledged himself that the accusation was altogether infamous 
 and false. An order for my liberation was then granted 
 without delay. 
 
 “My blood, as you may well conceive, boiled at the 
 brutality and baseness of my relations. But Sophia Orsini! 
 Sophia! Has anything happened to that dear and gentle 
 being,—has she been persecuted on my account ? 
 
142 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 “The minister evaded my question, begging me not 
 to exhaust my strength by any further conversation. I 
 saw there was some horrible story which he would fain 
 conceal. I expressed my suspicions; I should draw the 
 most dreadful inferences from his silence. I implored him 
 not to keep me in suspense worse than the most dreadful 
 certainty. The agitation in which he saw me prevailed on 
 him at last to disclose the truth. 
 
 “ Years have since elapsed, and my mind has disciplined 
 itself to the belief, that the evils we endure in this world 
 are hut trials to fit us for the next. But long, long as 
 the interval has been, I never recur to that dreadful day 
 without feeling some of the agony which had well nigh 
 deprived me of reason. My poor Sophia had been assured 
 that my sudden disappearance was the consequence of a 
 scandalous intrigue with the wife of a nobleman who had 
 received me with the utmost hospitality. She fell from 
 her chair as if struck by death, and for hours remained 
 unconscious of everything and every one about her. Then, 
 when she recovered, she exclaimed, ‘ It is false! it is 
 a foul and odious calumny! Otho is incapable of such 
 baseness! ’ The treacherous father and son had expected 
 this, and offered to bring a person of undoubted veracity 
 who had been in my company and that of the lady at 
 Milan, where I was leading a life of the utmost gaiety, 
 and where he had heard me make merry at the manner 
 in which I had concealed my attachment to the lady I 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 143 
 
 had eloped with, by pretending to be in love with one of 
 the Orsini family. My poor Sophia was not proof against 
 all these artifices. All innocence herself, she had no sus¬ 
 picion of such baseness ; she could not believe that the 
 human heart could be so utterly depraved. Still she 
 struggled hard to discredit the calumny, for her heart 
 assured her I could not be the villain they represented 
 me, and yet a person was produced who confirmed the 
 infamous story they had fabricated. She would not yet 
 give me up; she would write to me, and have under my 
 own hands the avowal of my perfidy. So reasonable a de¬ 
 mand could not be objected to, and the letter was written. 
 Whatever it was I never saw it; it never was intended 
 that I should. It was entrusted to the person who had 
 been brought forward to sustain the falsehood I have just 
 mentioned. In due course of time he returned as if from 
 the journey he had undertaken. He represented that he 
 had found me, not without difficulty, at Genoa, where 
 I was keeping the most dissolute company, and got the 
 letter into my hands. I had no sooner opened it, than 
 I burst into a laugh, and insisted upon reading it to my 
 companions, commenting indelicately upon different pas¬ 
 sages, and desiring, when I had finished it, that it might 
 be enclosed in an envelope and sent back to the lady. 
 I had thus profaned the delicacy of her confidence,—made 
 her the jest of the dissolute. I had not vouchsafed a single 
 line, but returned her own letter with contempt and derision. 
 
144 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne . 
 
 Such an outrage was unparalleled, intolerable. She heard 
 them not, she replied not, but sat mute and motionless, 
 every faculty of mind and body stunned and benumbed. 
 ‘It is enough/ she at last exclaimed, and was carried 
 senseless out of the room. Her illness was long and dan¬ 
 gerous ; but the excellence of her constitution triumphed, 
 and she was slowly restored to health. But it was not 
 the intention of her father and brother that she should 
 remain in the bosom of her family, quiet and unmolested. 
 Whilst she remained unmarried, the hatred they bore me 
 could not he gratified. 
 
 “ I cannot go over the details of that system of treachery 
 by which, still blackening my character, they tried to divert 
 her affections into another channel. Long, long did she 
 struggle against them. Her love survived her esteem for 
 me, and though her virtue had cast me off for ever, her 
 heart cherished still those feelings of tenderness which 
 are rarely, if ever, extinguished. 
 
 “ Oh fond and faithful heart of woman, which, giving 
 its affections slowly, retains them as long as pulse 
 can beat and heart can feel ; which hears adversity 
 with fortitude, when it can share it with the object of 
 its affection; which has no joy that it does not com¬ 
 municate, and no grief which it would not willingly 
 conceal. Oh timid and tender heart! how often are thy 
 feelings lacerated, and thy fondness and affection abused! 
 Parents, home, comfort, very life itself—how often dost 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 145 
 
 thou sacrifice them all that thy vows of love and truth 
 may he fulfilled! 
 
 “By dint of entreaties, that were never suffered to he 
 relaxed, the unhappy Sophia, beset on all sides, and assured 
 that her consent would restore happiness to the family, 
 was prevailed upon at length to receive the addresses of 
 Count Spontani, and- 
 
 “ ‘ And she consented to marry him ? ’ I said. 
 
 “ ‘ They were married yesterday.’ 
 
 “ I sprung from the couch like a maniac. I clenched 
 my hands as if I would bury my nails in the flesh. I tore 
 the hair from my head, and was guilty of the most frantic 
 excesses. I uttered the most dreadful curses. I menaced 
 every member of the family;—Spontani should not separate 
 me from my beloved. Bage, agony, and despair filled my 
 soul by turns. My brain seemed to he on fire; my heart 
 beat as though it would burst, and if I touched my forehead 
 my hand appeared to scorch it. 
 
 “ Such is the brief and feeble description of the torture 
 I endured. The minister never checked me. He suffered 
 the passion to have its vent, and then, persuading me to 
 take some rest, had me bled copiously. After a few hours 
 of troubled sleep, I was bled again, and thus probably 
 madness was prevented. Meanwhile his Excellency ex¬ 
 hausted every effort to make me bear with fortitude that 
 which now was without remedy. I listened to him in 
 silence, which probably he mistook for conviction. I was 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 too weak to pursue the conversation further. I did not 
 attempt to controvert any of his arguments, and he drew 
 thence an omen of my speedy recovery. I saw his de¬ 
 lusion, but did not make any effort to remove it, for I had 
 formed in my mind a project of a most desperate nature. 
 
 “ Whilst the good minister fancied I was gaining 
 strength and fortitude, I was brooding over my design, 
 which occupied every thought and every moment of the 
 day. After I had arranged everything, and was sufficiently 
 recovered to travel, I took leave of my benefactor. Bruised 
 and broken as my heart was, it overflowed with gratitude 
 when I took my leave. He had been to me the only friend 
 I ever had, except my parents, and I was to see him no more. 
 The parting was not without pain on his side, but it was 
 softened by the belief that I was going to seek in the arms 
 of my parents rest and refuge from the storms which had 
 thus early wrecked the happiness of my life. I set out 
 on my journey attended by one faithful domestic. But 
 we halted a few miles from the palace which belonged to 
 the Orsini, and which had so recently been the scene of 
 Sophia’s marriage. 
 
 “ I procured the dress of a Carmelite monk, such as I 
 now wear, and after writing two letters, and arming my¬ 
 self, set out for the Orsini palace. I left my domestic 
 behind, directing him to wait at a particular spot with the 
 horses. 
 
 “It was now that I was called upon to bend up each 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 *47 
 
 corporal and mental faculty to tlie great project I had 
 in hand, and which I knew would be attended with im¬ 
 minent danger to my own life, as well as to the lives of 
 others. My wrongs were great, hut my vengeance I felt to 
 he just, and I prayed, naturally enough, that it might he 
 effectual. 
 
 “As I approached the palace, my mind was sickened 
 by the spectacle of amusements and fetes, dances and 
 mummeries, and every sport incidental to merry-making. 
 I rang at the gates, and, on being asked my business, 
 said that I had affairs of importance to communicate, 
 and which concerned the whole family. 
 
 “ ‘ It is a strange time, good father/ said the porter, ‘ for 
 mysterious revelations/ 
 
 “ ‘ I know it, my son, but we, who have little to do 
 with the joys and pleasures of life, must perform our 
 duty when we can, and without waiting for the conveni¬ 
 ence of man/ 
 
 “He made no further remark, but escorted me to the 
 vestibule, and charged a page or lacquey with my message. 
 Here I remained a full half-hour. At length the major- 
 domo was sent to me and conducted me into a magnifi¬ 
 cent saloon. I could not avoid an involuntary start as 
 I entered, for I perceived at one glance that the count 
 and his son, with Sophia and her husband, were there 
 assembled. I was almost overcome, for the first words I 
 heard were from Sophia :— 
 
148 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 “ ‘The good father seems unwell; pray lead him to a seat.’ 
 
 “ I bowed my thanks but could not speak. 
 
 “ ‘ You have business of importance to our family/ 
 said the count. His voice at once aroused me, and restored 
 me to the full possession of my faculties. ‘We are assem¬ 
 bled to celebrate the marriage of our beloved daughter. 
 We crave your blessing, holy father, on her marriage, 
 and upon the whole family.’ 
 
 “ I rose as if in silent prayer, and then seating my¬ 
 self, fixed a steady look upon each. There was no fear 
 that I should be recognized; sorrow, imprisonment, and 
 sickness had so reduced my form, and changed my fea¬ 
 tures, that had my mother beheld me at that moment 
 ‘ she had not known her child.’ 
 
 “‘I am a man, count, of many sorrows and many 
 wrongs, have been falsely accused, unjustly imprisoned, and 
 basely calumniated, and all because of an ancient feud be¬ 
 tween two powerful families.’ 
 
 “ As I said this I fixed my eyes upon him, but he did 
 not appear to apply the observation in any way whatever to 
 himself, or to those around him. 
 
 “ ‘ Upon a charge of disaffection to the state, which 
 was fabricated against me, I was thrown into the state 
 prison at Venice. There victims may die a lingering 
 death without knowing or suspecting the charge against 
 them, or the authors of it. It has been said even, but 
 I cannot believe it, that families have contrived to get 
 
The Chateau de Brienne . 
 
 149 
 
 rid of obnoxious members, by accusations which had never 
 been submitted to the formality of any judicial proceeding 
 or trial/ 
 
 Count Orsini. —“ ‘We know the government of Venice 
 to be wise and merciful. It seeks the fullest information 
 before it acts, and never punishes till it has ascertained 
 beyond a doubt the guilt of the accused. Our paternal and 
 excellent government must not be maligned/ 
 
 The Monk. —“‘Far be it from me, my lord, but the 
 best governments are not free from the frailties of human 
 nature, and it may happen tha their ears may be abused 
 by false and scandalous accusations/ 
 
 “ The father and son exchanged looks of surprise. 
 
 The Count.— “ ‘ All this, holy father, may be true 
 or false, but in what way does it concern your business 
 with the Orsini family? "We are somewhat impatient 
 to know, and time presses ! , 
 
 The Monk. —“ ‘ It does indeed, and must not be lost. 
 Life and death depend upon the lapse of moments/ I 
 spoke in a louder tone than usual. 
 
 “ ‘ I am commissioned, my lord, by a most unhappy 
 father and mother to make enquiries after the fate of 
 their son, their only son; and demand of you, where is 
 Count Otho Winceslaus ? ’ 
 
 “ Both father and son felt or affected surprise and anger. 
 
 The Count. —“ ‘ Holy father, profane not your lips with 
 his name; he has forfeited the esteem of all good men, 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 1 5 ° 
 
 insulted our house, and destroyed the peace of an illus¬ 
 trious nobleman by the seduction of his wife/ 
 
 The Monk.— “ ‘ Poor Otho ! 9 
 
 “ The countess seemed surprised at this expression of pity. 
 
 The Monk.— “ ‘ Unhappy Otho ! did he insult your 
 family, my lord, when your son selected him as his companion 
 to the gaming-house,—your son, who delivered him a letter 
 just too late to save him from ruin ? 9 
 
 “ The countess seemed to feel increasing interest. 
 
 “‘And did he not select a strange asylum in which 
 to plot his scheme of seduction P Is the dungeon of a 
 prison the favoured temple of love ? 9 
 
 “The count started from his seat. ‘The dungeon of 
 a prison! you speak in riddles, holy father. What has 
 the family of the Orsini in common with that receptacle 
 for traitors? But, Sophia, the conversation distresses you 
 —this is not fit discourse for you; let me beg of you, my 
 love, to retire/ 
 
 Sophia. —“ ‘ My lord, it is my wish to remain. In 
 this, at least, I will decide for myself/ Her look and 
 manner surprised them. 
 
 The Monk.—“ ‘ The unfortunate Count Otho was im¬ 
 mured within a prison; and if any here may be anxious 
 to know at whose instigation, I believe I shall be able to 
 satisfy them/ 
 
 The Count. —“ ‘ Our anxiety is that we may never 
 more hear mention of his name/ 
 
The Chateau de Bvienne. 1 ^ i 
 
 The Monk.—“ ‘ I do not doubt it. I am here by tbe 
 desire and authority of the Doge/ 
 
 The Count. —“ ‘ The Doge! ’ 
 
 The Monk. —“ ‘ Yes, my lord ; he knows the peculiar 
 interest you take in everything connected with the family 
 of Otho Winceslaus, and has enabled me to gratify your 
 curiosity/ 
 
 The Count. —“‘The Doge ! 9 and the features of both 
 father and son indicated increased anxiety. But they did 
 not attempt to interrupt me. 
 
 “ ‘ When the unfortunate Otho was confined in the 
 dungeon, his illness returned. Confinement, the want of 
 light and air, aggravated his disorder to such an extent, 
 that, feeling his fate was sealed, he implored the jailer to 
 suffer the last consolations of religion to be administered 
 to him. By dint of intercession, and with great difficulty, 
 I was permitted to visit him. So changed was he by ill¬ 
 ness, that you would not have recognised his likeness to 
 your beloved sister. He was calm and resigned, though 
 scarcely able to raise his head/ The look of anguish 
 which the countess fixed upon me shook every nerve, and 
 I was obliged to pause for a few seconds. 
 
 “ ‘ I received his confession. At that awful moment 
 all speak the truth, as all hope for pardon. But he had 
 no heavy sins to answer for, no pardon to solicit for the 
 crimes of calumny, fraud, unnatural hatred or malice. He 
 lamented, but forgave, the unprovoked enmity of his rela- 
 
152 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 tions; and finally, after many efforts, wrote two letters, 
 which he charged me to deliver in person. One is ad¬ 
 dressed to the Count Orsini, the other to Sophia Omim.’ 
 
 The Count. —“ ‘ Deliver them.’ 
 
 The Monk. —“ ‘ Not so, my lord. Another injunction 
 was, that the letter should he read by myself, and I dare 
 not disobey a dying injunction. The letter to the Count 
 Orsini is as follows:— 
 
 “ ‘ From the dungeon of the state prison I address 
 the Count Orsini. It is the voice of one speaking from 
 the grave, and demands of the count, as he shall answer 
 in that awful presence before which he will soon he sum¬ 
 moned, why he has pursued the son of his unoffending 
 sister with such relentless malice,—why he plotted with 
 his own son the ruin of his nephew,—what crime that 
 nephew had committed which deserved a loathsome im¬ 
 prisonment and a lingering death? He demands to know 
 what cause that nephew had given for the hatred which 
 could only be gratified by a charge of treason that he knew 
 to be false ? 
 
 “ ‘ I, Otho Winceslaus, pronounce, with my latest breath, 
 the Counts Orsini, father and son, to be base and infamous 
 calumniators.’ 
 
 “Both of them immediately started up, and laid their 
 
 hands upon their swords. 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 l S 3 
 
 “ ‘ Be more calm, gentlemen; would you draw upon an 
 unarmed monk ?’ 
 
 ‘“I, Otho Winceslaus, pronounce again and again the 
 Count Orsini and his son to be base and infamous calum¬ 
 niators ; and I charge you, the younger Orsini, with having 
 suborned the most depraved characters to compass my ruin 
 by the basest practices. I accuse the father with having 
 transmitted to the government charges of treason fabricated 
 by himself, in the hope that they might involve me either 
 in an ignominious death or a lingering captivity. 
 
 “ ‘ Calumniators and assassins ! I summon you to the bar 
 of God! 
 
 “ ‘ Otho Winceslaus.’ 
 
 “ The father and son got up and paced the room with a 
 hurried step. There was an awful pause; a shudder, as if 
 they expected the author of this awful summons to appear 
 in person. Sophia Orsini looked as if grief and surprise 
 had petrified her. I now read the second letter :— 
 
 “ f To Sophia Orsini. 
 
 “ * And does Sophia, dearest Sopbia, unite with the 
 calumniators of Otho ? Does she not pronounce in her 
 own heart that he who aspired to her love could not be a 
 false friend, a seducer of innocence, and a traitor? No, no ! 
 she has been deceived; she has been made to believe, by 
 perjured evidence and forged documents, that her Otho had 
 
154 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 betrayed tbe confidence of bis friend, seduced tbe affections 
 of bis wife, berded witb tbe dissolute and base, and made 
 even tbe object of bis affections tbe sport and jest of tbe 
 mean and worthless. 
 
 “‘Sophia, dearest and only-beloved Sophia, call upon 
 your father and brother to produce this friend whom Otbo 
 has injured, and whose wife be has seduced. Where are 
 they ? Who are they ? They are nowhere ; they have 
 no existence. 
 
 “‘ Sopbia, in another world we shall be re-united. 
 Farewell! 
 
 “ ‘ Otho Winceslaus.’ 
 
 “ I will not, for I cannot, describe tbe effect which this 
 letter produced upon Sopbia. A scene of unparalleled 
 wickedness bad been suddenly laid open in all its horrible 
 deformity. She tried to speak, but could not. At length 
 she poured forth the bitterest reproaches against her rela¬ 
 tions. She cursed her own credulity; she would instantly 
 fly to the Doge; she would seek her own Otho in his 
 dungeon, lay down by him and die. Oh what a moment 
 was this! I hid my face in my cowl to hide the scalding 
 tears. Courage, anger, vengeance all yielded to the depth 
 and bitterness of sorrow. A low sweet tone broke upon 
 my ear, and that hand, which I had so often pressed in 
 the warmth of love and truth, was laid upon mine. 
 
 “‘And he died in his dungeon ?’ 
 
 r 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 155 
 
 “‘No, Lady Sophia, God for His own good purposes has 
 spared him.’ 
 
 The Countess. —“ ‘ He is alive, then! Father of mercy, 
 thou didst not let him perish! And thou wilt still live, 
 Otho, for thy Sophia !’ 
 
 “The recollection of the obstacle that now existed 
 rushed upon her, and she fell into the arms of Spontani. 
 
 “ Caution, prudence, were at once forgotten. I dashed 
 the table from between us, snatched her from the arms of 
 Spontani, and placed her unconscious head on my shoulder, 
 whilst I pressed her in my arms. It was a moment of hap¬ 
 piness, and it was the last. I have never known one since. 
 
 “ Whilst she remained in this senseless state, she was 
 removed to her chamber by her husband, and I saw her 
 no more. 
 
 “ The scene now approached its conclusion. It was not 
 in human nature to prolong it. The count accelerated it 
 by his own audacity and presumption. 
 
 “ ‘ Holy father !’ he exclaimed, ‘ Wicked men find it 
 easy to impose upon the unsuspicious and the good. You 
 have been made a dupe. The letters are a tissue of slander 
 and falsehood, intended to wound the peace of an illustrious 
 family. Would that I could summon this Otho Winceslaus 
 into the presence of its indignant members V 
 
 The Monk. —“ ‘ He obeys the summons on the instant/ 
 said I, and threw off my cowl and habit. Now was the 
 time for action. I discarded all moderation, and gave rein 
 
I S 6 
 
 The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 to all my rage and vengeance. The count and his son re¬ 
 coiled as if they had been suddenly assailed by the lion 
 of the desert. They would have retired but I prevented 
 them. ‘ He dies who stirs a foot!' They made no further 
 effort, and had then to bear the storm that had been 
 gathering against them. 
 
 “ ‘ Look on me, sirs ! Do you not quail before me— 
 does not the recollection of vour mean and treacherous 
 
 m 
 
 practices cover you with infamy and shame ? ’ 
 
 “ Whether these expressions galled them, or whether it 
 was that their desperate situation gave them courage, I 
 know not ; but they retorted upon me a bold defiance, 
 
 drew their swords, and attacked me. Mv wishes were now 
 
 * • 
 
 gratified, as I considered myself a match for both, and 
 thirsted for revenge. 
 
 “We fought with great fury and determination, the 
 fearful odds of two to one being barely counterbalanced by 
 my superior skill in the use of the sword. The desperation, 
 however, which a keen remembrance of the wrong I, in 
 common with mv father and mother, had suffered at the 
 
 w * 
 
 hands of these men, gave vigour to my arm, and stirred up 
 my soul to compass their destruction. After several in¬ 
 effectual passes on both sides, in which the remarkable 
 quickness I had displayed in defending myself against their 
 combined attack appeared utterly to confound my an¬ 
 tagonists, I perceived a move on the part of the younger 
 Orsha intended to place him in a position behind me, so as 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 157 
 
 to enable him to attack me in tbe rear, whilst the count 
 should he engaging my attention in front. Quick as 
 thought, I hastily retreated a few paces, and planted my 
 back against the wall. Foiled in his dastardly design, the 
 young Orsini again took up ground behind his father, who, 
 at that moment, was pressing me hard with a succession of 
 well-directed thrusts, till at length, by a skilful parry made 
 in tierce, I fortunately disarmed him; but as, unfortu¬ 
 nately, my own sword was broken in the act. The count 
 (who had repossessed himself of his sword the instant he 
 discovered that my own was rendered useless) came wildly 
 on with a mixed and diabolical expression of fury and de¬ 
 light in his countenance, as I stood at his mercy, erect and 
 helpless against the wall. In a twinkling I should have 
 received the point of his sword in my body (as he was now 
 within three paces of me); but, maddened by my mis¬ 
 fortune, and with the prospect of instant death before me, 
 I instinctively hurled the fragment of my sword at him. 
 The hilt struck him full in the face, and with such pro¬ 
 digious force that, for the moment, he was quite stunned 
 by the blow. By a vigorous bound, and a still more vigor¬ 
 ous grasp, I secured possession of his sword, and replaced 
 myself in my old position against the wall. The son now 
 rushed on me with the fury of a tiger; but this very im¬ 
 petuosity proved my salvation. Not having time to parry 
 his terrific lounge, I moved about a foot to the left in order 
 to avoid its effects. Unable to recover himself in his head- 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 i 5 b 
 
 long attack, his rapier shivered to atoms against the wall, 
 whilst my own, in an oblique direction, was thrust into his 
 side. He fell a lifeless corpse, pierced by the very sword 
 which but a few moments before his father was wielding for 
 my destruction. 
 
 “ The disgrace of the count, and the death of his son, 
 now sufficed for my revenge. I sheathed my sword, re¬ 
 sumed my monk’s cowl and habit, walked out of the palace 
 of the Orsini, and proceeded to the spot where I had 
 appointed my servant to meet me. I found him there 
 ready with the horses. Throwing off my disguise, I 
 mounted one of the horses, and turned towards my home, 
 but not with that joy and alacrity which would have 
 hurried me onwards had I been carrying back with me the 
 feelings of love and endearment with which I had left it. 
 No! I was now returning there without a hope for the 
 future, and with scarcely a wish for the present,—like the 
 wretched exile, who 
 
 “ ‘ Triste iter instituit, fatis vexatus iniquis, 
 
 Et proferre pedes, et retinere timet,’ 
 
 I lingered on the road, absorbed in a reverie of thought 
 both as to the doubtful character of the vengeance I had 
 gratified, and the questionable approval with which a re¬ 
 cital of the details would be received by my unhappy 
 parents. At length the venerable chateau broke upon my 
 sight, and called up to my bewildered imagination a 
 melancholy retrospect of the past and direful forebodings 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 
 
 I S9 
 
 of tlie future. I had taken care to apprise my parents of 
 my release from prison, and now added the precaution of 
 sending forward a letter to the almoner of the household to 
 break to them the intelligence of my approach. As I 
 neared the drawbridge I discerned my dear parents walking 
 with slow and feeble tread upon the terrace, and supporting 
 each other, as though they were both bowed down with 
 grief. They had long lived in ignorance of my fate, and in 
 hourly expectation of receiving the sad tidings of my 
 death; and, though that doubt had now been removed, the 
 constantly recurring phantom had made such inroads upon 
 their health that no after-joy could remedy. I had deter¬ 
 mined to make a full confession of everything that had 
 occurred since my departure. They listened to my story 
 with feelings alternating between surprise and anger on 
 the one hand, and reproach and pity on the other. I did 
 not omit, in this painful narrative, a single circumstance, 
 however distressing its recital; nor did I attempt to palliate 
 a single act, however strong might have been the presump¬ 
 tion of its justice in my favour. When I had concluded 
 my sad tale, they each embraced me with a fervour and an 
 earnestness that bespoke the gladness of their hearts at my 
 return, and showed that their affection for me still re¬ 
 mained unchanged and undiminished. 
 
 “Four months had passed away since my return to 
 the chateau, and in this interval I sought by every means 
 in my power to alleviate the sorrows of my poor mother, 
 
i6o 
 
 The Chateau de Brientie. 
 
 and to heal the cankerous ravages which had evidently been 
 
 u * 
 
 long undermining the vital powers of my unhappy father. 
 The circumstances of his own early life, embittered bv a 
 recollection of the injuries and injustice done to my mother 
 hy the members of her own family, and the protraction 
 of this unnatural feud into another generation, had sown 
 the seeds of a disease, the progress of which nothing could 
 now avert; indeed it proved fatal within a few days, dly 
 dear mother and myself received his parting words, which 
 contained instructions for our conduct after his decease. 
 He then placed my mother's hand in mine, and charged 
 us to comfort and sustain each other. All fortitude now 
 gave way under the agony of this parting scene. He 
 raised himself up for a moment, gazed affectionately on 
 mv mother and myself, and then fell back and expired. 
 
 In less than two months afterwards I had laid mv mother hy 
 
 ^ * 
 
 his side, and was left alone in the world, the object of 
 my fondest affection, if not dead, being now the wife of 
 another. 
 
 “AVith my subsequent history you are already in a 
 great measure acquainted, from the part I took in the 
 marriage, trial, and conviction of the infamous Baron 
 de Lauerstadt. I have for years lived the life of a re¬ 
 cluse, and shall continue to do so until I am called to 
 another and a happier world. You are still yo ung , and 
 have all the active pursuits of life open to your energies 
 and your ambition, with its hopes and aspirations as vet 
 
The Chateau de Brienne. 161 
 
 unassailed by misfortune, unchecked by persecution, and 
 unstained by crime. My son, tbe darkening shadows of 
 adversity 7 have not yet reached you; the pangs of dis¬ 
 appointed love have not yet seared your young heart; 
 and the ungoverned impulses of a revengeful and un¬ 
 bridled passion have not yet steeped your hands in blood. 
 God grant that none of these calamities may ever over¬ 
 take you ! Farewell! Following this road for the dis¬ 
 tance of about one hundred and fifty yards you will arrive 
 at what was once the falconer’s lodge; at the back of this 
 ruin you will see a flight of steps, now overgrown with 
 ivy, and at the foot of them a narrow and precipitous 
 path, crossed here and there by tangled brushwood, which 
 will conduct you to the main road leading to Darmstadt. 
 I must return to the chateau alone ; so farewell, my son! 
 farewell! ” 
 
162 
 
 LEAF THE FOURTH. 
 
 THE SIX PROMISES. 
 
 Soon after the interview with Father Anselm, which 
 led to the disclosure of the sad events of his life, I went 
 to Darmstadt upon business, where I remained some time 
 with M. de Montcalm, who introduced me to his wife and 
 sister. They were amiable persons, particularly Madame 
 de Montcalm, who had uncommon animation, much arch¬ 
 ness of expression, and a frankness of manner, to which 
 I was indebted for one of the most extraordinary narra¬ 
 tives I ever recollect, which had occurred to a friend of 
 hers:— 
 
 The Count and Countess de Fronsard were married very 
 early. It was one of those love matches which disdain to 
 listen to the dictates of discretion, and brook neither opposi¬ 
 tion nor delay; advice under such circumstances being merely 
 a waste of feeling. To doubt the duration of such a pas¬ 
 sion were treason to the divinity of love. 
 
 On the ground of respectability or fortune, there could 
 he no objection. It was only suggested to them to wait 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 1 63 
 
 till the count had attained his majority. Wait two whole 
 years ! Two centuries ! A convenient illness, which the 
 count had about this time, produced as he insinuated by 
 grief at so long a delay, but really brought about by ex¬ 
 posure to cold, alarmed the parents of both to such a degree, 
 that, as soon as he recovered, the happy couple were 
 united. 
 
 Death only was to extinguish the purity and bright¬ 
 ness of the hymeneal torch, and the world was to witness 
 a miracle of unabated constancy and love. 
 
 All violent passions are necessarily of short duration, 
 and the passion of love has never yet furnished an exception. 
 The count was gay, fond of company, danced gracefully, 
 wrote pretty sonnets, and was particularly anxious to be 
 the object of female admiration. The countess was at 
 first not displeased. She thought the praises bestowed 
 upon her husband were so many panegyrics upon her own 
 taste and judgment. She felt, as every one envied her 
 the possession of such a husband, that she had made the 
 happiest choice. She loved him with a sincerity which 
 knew no abatement and harboured no suspicion. On her 
 side it may be said, that the passion, if it had lost some 
 of its intensity, had retained all its purity. But the ardour 
 of the lover did not long survive in the character of the 
 husband, and ere a year had elapsed the tender son¬ 
 net-writer had established an interest in other hearts 
 which at length became too apparent to escape the observa- 
 
164 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 tion of the countess. Thank heaven! I am unable, 
 from my own experience, to describe the feelings of a fond 
 and faithful wife upon the first discovery of her husband’s 
 alienated affections. But, from what I observed in the 
 conduct of my friend, they must he terrible. She remon¬ 
 strated, but it was gently, and she had the good sense to 
 avoid all that bitterness of reproach which aggravates the 
 evil it is meant to remedy. The agony of her feelings 
 threw her into an alarming illness, and nothing was more 
 remarkable during its continuance than the constant solici¬ 
 tude for her recovery expressed by all those who were 
 the objects of the count’s tender attention. She was at 
 length ordered to the baths of Carlsbad, but insisted that 
 the count should avail himself of the period of her 
 absence to make a tour, which he had meditated before 
 his marriage. 
 
 The count and countess had set out for their respective 
 destinations about three months, when a courier brought 
 me a dispatch containing two letters, one addressed to the 
 count, the other to myself. They were from the countess, 
 and contained the affectionate farewell of one who evidently 
 felt that she had not long to live. In them too she had 
 given directions to be buried in a distant part, which 
 should remain a secret from every one. She was alone 
 in the world, for she had outlived her husband’s affec¬ 
 tions, and the grave which was to receive her unconscious 
 remains should be for ever unknown. This was the pur- 
 
The Six Promises . 
 
 i6 5 
 
 port of both letters. But the letter to the count, after 
 bestowing her blessing and forgiveness, charged him not 
 to return from his tour with the intention of paying 
 any tribute, or raising any monument to her memory. 
 
 At the expiration of a year from the receipt of the 
 countess’s last letter, the count returned home. 
 
 I am indebted to a friend who accompanied him for 
 the detail of the incidents consequent upon his return, and 
 I cannot render them more piquant than by giving them 
 to you in a dramatic dress. 
 
 “Well! ” exclaimed the count, “here we are at home 
 again, and a new career of enjoyment, a new vista of 
 pleasure is opened. I feel the life blood dance more 
 cheerily through my veins, the pulse beats quicker. 
 Courage, Conrad, we are returned from travel improved 
 in appearance, manners, fashion, and knowledge of the 
 world.” 
 
 But ever and anon a recollection of the wife who 
 had been the grace and ornament of his home would 
 rush across his mind and dim the brightness of his hopes. 
 It was but for a moment; the unwelcome recollection was 
 soon banished, and gaiety and dissipation resumed their 
 power. The return of the count was celebrated by fetes 
 and rejoicings, and by none more heartily than by 
 those who had been the heroines of his sonnets, and 
 the objects of his admiration. He had been released a 
 vinculo matrimonii ,—was a widower, free to make another 
 
166 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 choice, and to raise some other aspirant to the envied dis¬ 
 tinction of being his bride. Every female heart fluttered 
 whenever he appeared; he was the centre round which 
 they all moved, and every eye solicited the preference of 
 his notice. 
 
 “ Conrad ! ” said the count, “ is not this happiness ? 
 There is not one of these who would not rush at 
 once into my arms. I read their wishes, I feel my 
 power, in every glance ; each is convinced that she 
 shall be the chosen one, for each has a promise, should 
 the time ever arrive when I should be enabled to fulfil 
 it.” 
 
 “ And how can it he fulfilled to each ? ” enquired 
 Conrad. 
 
 “ Impossible! ” replied the count, “ and therefore it 
 shall not he performed to any; hut as they all live in 
 hope, none meanwhile will suffer me to despair.” 
 
 “But the time must come,” continued Conrad, “when 
 this scene of deception can be practised no longer. It 
 is unworthy of your character, and may be dangerous 
 to your life.” 
 
 “ How ? ” 
 
 “ Have they not fathers or brothers ? will they sub¬ 
 mit tamely to so gross an insult ? ” 
 
 “ ’Twill be time enough to think of that hereafter; 
 hut if I am reluctant to fulfil the promises to one sex, 
 I will not disappoint the wishes of the other.” 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 167 
 
 “And the murder of the brothers is to atone for 
 the breach of faith to the sisters! It is a disgraceful 
 business, and altogether unworthy of my friend.” 
 
 Such were the discussions which took place between 
 the count and his friend. They were without the least 
 effect upon the count. 
 
 But it must be obvious that such a career could not 
 be long continued with impunity, and that the termi¬ 
 nation of it would probably end in blood. The denouement 
 arrived sooner than Conrad had anticipated. 
 
 It was in the midst of a joyous party, when gloomy 
 thoughts and unwelcome recollections are least likely to 
 intrude themselves, that a letter was delivered to the count, 
 who, merely looking at the address, put it into his pocket. 
 Another, and another followed, till the number amounted 
 to six. They were all laid aside unread, for nothing 
 was to disturb the gaiety of the hour. The company 
 at length separated, and Conrad and the count were left 
 together. 
 
 “ The letters ! the letters ! ” said Conrad. “ You 
 are the fortunate centre of attraction. They are all, I 
 suppose, from sighing damsels who weep over broken vows. 
 Ah, faithless swain ! too soon believed! Bead! Bead ! ” 
 
 The count confirmed by his exulting looks the sup¬ 
 position of his friend, and, conceiving that he should 
 excite his envy, read them aloud. 
 
 The first was as follows:— 
 
168 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 “To the Count de Fronsard. 
 
 “My Lord, 
 
 “My dear sister has just made me acquainted 
 with the promise of marriage given her by your lordship, 
 to he fulfilled whenever circumstances should permit. 
 You are a widower, and I am anxious to see my sister 
 forthwith raised to the rank of your lordship’s wife, to 
 which she will do such honour. I need not add how 
 proud I shall he to salute you as my brother-in-law.” 
 
 “ Yery like the epistle of a sighing damsel,” said 
 the count. 
 
 “And if you do not comply with its demand, what then?” 
 
 “ Defiance—a duel. But I will not he bullied even 
 if I am not in such a hurry to he saluted as the brother- 
 in-law of my redoubtable correspondent, ‘ whose sister ’ will 
 do such honour to the rank of my lordship.” 
 
 “ But,” said Conrad, “he has the feelings of a brother. 
 Put yourself in his situation, and think you had a sister.” 
 
 “ Conrad ! Conrad! wear the cowl instead of the sword! 
 But we have more to read. What says the second letter ?” 
 
 “To the Count de Fronsard. 
 
 “ I think, my lord, you will hardly hesitate which of 
 two alternatives you will accept. Either marry my sister, 
 to whom you have promised marriage, or give her brother 
 the satisfaction to which he shall feel himself entitled. 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 169 
 
 But I have no doubt you will eagerly fulfil your promise to 
 a lady capable of rendering the marriage state so happy.” 
 
 This letter galled him to the quick. “ But I will not 
 eagerly fulfil my promise, though the lady be capable of 
 ‘ rendering the marriage state so happy/ Zounds ! Conrad, 
 they treat me as if I were to be pressed into marriage, like 
 a beast into harness.” 
 
 After giving vent to his rage against the writer, he 
 opened the third letter, the fourth, fifth, and sixth. They 
 were all from the brothers of different females, and all in 
 the same tone. 
 
 There was something so extraordinary in the coincidence 
 of their being delivered on the same day, that I was 
 curious to ascertain the cause. 
 
 I found that at a public ball, where all the ladies were 
 present, an old countess had expressed some surprise at the 
 absence of the count. “ But I dare say,” she added, “ he 
 is better employed in courting his intended. I hear he is 
 
 going to be married to Mademoiselle de-,” naming a 
 
 young lady who was not known to any of the count’s coterie. 
 
 “ Impossible ! ” exclaimed one; “ Impossible ! ” echoed 
 another. “ Impossible ! impossible ! ” ran quickly along the 
 whole line. But the old countess, whether from spite or 
 actual belief in the truth of her assertion, repeated it more 
 positively, and dejection began to take place immediately in 
 the ball room. One young lady withdrew ; then another, and 
 
170 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 another, till all who had such particular interest in the fate 
 of the count had returned to their respective homes. There, 
 it appears, that each of them made her brother acquainted 
 with the promise which the count had given her. The 
 letters were the immediate consequence of such disclosure. 
 
 As it was late in the evening before the letters had 
 undergone the discussion which naturally ensued, the count 
 deferred any notice of them till next morning. He was 
 evidently alarmed at the predicament in which he was 
 placed. Trifling was entirely out of the question. He 
 must either marry or fight, and he had as little inclination 
 for the former as the latter; not that he wanted courage, 
 but he was placed in a situation from which he could not 
 extricate himself with honour. If he married, it would he 
 imputed to fear; and, besides, he could only fulfil his 
 promise to one of the six. If he refused, and fought, he 
 incurred the imputation of seeking the life of the brother, 
 rather than of redeeming his promise to the sister. He could 
 only propitiate one brother and one sister ; and thus expose 
 himself to the rage and resentment of all the rest. 
 
 These were no agreeable reflections ; and a melancholy 
 silence prevailed next morning as the two friends sat at 
 breakfast. They had scarcely finished it when they were 
 interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who ushered in a 
 lady in a veil. The count started hack, as if some appari¬ 
 tion had visited him. 
 
 “ Do you not know me, my lord,” exclaimed the lady, 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 I 7 I 
 
 throwing aside her veil, “ or am I become so odious that 
 you start at the sight of me P It was not always thus. I 
 am come to claim the performance of a promise which no 
 man of honour can refuse.” 
 
 “ And is it, my dear madam, with such a menace that 
 you come here to claim it ?” 
 
 “ It should have been performed ere now,” was the reply. 
 
 The domestic entered, and conveyed some message to 
 his master in a whisper. It discomposed him; but there 
 was a necessity for immediate action. 
 
 “ Come, my dear madam, let me conduct you into 
 another room, where I will speedily attend you, and where 
 we can converse more calmly and securely.” 
 
 The lady permitted herself to he handed into an adjoin¬ 
 ing apartment, where the count left her. 
 
 The servant instantly introduced another lady. Her 
 greeting was of a different kind. 
 
 “ So, my dear count, I hear you are going to he married, 
 and I suppose you meant to surprise me agreeably by with¬ 
 holding all information till you had made every preparation 
 to lead me to the altar. There is a kindness, a delicacy of 
 thought in your purpose which would not let me rest till I 
 had thanked you in person.” 
 
 “ Upon my honour, my dear madam, you have taken 
 me by surprise. I had not the least idea of marriage,— 
 at least, of a speedy marriage. I have not been making 
 the slightest preparation.” 
 
172 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 “ Indeed, my lord ! and wherefore, then, this promise ?” 
 
 “ You might have left it safely to my honour.” 
 
 The servant appeared again, and again whispered his mas¬ 
 ter. “ Another!” he exclaimed, in an under tone of voice. 
 
 “But this, my dear lady, is no place for such discus¬ 
 sions ; in another room we shall he less liable to interrup¬ 
 tion.” And the lady suffered herself to he conducted into 
 a room adjoining that to which the first lady had been 
 consigned. 
 
 “All the plagues in Pandora’s box,” said the count, 
 as he returned to the saloon, “seem to be poured upon 
 me at once, and I fear that Hope is not to he found at 
 the bottom! ” 
 
 The third lady came upon the same errand, and her 
 demand had the same refrain as those who had come before 
 and those who followed after 
 
 “ Me yon promised, count, to marry; 
 
 Gallant lover, do not tarry! ” 
 
 A fourth, a fifth, a sixth, succeeded, till he might have 
 exclaimed with Macbeth, when Banquo’s offspring pass 
 before him at the bidding of the weird sisters,— 
 
 “ A third is like the former ! . . 
 
 Why do you show me this ?—A fourth ?—Start, eyes! 
 
 What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom ? 
 
 Another yet ?—A seventh ?—I’ll see no more ! 
 
 And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass 
 
 Which shows me many more ! ” 
 
 The accusations and the demands of each were in the 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 x 73 
 
 same strain, and the spectator might have been almost 
 tempted to believe that they had studied their parts before¬ 
 hand. Each lady was shown into a separate room on the 
 same plea and for the same purpose, so that the six apart¬ 
 ments which branched out of the saloon were all tenanted. 
 
 “ There they are! ” said the count, turning to the 
 different rooms, “ hut how are they to be got rid of ? 
 Zounds! I am almost tempted to decamp, and leave them 
 to their fate !—Or shall I brave the storm and defy them ?” 
 
 He had no time for debating the point, for a military¬ 
 looking man entered with little ceremony, and immediately 
 addressed the count:— 
 
 “ Your servant, my lord ! I did myself the honour 
 of troubling you with a letter last night, and not having 
 received any written answer to it, am come ‘ to receive it 
 in person.’ ” 
 
 “ Peremptory enough, sir, and rather over-speedy, con¬ 
 sidering the serious nature of the business in question. 
 One does not rush into the noose of matrimony with the 
 same nonchalance with which we put on our boots. Some 
 reasonable time might have been allowed for decision.” 
 
 “ Decision ! my lord ! The decision is already made. 
 The promise of a man of honour is not to be evaded or 
 to be made the subject of doubt or discussion; it must 
 be fulfilled whenever he has the power of doing it.” 
 
 “Yery clerk-like phrases, sir; very moral, good sort of 
 sentiments. But what if I demur ?” 
 
*74 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 “ The thing is not to he thought of for a moment—” 
 The speech of the indignant brother was cut short by the 
 entrance of a servant, announcing the visit of a gentleman 
 who insisted upon an immediate interview. 
 
 “ This,” said the count, with wonderful self-possession, 
 “this is a gentleman whom I am about to consult upon 
 the propriety of exchanging an estate in a distant part of 
 the Landgraviate for another which is nearer the capital; 
 —oblige me by retiring for a few minutes.” 
 
 “ Most willingly,” said the officer; and, without wait¬ 
 ing to he conducted by the count, he entered one of the 
 chambers into which one of the ladies had been introduced. 
 
 The gentleman who was so peremptory in his demand 
 of admission had, as the count well knew, no business that 
 related to sale or exchange of property. He was another 
 angry brother who came to receive in person a reply to 
 his letter, and to threaten vengeance if compliance with 
 his demand were refused. 
 
 You may easily conceive that, where each had the same 
 object in view, the language of all had a sameness which 
 it would not be more amusing to detail than it was for the 
 count to hear. Each, however, was in turn baulked of his 
 colloquy by the entrance of the domestic with the demand 
 of immediate admittance for some other gentleman. The 
 same excuse was made which had been so successful with 
 the first gentleman, and each sought temporary refuge in 
 one of the ladies’ chambers. By an extraordinary and 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 !75 
 
 almost ludicrous fatality, the different gentlemen took dif¬ 
 ferent chambers, so that at last there was a lady and 
 a gentleman in each. 
 
 “ Had not the occasion been of so serious a nature, I 
 could have laughed,” said Conrad, “ at the contrivance by 
 which each lady had been got rid of, and afterwards paired 
 with a gentleman whom she little expected, or desired, to 
 see.” Then the denouement could not but be full of dra¬ 
 matic interest. How was each hiding-place to be deprived 
 of its tenant—how could they avoid coming in contact—and 
 what would be the consequence of their all meeting to¬ 
 gether ? 
 
 Even the count could not preserve his gravity after 
 the sixth man had disappeared. “There they are,” he 
 said, “ a pair in each ark. Why can’t each make a match 
 of it, and thus rid me of the whole?” The idea seemed 
 to afford him a momentary mirth ; but it soon yielded 
 to the grave conviction that something must be done, and 
 without delay. He paced up and down the saloon several 
 times with a troubled step and manner. At length he 
 formed his determination. 
 
 “ Conrad, there is no alternative. I will have no 
 separate discussions ;—come all, and come at once ! ” He 
 had no sooner communicated this resolution than he put 
 it into execution. He opened each door in succession, and 
 addressing them by their respective names, “Approach! 
 the count desires to see you all! ” 
 
vj 6 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 Accordingly each gentleman entered the saloon leading 
 a lady by the hand. There was a universal hurst of sur¬ 
 prise. Exclamation followed exclamation in quick succes¬ 
 sion.—“You here! and you! and you! How astonishing!”— 
 “ And what can have brought you here ?”—“ And can it be 
 you ?”—“ Yes, it is I; but surely you are not come for the 
 same purpose ?”—“ And why not ?”—“ And bless me, how 
 strange !”—“What treachery !”—“ What deceit!” 
 
 These curt questions and quick replies issued so rapidly 
 from the bps of the ladies that not a single word could be 
 heard from any other quarter. 
 
 The gentlemen were at length enabled to make them¬ 
 selves heard; and, in the first instance, they did not address 
 themselves to the count, but to each other. 
 
 “ How am I to explain your being in a chamber with 
 my sister ?”—“And what am I to infer from finding you with 
 mine ?”—“And what business could have made it necessary 
 for you to secrete yourself with Sophia?” said a third. 
 “ And how came Louise to be shut up with you ?” said a 
 fourth. The accused parties were scarcely suffered to reply. 
 “ But I did not know your sister was in that chamber.”— 
 “ Nor was I acquainted with the fact of your sister’s being 
 here.”—“ Nor did I know that Sophia was in this room, nor 
 Louise in that.” 
 
 Accusation and reproach, crimination and recrimination, 
 produced such confusion, that the chief business which had 
 brought them all together was nearly forgotten. The 
 
I 
 
 The Six Promises . 177 
 
 count and Conrad could only look on in silent amaze¬ 
 ment. 
 
 It was a scene which I never recollect without feeling 
 an irresistible propensity to laughter. The stage never 
 furnished a more extraordinary one. 
 
 At length the count succeeded in restoring silence and 
 order ; and Conrad has often told me that, in delivering the 
 following address, he did it with a gravity which seemed to 
 be almost ludicrous, so foreign was it to the natural dis¬ 
 position of the count. 
 
 “ Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to spare you the dis¬ 
 agreeable task of mutual reproaches. There is no motive 
 for them. You are all innocent towards each other, nor did 
 one of you know beforehand of the visit which the other 
 intended to pay me. I am the only object whom you have 
 honoured with your letters, your visits, your menaces, and 
 your reproaches. What is it you would have with me ?” 
 
 All the ladies opened upon him at once—“ What! the 
 performance of a promise you made to me,” said the one; 
 “ and to me,” said another ; “ and to me,” said the third ; 
 “ and to me—and to me—and to me,” said the fourth, fifth, 
 and sixth. 
 
 “ What! madam,” said one, addressing the lady next her, 
 “ has he made you a promise ?” “ Yes, certainly, madam ; 
 
 but can he have made one to you?” “ Undoubtedly.” 
 “ What treachery!—what deceit!—what cruelty!—what in¬ 
 justice ! ” issued from the mouths of one and all. 
 
 N 
 
lyS 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 The count suffered this interchange of exclamations and 
 reproaches to subside before he resumed his address. 
 
 “ You have each, ladies, a promise of marriage, and by 
 each of these gentlemen I am defied to the field if I do 
 not fulfil it. Now it is quite true that I could fight each 
 of the gentlemen; hut it is equally clear, I apprehend, that 
 I cannot marry each of the ladies. What is to he done in 
 such a dilemma ? I see but one way:—let all the ladies 
 present, accompanied by all the gentlemen, do me the 
 honour to meet me in this saloon to-morrow; two of the 
 gentlemen shall prepare six cards, which shall have one, 
 two, three, four, five, and six written upon them. They 
 shall then be sealed up and deposited in an urn, and the 
 lady who draws No. 1 shall he the lady who shall honour 
 me with her hand. But, if this offer he accepted, it must 
 be clearly understood that the other promises must he de¬ 
 livered up and burnt; and that I shall not he bound to 
 accept the challenge of any of the brothers, whose sisters 
 may have drawn the unsuccessful numbers. If, on the 
 contrary, the offer be declined, I can only say that I shall 
 not hold myself bound to fulfil my promise to any one; 
 hut that I shall consider myself obliged to give satisfaction 
 to any gentleman who may demand it. That you may be 
 able to discuss the proposal more freely, I beg to take my 
 leave, and to request the favour of your decision as soon 
 as possible.” 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 179 
 
 The count and his friend immediately withdrew, and 
 left the jury of twelve to consider their verdict. 
 
 There was something so easy in the effrontery of the 
 count that the indignation of the gentlemen began to sub¬ 
 side, so true it is that we are tempted to find some palliation 
 for the vices of “a bold-faced villain.” Even the ladies 
 felt less angry. 
 
 After due consideration, the jury came to a decision. 
 The rejection of the count’s offer could not benefit any 
 party. It was true that it would afford the gentlemen an 
 opportunity of revenging the affront which their sisters had 
 received. But what real advantage could result from such 
 an opportunity, which, be it recollected, might terminate 
 less fatally to the count than to his antagonists P 
 
 It was decided that the offer should be accepted, and 
 that the parties should assemble next day in the count’s 
 saloon. 
 
 It must have been a curious spectacle. At the appointed 
 hour the ladies arrived, and each seemed to vie with the 
 
 others in the splendour of her attire. They had the ap¬ 
 pearance of six brides, for every one conceived that she 
 
 ought to wear a dress that would be appropriate to her 
 
 situation, should she have the good fortune to be No. 1. 
 We may conceive the agitation of their feelings, and the 
 fluttering and trembling of every bosom. How hopes and 
 fears were mingled together ; the latter predominating, for 
 it wms a lottery in wdiich only one could gain the prize. 
 
i8o The Six Promises. 
 
 The count entered in full dress, whether because the 
 ceremony required it, or because he would create more 
 envy in the hearts of the ladies who might he the un¬ 
 successful candidates, I will not determine. He feigned 
 or felt an excess of admiration. He had never experienced 
 the force of beauty more powerfully, nor could language 
 adequately describe the feelings which now overpowered 
 him; feelings of admiration of the charms before him, 
 and of a sense of his own unworthiness and inferiority. 
 “Why should one win the prize to which all are equally 
 entitled? But it is fortunate that chance must decide, 
 for how could I make a selection where each has such 
 power to captivate ? ” 
 
 A speech so adapted to the meridian of female vanity, 
 could not fail to render the count an object of more in¬ 
 terest, and give more intensity to the wish of each, that 
 Ho. 1 might he her happy portion. 
 
 The numbers were prepared, sealed up, and deposited 
 in the fatal urn. The brothers were ranged on one side 
 the pedestal on which the urn was placed, whilst the 
 count led each lady from her seat to take her station 
 at the other. There were downcast looks and gentle 
 throbbings, and half-breathed sighs and blushes, as he 
 conducted each, pressing the hand which trembled within 
 his, and which by an answering pressure, told him of 
 the hopes and wishes, and of the deep, deep interest 
 with which each awaited the event. 
 
The Six Promises. 181 
 
 The urn had been uncovered, and the sealed packets 
 were on the point of being drawn, when a sudden noise 
 at the other end of the saloon directed the general at¬ 
 tention, and suspended the drawing. 
 
 The folding doors which led from the saloon to the 
 armoury, were thrown open with violence, and a female 
 dressed in mourning, her face wholly concealed by a 
 veil, walked slowly to the pedestal, and placing her hand 
 upon the urn, exclaimed, “ Hold ! stop this unhallowed 
 ceremony ! I have a prior promise ! ” 
 
 Amazement for a moment deprived the ladies, the 
 brothers, and even the count, of speech. 
 
 “ A prior promise! ” exclaimed at once all the ladies, 
 “ a prior promise !—this is adding mockery to injustice.” 
 “ Treacherous,” “ deceitful,” “ perjured,” were amongst 
 the epithets profusely lavished upon the count, whilst 
 the brothers proceeded to more serious action. The 
 arrangement must now be considered to be no longer 
 binding, and the count must be prepared to meet from 
 each the vengeance he had provoked. 
 
 The count meanwhile appeared more surprised than 
 any one of the company. He denied that he had ever 
 given a prior promise; he knew not the intruder, and 
 he dared her to produce the promise. 
 
 For a time the veiled lady seemed to contemplate 
 the scene with silent satisfaction. She then took from 
 the urn each of the sealed packets, which she destroyed, 
 
i 82 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 whilst all looked on without making any effort to prevent 
 her. Immediately afterwards she deposited some docu¬ 
 ment in the urn and placed her arm round it. 
 
 “ Think you,” she said, “ I have such written promises 
 as yours, more valueless than the paper they were written 
 on? My promise has been recorded at the altar of the 
 living God : my rights have been sanctioned by law, 
 and depend not upon an idle lottery and chance. Who 
 dares to dispute them ? Let the count read the document 
 he will find deposited in the urn! ” 
 
 The interest of the moment was raised to the highest 
 pitch. All hung over the pedestal with thrilling interest 
 and curiosity. The lady in mourning retired a few steps, 
 and folding her arms, motioned to the count to do as 
 she had directed him. 
 
 The count took from the urn a small sheet of parch¬ 
 ment, and read aloud the certificate of the marriage 
 between the Count and Countess de Fronsard. 
 
 “ This is indeed a genuine document, precious still 
 to my heart, but alas! of little value now. The dear 
 object has long been in the grave, too happy in throwing 
 off the yoke of one who was all unworthy of her. Dear 
 injured Clementina! ” and he pressed the certificate to 
 his Kps, “ we were happy once! ” 
 
 In an instant the lady put aside her veil, and throw¬ 
 ing herself into the arms of the count, “ Clementina is 
 not dead,—she lives ! ” 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 183 
 
 The count passed at once into the most extravagant 
 raptures. He pressed her to his heart, he gazed with 
 intense affection upon her features, and would have 
 spoken, but words were for a time denied him; he hid 
 his face on her bosom. It was a scene of indescribable 
 fondness. The affection of their early days seemed to 
 have returned in all its strength ; it was as if each 
 had drawn from the other the first confession of love. 
 They were both unconscious of the presence of any other 
 persons ; they had sight and hearing only for each other. 
 
 Whilst the feelings of the count and countess were 
 thus exquisite, those of the rest of the company were 
 of a very different description. Their hopes had not 
 only received their death-blow, but they had become 
 themselves objects of censure and derision. They could 
 have no doubt of the identity of the countess; they had 
 indeed been acquainted with her before her supposed 
 decease. Glad would they have been to have made their 
 escape in silence, but they had another humiliation to 
 undergo in the dignified rebuke of the countess, who, 
 after the first moments devoted to the fondness of a 
 wife, turned towards them with a commanding mien and 
 tone. 
 
 “ In early life we were united in marriage, and never 
 did marriage promise greater happiness. And what and 
 who interrupted and finally destroyed it P My husband 
 was gay and fond of admiration—he was formed to excite 
 
184 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 it, and he delighted in being the object of it; and he found 
 objects who were willing to give him their affections, and to 
 withdraw his from me. They aspired to become wives, and 
 yet they did not shrink from giving torture to the feelings 
 of a wife ! They did not refuse to give credit to his vows, 
 though they knew he had already pledged them to another. 
 In the vanity of their hearts they flattered themselves that 
 he who had been false to another, would still be faithful 
 to them. They gave him their affections, and they believed 
 they had secured his when they received his promise of 
 marriage. Do you not shudder at such conduct ? The 
 promise could only have been so much waste paper until 
 the living wife was dead ; and as all were so anxious to 
 replace her, all must have desired her death. Reflect upon 
 the cruelty of such a wish. The tomb of the deceased 
 wife is to be converted into an altar, for the celebration 
 of the marriage of her successor ; and the blessing of God 
 is implored for a union founded upon the violation of His 
 most sacred injunctions. 
 
 “ Who are the actors in this unnatural drama P Who 
 could thus undermine the ruin of another’s peace ? May 
 their crimes be pardoned as I pardon them, hut may the 
 recollection of them turn their hearts ! 
 
 “ I saw my husband’s affection decrease daily. I tried— 
 oh, with what anxiety! to regain it—but in vain. Yet 
 I did not torment him with reproaches—I did not remon¬ 
 strate in bitterness and anger. When all hope was at an 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 185 
 
 end, I retired to solitude with a breaking heart. In an 
 alarming illness, which had nearly proved fatal, I formed 
 the resolution of quitting him, and of making him believe 
 that I had fallen a victim, and had selected a place of 
 interment which should remain a secret from every one. 
 One person only was acquainted with my intentions—he 
 had been long in our family, and was worthy of my con¬ 
 fidence. I was anxious to ascertain the effect which my 
 supposed death would produce upon my husband. I had 
 not been kept in ignorance of the promises of marriage 
 he had made to others; for there are always some kind 
 friends who are eager to be the bearers of evil tidings. 
 Perhaps I had a malicious pleasure in knowing how effec¬ 
 tually I could defeat the hopes of those who relied upon 
 the promises of my husband. Carefully and faithfully 
 informed of every occurrence of my husband’s life, I 
 confess I had faint hopes indeed of resuming the place 
 I once held in his affections. Still I felt that he would 
 not be able to evade his promises, and that at last he 
 would be forced to yield. Certainly the notable expedient 
 of a lottery never entered into my thoughts. 
 
 “ Having received the intelligence that the ladies were 
 pressing, and their brothers menacing, I removed from 
 the place of my retreat, and took up my residence near 
 this hotel. The previous interview, first of the ladies 
 with the count, and afterwards of their brothers, with 
 the subsequent offer and the lottery device, were duly 
 
186 
 
 The Six Promises. 
 
 communicated to me ; and with little beyond feelings of 
 anger against all parties, I took possession of the armoury, 
 from whence I could command immediate admittance to the 
 stage in which so curious a drama was to be exhibited. 
 I expected no other result than the gratification of my 
 revenge, by breaking off the intended nuptials, resolving 
 afterwards to return to my abode of solitude and sorrow. 
 
 “ But the actions and the expressions of my husband, 
 since I threw off my disguise, have revived the hope that 
 his affection is not dead, but has only slept, and that the 
 unabated love of a wife may yet restore me to a portion, 
 if not to all of my former happiness.” 
 
 The count confirmed this hope by a tender embrace, 
 and by words of the most affectionate import. He then 
 addressed the ladies, and confessing his errors and taking 
 the whole blame upon himself, hoped they would extend 
 their forgiveness, and afford him the most effectual proof 
 of it, by honouring the countess and himself with their 
 presence to celebrate a re-union, which might be called a 
 second marriage. 
 
 Whether the ladies thought that, as they could no 
 longer cherish the slightest hope, it would be useless to 
 retain any feeling of impotent anger, I will not pretend 
 to say. But after some consultation with their brothers, 
 the invitation was accepted, and those who were present 
 have assured me that it was difficult, during the ball 
 which crowned the rejoicings of the day, to determine 
 
The Six Promises. 
 
 187 
 
 who were the most joyous, the bride in possession, or the 
 brides in expectation. 
 
 My narrative, however, would not be concluded selon 
 les regies , if I were to omit that the six expectants were 
 not long without getting husbands; and, by a curious fatality, 
 each found one in the companion with whom she had been 
 closeted at the count’s. 
 
188 
 
 LEAF THE FIFTH. 
 
 CARL LIEBEN. 
 
 Carl Lieben was a very useful personage in our 
 village,—a kind of jack-of-all-trades. But before I enter 
 upon his history, let me describe his person, or, rather, his 
 face. Imagine a visage which, instead of being an oval from 
 the forehead to the chin, described an oval from ear to ear. 
 One eye was wholly deprived of a brow; but over the other 
 was hair enough for both. Nor was this all. One eye was 
 turned upward, as if to look after his hat; the other was 
 cast downward, as if to take care of his shoe. The nose 
 had a twist which had wrung it out of its natural position, 
 and given it a direction towards the left ear. The mouth 
 was a curve, much resembling Cupid’s bow, only that one 
 end of it nearly reached to the left side of his nose, whilst 
 the other was turned down towards his chin. 
 
 Such was the unfortunate physiognomy of Carl Lieben. 
 It would have puzzled all the Lavaters and Spurzheims in 
 the world. 
 
 “ Everything is good or bad by comparison,” said Carl 
 Lieben to me one day. “ It may not be good per se , but it 
 is relatively so, when contrasted with some other thing. We 
 
Carl Lieben. 
 
 189 
 
 are too apt to weigh our means and situations against those 
 who are superior to us in rank and riches. This is acting 
 and thinking like fools. Compare them with those of 
 others in the same sphere with ourselves, or in a lower 
 sphere. That is the only wise way. It is strange that this 
 advice is seldom or ever taken; and that from the period of 
 Horace’s Qui fit Maecenas down to the present time,—aye, long 
 even before Horace lived, and probably as long as the world 
 shall last, no man has been or ever will be contented with 
 his lot. Your life,” he added, “ has been chequered; but 
 you may have enjoyed some blissful hours, have seen some 
 bright days. It has been of a mingled yarn. But listen 
 to me. 
 
 “I never can revert to the scenes I have witnessed, 
 without feeling a disposition to laugh. Whether it be that 
 some sorrows are so much out of the common course of 
 human events as to be almost ridiculous, I will not decide. 
 God knows I have had as large a share of afflictions as 
 most men ; but I have always endeavoured to discipline my 
 mind to the patient endurance of them, and to the belief 
 that all these chances and changes were natural, and could 
 not have been otherwise.” 
 
 Carl Lieben was an optimist in the very best sense of 
 the word. Undoubtedly this patient, contented, disposition 
 was mainly to be attributed to the conviction that his con¬ 
 science was void of offence towards God and man. He 
 could bear adversity with fortitude, and best so when he had 
 
Carl Lieben. 
 
 190 
 
 not deserved it; and, humble as might he his pillow, it was 
 without one thorn from remorse. 
 
 “ In early life I was a chorister in the cathedral of 
 Manheim. My voice was good, and I was as diligent in 
 my attendance upon the master of the choristers as any of 
 his other pupils. I had arrived at the age when I was to 
 take my proper station in the choir. No sooner, however, 
 had I opened my mouth, than I observed a general attempt 
 to stifle a laugh. I proceeded, nevertheless, but every one of 
 the choristers was so struck by the uncouthness of my physiog¬ 
 nomy, that all gravity forsook them, and there was a general 
 laugh. I tried to remedy this defect, but the more I tried, the 
 less I succeeded, and the laugh became louder and longer. 
 I was forthwith discharged, for it would have been unseemly 
 to have profaned the church with such scandalous merriment. 
 The master, compassionating my situation, recommended me 
 to his sovereign to form one of his private band. His high¬ 
 ness had evening concerts, and by some strange accident 
 I was selected to sing a solo. It was a piece of sacred 
 music. The first line of the hymn or air (I have good 
 reason to remember it) was, ‘ Why dost thou mock us with 
 strange sights ? 9 Placed in the front of the orchestra, I 
 had scarcely finished the fine when every face before me 
 seemed convulsed. Some stuffed their handkerchiefs into 
 their mouths; others pinched their lips. The sovereign 
 hurried out of his box ; his consort hid her face behind her 
 fan. I attempted to stem the tide. I went on till an 
 
Carl Lieben. 
 
 I 9 I 
 
 unlucky wag repeated the first line, ‘ Why dost thou mock 
 us with strange sights ? 9 Then was the finale to all gravity, 
 as well as to my singing. Nothing could be heard hut 
 laughter, and the court and the concert broke up amidst the 
 loudest peals. 
 
 “ I could have cried for very shame and vexation, but 
 cui bono f so I slunk home to the only friend I had in the 
 world, my poor mother, and hurried to bed, that she might 
 not discover my distress. 
 
 “ The sovereign sent for me next day. He had inquired 
 into my story, and found that I was neither dissolute nor 
 idle, and he spoke kindly to me. He told me that his 
 consort had laughed so long that she was afraid of a mis¬ 
 carriage. ‘ Ugly enough to frighten a horse/ you have 
 often heard, but ugly enough to make a woman miscarry, 
 was a distinction reserved for poor Carl Lieben. Well, my 
 good friend, I was immediately deprived of my place, which 
 was conferred upon a man of happier physiognomy. Thank 
 heaven it was no fault of mine, so I bethought me what 
 was to be the next change in the drama of my life. 
 
 “ His highness, after giving me a gratuity, ordered me 
 to he received into the band of his own body guards. I 
 was a good performer upon the clarionet. We had a grand 
 parade, and were all in circle round the master of the band. 
 I played my best; but you see the unfortunate twist of my 
 mouth. The mouth of the clarionet, from being placed in 
 the upper angle of it, raised the lower part of the instru- 
 
192 
 
 Carl Lieben. 
 
 ment so high that it rested on the top of my head. The 
 master gave me a stem look, and ordered me to place it 
 straight. ‘ Impossible,’ I said, ‘ for my month is crooked.’ 
 This speech and my appearance so disconcerted every one 
 of the hand that not a man could blow a note. The 
 trumpet gave a grunt and was silent, for the trumpeter 
 could not proceed for laughing. The bugle uttered one 
 scream, and then was silent from the same cause. v Even 
 the black drummer let fall his sticks, and had nearly 
 tumbled from his horse, so loud and vehement were his 
 each innations. 
 
 “ The commanding officer rode up to enquire the cause 
 of this strange interruption. The master of the hand could 
 not speak, hut pointed at me. I was, of course, dismissed 
 as summarily as I had been discharged from the concert 
 and the choir. I began to think in what way I could dis¬ 
 guise this deformity, so as to he no longer the scorn and 
 laughing-stock of society. The deliberation was long and 
 difficult. At length I flattered myself that if I had a wig 
 made to suit the contour of my face, I might make my 
 ugliness less formidable. A wig was accordingly made to 
 correspond, as far as possible, with my awkward visage. 
 But when I put it on, the curls of one side of the wig took 
 possession of the top of my head, whilst the curls of the 
 other side sought a quiet asylum on my shoulder; and I 
 had had my head shaved to give all due advantage and 
 encouragement to the peruke. This was the worst of all. 
 
Carl Lieben. 
 
 *93 
 
 If I appeared in my wig, the boys hallooed after me, and 
 asked, why I did not put it straight on my block. If I 
 showed myself without it, they wondered what I had done 
 with the thatch of my scull. I could have taken on 
 strangely, but I would not make my poor mother uneasy, 
 who, God bless her ! thought me a Cupid in beauty, and 
 an Apollo in music. So I bore up as well as I could, and 
 consulted the master of the household, who had sometimes 
 been kind to me. He advised me by no means to remain 
 in the city, where my life would be a constant scene of 
 uneasiness, but to repair to one of the royal hunting seats, 
 and take upon myself the office of game-keeper. I was 
 thankful, and resolved to set off with my mother without 
 delay. ‘ You may he ugly enough to shock human beings, 
 hut I don’t suppose the beasts of the field will take fright 
 at you.’ There was some consolation in this speech, blunt 
 and homely as it was; hut, unluckily, my physiognomy 
 was as hostile to me in my shooting, as it had been in my 
 singing capacity. The unfortunate obliquity of my right 
 eye was such, that after I had shouldered my piece and at¬ 
 tempted to take aim by looking along the barrel, I found 
 that if I wanted to hit any bird or animal in front, the shot 
 invariably took a lateral direction. When I aimed at any 
 object on the ground, the discharge had an upward range; 
 and vice versa , when I hoped to display my talent in shoot¬ 
 ing flying, I lodged the charge in the stump of a tree or a 
 gate-post. 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 Carl Lieben. 
 
 “ Thus it happened that I never brought down either 
 bird or beast, and the only solitary instance of success that 
 attended me was in hitting my own dog, who had just 
 sprung a covey. 
 
 “ ‘ Abhorred of men and beasts!’ I exclaimed in the 
 bitterness of my anguish, c where shalt thou seek for refuge 
 now?’ These were moments of agony, less on my own 
 account than on my poor mother’s. But there was a ne¬ 
 cessity for rallying my spirits; and I comforted myself 
 with an old saying, ‘ That as the wheel of fortune goes 
 round, those who are at the bottom must reach the top, 
 whilst those who are at the top must descend to the 
 bottom.’ But the saying is not infallible. It keeps many 
 always at the bottom. 
 
 “ My face having so far been my greatest enemy, and 
 my eyes, nose, and mouth having played me such slippery 
 tricks, I reflected that I might find my hands more ser¬ 
 viceable. Perhaps they would not treat me so scurvily. 
 Though I could not make myself ornamental, I might 
 render myself useful. We returned to the capital, and 
 there I became acquainted with a barber-surgeon, which 
 professions are often combined in German towns ; the 
 bleeder and the brewer of medicines not disdaining to 
 flourish his curling-irons upon the head, and handle his 
 razor upon the beard of his customers. The barber- 
 surgeon was getting old, but his mind and memory still 
 served him. His hand, however, began to tremble ; he 
 
Carl Lieben. 
 
 *95 
 
 could not handle the razor steadily, nor could he be more 
 securely trusted with the lancet, for fear of his puncturing 
 an artery instead of breathing a vein. He was under the 
 necessity, therefore, of imparting his skill in both pro¬ 
 fessions to another, and I was the fortunate object of his 
 choice. 
 
 “ Still, I ought not to disguise from you that he had at 
 first sundry qualms and misgivings. He was afraid of the 
 effect of my physiognomy upon his -patients, which, he 
 thought, might shock the nervous system, and thus coun¬ 
 teract the efficacy of his medicines. I know not how far 
 these fears might have operated had I not reminded him 
 that men were more disposed to laugh at the sight of me 
 than to be shocked, and that laughter had always been held 
 to be of singular benefit, by sending the blood more cheerily 
 through the veins, and disposing the mind to more agree¬ 
 able sensations. 
 
 “ Behold me now the pupil and assistant of the barber- 
 surgeon. I paid assiduous court to him, and was so diligent 
 that in a short time I was able to compound medicines, 
 and to practise upon the beards of the weekly customers, 
 who were not entitled to that delicacy of treatment which 
 the more frequent suitors received ; that is, they were 
 not favoured with the application of the keenest razors. 
 My instruments being none of the best, and resembling a 
 billhook in sharpness as well as in size, you may easily 
 conceive that being placed under my hands was no joke. 
 
196 
 
 Carl Lieben. 
 
 By some obliquity of vision, I very often dug tbe point of 
 tbe razor into tbe nose of tbe patient, or, if he opened bis 
 mouth too wide, made a desperate incision in bis tongue. 
 I have bad many a man dart away half shaved, swearing 
 that be did not choose to run tbe risk of leaving bis lips 
 or bis nose behind him; others would conjure me to spare 
 some tender pimple or excrescence, which I totally forgot 
 until reminded by the anguish and anger of the sufferers. 
 
 “ Deeds like these were not likely to make me very 
 popular amongst my patients. One would vent himself 
 in execrations against my odd eyes; others swore at my 
 wry nose; a third set enquired where I had got such a 
 queer mouth ; and a fourth would advise me to hire myself 
 to the gardeners during the fruit season, for the birds would 
 never come near such a scarecrow. 
 
 “ Meantime I did not neglect the more noble and useful 
 part of my profession. I became acquainted with the virtues 
 and properties of plants. I had a smattering—and but a 
 smattering—of anatomy, for my master had no more himself; 
 but at length I arrived at the dignity of breathing a vein. 
 
 “ I know not to what eminence I might have risen had 
 my talents been suffered to have had fair play. But I 
 was never to have more than a glimpse of prosperity and 
 sunshine. 
 
 “ One evening, during the absence of my master, the 
 valet of a nobleman came in great haste, and as I was 
 the only person at home, insisted on my immediate attend- 
 
Carl Lieben. 
 
 1 97 
 
 ance, his young mistress having been taken extremely ill. 
 I went accordingly, well pleased that I had such an op¬ 
 portunity of distinguishing myself. I was ushered into 
 the presence of the father and mother, who were in their 
 daughter’s bed chamber. The young lady was in great 
 pain, but she seemed anxious to conceal it. She was so 
 wrapped up in shawls that I could not form any opinion 
 as to her form. I made some enquiries, and received for 
 answer that she was often afflicted with pains which gave 
 her the appearance of a person grown suddenly fat, but 
 that they subsided upon being left to herself. Her manner 
 was altogether strange and confused. I took my leave for 
 the purpose of sending her some composing medicine. The 
 parents followed me into the ante-chamber, and asked me 
 my opinion, which I gave openly and conscientiously, as 
 I felt myself bound to do. They told me that the young 
 lady had frequently complained of such pains, to which 
 I replied that they were natural for a female in her situ¬ 
 ation, being with child and near her delivery. Never did 
 I witness more astonishment in the faces of human beings. 
 ‘ With child !—our good and virtuous daughter! Out upon 
 thee, vile calumniator, out this moment! ’ You may he 
 sure I made no delay in obeying such peremptory com¬ 
 mands, and, hastening home, communicated the message 
 and my own opinion. The old barber-surgeon inveighed 
 against my candour, which he called impertinence, and 
 hurried off in evident alarm. 
 
198 
 
 Carl Lieben. 
 
 “ What happened during his interview with the parties 
 I know not, hut the effect was fatal to me. Upon his re¬ 
 turn he declared that my folly would he the ruin of him, 
 and that, as the sine qua non of his retaining the custom 
 of the noble family, I was to he discharged forthwith. I 
 remonstrated, I reasoned with him; I dwelt upon the in¬ 
 justice of disgracing a man for giving his honest opinion. 
 But the old barber-surgeon was deaf to all remonstrances, 
 and opening the door hade me never let him see such a 
 lump of deformity again. By the way, I should add that 
 the event confirmed the correctness of my opinion, for the 
 young lady was safely delivered the next day, my old mas¬ 
 ter being the accoucheur. However, that did not mitigate 
 the severity of my sentence. I left the barber-surgeon’s 
 service as poor as I entered it, but with some addition to 
 my stock of knowledge. 
 
 “ All ideas of settling in town after such an event were 
 out of the question, and I was deliberating within myself 
 what new path I could discover, when I met our landlord, 
 whom I had attended when he was in town before during 
 an illness brought on chiefly by mental uneasiness. After 
 disclosing my forlorn situation, he said he would consider 
 what was to he done, and desired me to meet him in the 
 same place at the same hour to-morrow. I did so, and 
 he said that I might earn a livelihood by removing to the 
 heath. It was true that it was neither populous nor rich, 
 but there was no barber-surgeon within many miles, and 
 
Carl Lieben. 
 
 199 
 
 diseases had sometimes proved fatal from the difficulty of 
 procuring medical aid immediately. I gladly acceded to 
 his proposal, and lost no time in repairing hither with 
 my mother. The landlord assisted me in the outset in 
 various ways. He enabled me to buy the necessary in¬ 
 struments, and to lay in a small stock of drugs. The 
 herbs I procured and distilled myself. 
 
 “ I was now the barber-surgeon of the heath, and 
 here I have lived for the last ten years. But rugged 
 enough was my path at first. I pass over, as things not 
 worth remarking, the mockery and insult I was in the 
 habit of receiving from idle boys and mischievous men. 
 They are the never-fading attendants of the deformed in 
 body or the idiot in mind. 
 
 “As if it were to spite me, there were fewer people 
 sick for two years than had ever been known, so that 
 drugs and distilled waters remained idle upon my shelves 
 unless I chose to take them myself. My lancet rusted in 
 its case, and once only in the week was I called upon to 
 exercise my trade of tonsor. Had you seen the beards 
 which I was then doomed to mow you would have owned 
 that it was no child’s play. They would have done credit 
 to the hide of a bear. 
 
 “But the profits of this part of my professional practice 
 were so small as scarcely to enable my mother and myself to 
 keep soul and body together. However we had a roof over 
 our heads, and a certain amount of repose which we had not 
 
200 
 
 Carl Lieben. 
 
 been suffered to enjoy before. So we went on without repin¬ 
 ing, and I cast about me to see if there was anything else 
 to which my hands could be applied to better our condition. 
 There were two of the villagers who were more humane 
 than the rest, and who, being fond of music, took lessons 
 from me during the long winter evenings. One was a 
 basket-maker, the other a carpenter. I said to them one 
 night, with an air of jocularity, but with a serious intention, 
 that it was fair they should teach me their trades in re¬ 
 turn for my instructing them in mine. Accordingly I took 
 lessons from the basket-maker one evening and the car¬ 
 penter another, and by degrees became a tolerable artist 
 in both trades. I found a sale for my baskets amongst the 
 neighbouring farmers, and was able to earn something oc¬ 
 casionally as a jobbing carpenter. I made out also my land¬ 
 lord’s bills, and I verily believe should have arrived at the 
 dignity of clerk to the cure had he not been fearful of the 
 effect of my physiognomy upon his parishioners. However, 
 as some indemnity, I was honoured with the post of clarionet 
 player, which I could fill behind a curtain in the gallery 
 of the church, where I could he heard but not seen. 
 
 “ I was thus barber-surgeon, clerk, carpenter, basket- 
 maker, and clarionet-player. You see how many strings 
 I had to my how. I had occupation enough on my hands 
 now; not that my different employments did not frequently 
 confuse me, and involve me in some ridiculous situations. 
 For instance, in the hurry of a sudden summons, I have 
 
Carl Lieben. 
 
 201 
 
 sometimes taken with me the wrong article. When I 
 have been sent for to bleed a patient I have snatched up 
 my saw instead of pocketing my lancet. When I have been 
 wanted to repair a chair or a table I have taken from my 
 pocket my instruments for drawing teeth. I have carried 
 a basket to a female who stood in need of my assistance as 
 an accoucheur; and once forgot myself so far as to pocket 
 a hammer instead of my clarionet, nor ever discovered 
 my mistake until I was on the point of applying the end 
 of the hammer to my mouth. But these are trifles. 
 nugce ! fortunately I had not to add seria ducunt in mala . 
 
 “ My old mother lived long enough to see me arrive 
 at all these honours, and I verily believe that, in the 
 closing days of her life, she had the sin of pride to answer 
 for;—but it was pride in her son. Often have I stolen 
 a look at her from behind my curtain after I have played 
 some anthem or psalm. She would at such moments cast 
 her eyes round her as if to receive homage for being the 
 mother of such a son. She sleeps the sleep of death in 
 yonder little grave, over which I have placed a wooden 
 cross with an inscription. But he to whom only she was 
 known in this world wants no memento to remind him 
 of the manner in which she performed her duties as a 
 mother.—Let me hope that I did not neglect mine as a 
 son! 
 
 “I may now confidently hope that if the world can 
 dispense with the lancet of the surgeon, defy the razor 
 
202 
 
 Carl Lieben. 
 
 of the barber, and even hold psalm-playing in as little 
 respect as the Quakers, it will not be able to go on with¬ 
 out baying recourse to the ingenuity of the basket-maker 
 or the labours of the carpenter.” 
 
203 
 
 LEAF THE SIXTH. 
 
 LETTERS FROM THE GRAVE. 
 
 Father Anselm, who had accompanied me in my last 
 visit to the capital, and whose whole life was occupied 
 in deeds of benevolence and charity, who was really one 
 of those rare beings who had rather go to the house 
 of mourning than to the house of joy, had been invited 
 to give the last consolations of religion to a gentleman 
 who had died under- extraordinary circumstances, and 
 with a singular impression upon his mind which no¬ 
 thing could eradicate ; but which, as it had nothing 
 criminal in it, the good father was more inclined to pity 
 than to censure. 
 
 The Baron de Carlstadt had been married to a lady 
 whom he loved with the utmost fondness, and who re¬ 
 turned his love with equal ardour. Their union had 
 been preceded by strange and interesting events. 
 
 The baron had been destined for the church, and 
 upon the death of his father, was placed under the care 
 of his uncle, the prior of a monastery of Black Canons. 
 
204 
 
 Letters from the Grave . 
 
 The baron, at that early period of life, had formed no 
 decided opinion as to his future career. He had no pre¬ 
 ference for a monastic life, and he entered the convent 
 chiefly because it was the wish of his uncle. He pursued 
 his studies and conformed to the rules of the monastery 
 more from habit than inclination. He felt the dulness 
 and monotony of such a life, hut had not thought of 
 seeking any more active and stirring employment. Amongst 
 the monks, there was one who had studied his charac¬ 
 ter with attention, and had discovered in it symptoms 
 of repugnance and discontent. Such a man, it might 
 be supposed, would have been anxious to remove those 
 symptoms, and to reconcile him to monastic vows by 
 painting to him the treachery of mankind, and the sure 
 disappointment of every hope of happiness founded upon 
 worldly pursuits. But the monk acted otherwise. He 
 had mixed largely with the world, and had experienced 
 great vicissitude of fortune. He had been alternately 
 rich and poor; fawned upon by the great, and then neg¬ 
 lected ; he had made his prosperity the means of en¬ 
 riching his friends, and in his adversity he had found 
 those very friends the loudest in their censure, and the 
 most resolute in their refusal of assistance. One of them 
 had added the crime of seducing the wife of his bene¬ 
 factor, and having been forced into the field, had paid 
 the penalty of his baseness with his life. S^ung to the 
 quick by this last misery, he determined to retire from 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 205 
 
 the world ; and taking the vows, and undergoing the 
 necessary probation, was admitted into the monastery of 
 Black Canons. 
 
 But he mistook a temporary disgust with the world 
 for a rooted hatred, and he found, when it was too late, 
 that he had an utter distaste to all the duties which he 
 was called upon to discharge. With these feelings he 
 determined, though he could not retrace his own steps, 
 to prevent any other from selecting a profession, which, 
 in his opinion, was offensive in the eye of heaven, and 
 criminal in that of man. 
 
 Whether he argued wisely, I, who am a Protestant, will 
 not decide : hut at least he argued sincerely. He lost no 
 time in giving the young baron the greatest dislike and 
 horror of the monastic profession. It was not too late for 
 the baron to choose some other career, for he had not taken 
 any vows, and had only begun, under the superintendence 
 of his uncle, a course of theological study. 
 
 The lessons of the prior were soon forgotten in the 
 lectures of the monk, and the study of the fathers was 
 soon abandoned for the more seductive history of the 
 affairs of nations, the exploits of heroes, and the deeds 
 which confer fame and immortality. What youthful 
 mind could fail to he moved by such stirring scenes, 
 or what youthful heart could refuse to glow when feats 
 of arms were recounted, and love bestowed the prize 
 which had been won by valour P 
 
20 6 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 The prior was not slow in discovering the altered 
 mien and taste of his nephew, and he grieved that the 
 church would he deprived of such a pillar. But the 
 prior could not conquer his repugnance; and bidding adieu 
 to the monk, who rejoiced in the success of his efforts, 
 and taking an affectionate leave of his uncle, who con¬ 
 cluded his parting exhortation with these remarkable 
 words, “ May you have a warning from the grave,” 
 the baron took the road that led to his estates, and 
 established his residence in the castle of his ancestors. 
 But idleness is incompatible with youth, and war was 
 raging between the Turks and Imperialists. He had 
 no difficulty in procuring a commission in the Austrian 
 service, and fleshed his maiden sword at the siege of 
 Belgrade. You remember the length and obstinacy of the 
 siege and defence of that fortress, and the loss of life 
 consequent upon the storming. The baron distinguished 
 himself highly, and soon proved that he was fitter for 
 the camp than the cloister. In the licence given to 
 soldiers when a place has been taken by storm, we are 
 often the reluctant witnesses of scenes which true courage 
 condemns, and humanity recoils from. A party of sol¬ 
 diers had entered a Turkish pavilion near the principal 
 mosque, and were in the act of dragging out a venerable 
 man, with the intention of putting him to death unless 
 he discovered his treasures, when the baron, attracted 
 by the old man’s entreaties for mercy, spurred his charger 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 207 
 
 into the garden of the pavilion, and seeing the imminent 
 danger of the unhappy victim, struck to the earth the 
 soldier who was on the point of butchering him with 
 his sabre. He commanded the whole party to fall hack 
 immediately, and as his uniform proclaimed his rank, 
 they paid that obedience to discipline which they had 
 refused to humanity, and fell into line immediately. 
 
 The unhappy man thus saved from pillage, and prob¬ 
 ably from death, prostrated himself at the feet of his 
 deliverer, and poured out his thanks in terms of the 
 deepest gratitude. The baron checked him as soon as 
 possible, and desiring him to take that repose which his 
 recent sufferings had rendered necessary, promised to visit 
 him the next day. 
 
 On the morning after the baron found him busily 
 employed in arranging papers, and in depositing his trea¬ 
 sures in money and jewels in a recess in the wall, which 
 was so contrived as to render discovery next to impossible. 
 The baron, from a feeling of delicacy, would have retired, 
 but Sidi Achmet, the name of the Turk, would not per¬ 
 mit him. “I can have no concealments from my deliv¬ 
 erer, and it was in expectation of his visit that I am 
 thus employing myself. I was once high in favour with 
 the Sultan, who appointed me to a pachalic. Life has 
 nothing more uncertain in it than the favour of Sultans. 
 The elevation of a favourite is the signal for envy and in¬ 
 trigue. Absent at his post, he has not the power of coun- 
 
ao8 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 teracting their designs, or of exposing their machinations. 
 The Sultan’s ear is easily abused by malicious charges, 
 and his cupidity excited by the purses which confiscation 
 brings into his treasury. It would have been strange 
 if I had escaped a fate so common to my predecessors. 
 I was charged with the crime of wishing to erect my 
 pachalic into an independent state, and the charge re¬ 
 ceived immediate credit. I had had however, a friendly 
 warning from an old companion in arms, the Capitan 
 Pacha, and had sufficient time to take the necessary pre¬ 
 cautions. Whether it was through the good offices of 
 the Capitan Pacha, I know not, hut the firman which 
 brought me the order to give up my government, was 
 not accompanied by the bowstring. I was commanded 
 to retire to Belgrade. All the property which the officers 
 could find in the house was confiscated to the Sultan’s 
 treasury. I did not delay a moment in abandoning the 
 territory which had been entrusted to me, but set off 
 with a light heart for Belgrade, glad at having a burthen 
 removed from my shoulders, a burthen which must at 
 length have crushed me. 
 
 “You have heard, no doubt, of the harems and se¬ 
 raglios of Turkish pachas, and expect to find me travelling 
 with a numerous suite of females and their attendant 
 officers; but I had neither harem nor seraglio, and my 
 retinue consisted only of two females and their servants, 
 with three domestics who had been for many years at- 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 209 
 
 tached to my person. These two females were my wife 
 and daughter. 
 
 “ During my residence in Greece, many years since, 
 I had rendered some service to a Christian merchant, 
 who reposed such confidence in me as to appoint me the 
 guardian of his only child. It was a delicate and im¬ 
 portant trust, and I fulfilled it in a way that, had he 
 been living, would have met, I doubt not, with his hearty 
 approval. Zulima, my ward, was some ten years younger 
 than myself. She was as beautiful as imagination can con¬ 
 ceive the loveliest of our Houris to he; and there was an 
 innate grace and gentleness of manner, in all she said and 
 did, that at once prepossessed all hearts in her favour. My 
 own could not resist the general attraction ; and the homage 
 I paid, no less to her virtues than to her beauty, insensibly 
 developed itself into an ardent and sincere attachment. She 
 was not long (what woman is P) in discovering this fact, and 
 my affection was returned in a way that left no doubt as to 
 the reciprocity of our feelings. A proposal of marriage 
 was made and accepted, the only condition imposed by the 
 lady being that she should be allowed to retain her own 
 religion, and that any daughters she might have should be 
 trained in the same faith as her own. She had hut one 
 daughter, Zulima, and she is a Christian. Whether or 
 not I compromised my character as a true Mussulman by 
 such conduct I care not to decide, but I acted under the 
 conviction that all God’s creatures, whether Mahometans 
 
 p 
 
210 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 or Christians, are the objects of His benevolence and 
 mercy. 
 
 “ Our life glided along in peace and happiness at 
 Belgrade. Our home was a home of comfort, and Zulima 
 grew up increasing in beauty as she increased in years. It 
 was then that war disturbed our quiet and inohtrusive life, 
 and forced upon me the alternative either of retiring from 
 Belgrade, or of placing my wife and child in a situation 
 where the horrors of war should not he able to reach them. 
 
 “ About five miles from Belgrade there is a large 
 cemetery; on the confines of which stands a building 
 of considerable size, surrounded by palms and cypresses. 
 It has the appearance of a mausoleum belonging to some 
 powerful family, and exhibits on its entablature the following 
 inscription :—‘ The tomb of Solyman Mustapha.’ He was 
 one of my ancestors. I knew that the mausoleum con¬ 
 tained various apartments, any one of which might easily, 
 in cases of emergency, be converted into a place of conceal¬ 
 ment. A subterranean passage led to the banks of a river, 
 which offered the opportunity, in case of need, of escape to a 
 territory beyond the limits of the Belgradian government. 
 
 “The certainty of immediate war, and the belief that 
 Belgrade would be the first object of attack, quickened 
 my preparations; and, all necessaries having been con¬ 
 veyed to the mausoleum, Zulima and her mother, their 
 female servants, with two of my most faithful followers, 
 took possession of it. It was but a few days before the 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 21 I 
 
 banners of the Austrians were descried from tbe battle¬ 
 ments of Belgrade. 
 
 “ My occupation, as I have already mentioned, detained 
 me in Belgrade; but, however dejected I might feel at 
 the absence of those who constituted the great happiness 
 of my life, I had no fear for their safety. The Austrians 
 approached; and, having began their first parallel, all 
 communication between the fortress and the surround¬ 
 ing country was rendered impracticable. The particulars 
 of the siege and the surrender of the place are so well 
 known to you, who had so large a share in the opera¬ 
 tions, that I will not dwell upon them. As a member 
 of the council, I had hoped to escape the pillage and 
 the outrages in which victorious soldiers indulge; hut 
 neither my office nor my age afforded me any protection, 
 and I should have fallen a sacrifice to their brutal violence, 
 had it not been for your humane interference. I feel how¬ 
 ever, though my life was spared, that it has only been 
 spared for a few brief hours. A blow I received from the 
 musket of one of your soldiers has produced some internal 
 injury, which, I am satisfied, must speedily prove fatal. I 
 cannot explain to you why I feel this conviction; fore¬ 
 bodings come unbidden, but not always in vain. I can 
 foresee their accomplishment in my own case, and have 
 been making preparations accordingly. These papers con¬ 
 tain directions relative to Zulima and her mother, and also 
 to the place of their concealment, and to the disposition 
 
212 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 of my property. In that cabinet (handing me the key) are 
 jewels and bonds to a large amonnt. To your charge I 
 entrust them, as well as the guardianship of my wife and 
 child ; feeling well assured that the man who could save 
 my life is not likely to abuse my confidence.” The baron 
 bowed in acknowledgment of the Turk’s gratitude, and also 
 in token of his acceptance of the trust. 
 
 “ It is enough,” continued Sidi Achmet, “ the know¬ 
 ledge that my wife and daughter will find a protector in 
 you removes half the anguish I feel in parting from them. 
 Farewell! ” The baron retired, visibly affected both by 
 . the situation and the magnanimity of the Turk, and also 
 deeply impressed with the responsibility which Sidi Achmet’s 
 noble reliance on his honour had thrust upon him. 
 
 A few hours proved the truth of the Turk’s presenti¬ 
 ment. It appeared that some vessel had been injured, which 
 occasioned internal hemorrhage, and caused his death. 
 
 The termination of the siege, and some negotiations 
 which were afterwards entered into between the bel¬ 
 ligerents, afforded the baron sufficient opportunity to 
 discharge the trust which had been confided to him. 
 The papers enabled him to find out the mausoleum, 
 and furnished him with the necessary signs and words 
 for obtaining admission. It may well be supposed that 
 the appearance of a young Austrian officer in their place 
 of concealment created in the minds of Zulima and her 
 mother a feeling both of astonishment and alarm. Their 
 
Letters from the Grave . 
 
 213 
 
 first impression was that Sidi Achmet’s papers had been seized, 
 and had afforded a clue to their concealment, and that the 
 officer had in consequence been despatched by his govern¬ 
 ment with some secret instructions respecting the disposal of 
 their persons. These fears however were soon dispelled. 
 The papers, which the baron now delivered to Zulima’s 
 mother, and which were examined and read by her with 
 mingled pain and interest, sufficiently explained the reasons 
 of his being there. Had any doubt now remained of the 
 baron’s intentions, his open and candid manner would have 
 reassured them both ; and the arrangements which he pro¬ 
 posed, with equal promptitude and judgment, were a suffi¬ 
 cient guarantee of the reality of his mission, and of the 
 wisdom which had guided Sidi Achmet in selecting him as 
 the guardian of his wife and child. The jewels and bonds 
 he converted into bills of exchange upon Vienna and other 
 cities ; and, obtaining leave of absence upon the pretext of 
 family affairs, he escorted the mother and daughter to his 
 chateau, where he left them, and returned to join his 
 regiment. 
 
 But this time he quitted his chateau with very dif¬ 
 ferent feelings. The intimacy which his trust necessarily 
 established between his wards and himself begat insensibly 
 a feeling of deep regard for the one, and of tender affection 
 for the other ; and, before he set out for the army, he 
 had the happiness to hear from the confessing lips of the 
 daughter that his affection was returned, and that the 
 
214 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 declaration of his attachment was neither unexpected nor 
 unappreciated. During the baron’s absence, all kinds of 
 apprehensions tortured the imagination of the anxious girl. 
 At one time she saw him covered with wounds, and looking 
 piteously for some kind hand to assist him; at another he 
 appeared as a miserable captive, with fetters on his limbs; 
 whilst again, and worse than all, she saw him stretched 
 upon the battle-field, with the livid hue of death upon his 
 countenance. But, happily, none of these phantasms were 
 realized. He returned in safety and with glory, and Zulima 
 became Baroness de Carlstadt. 
 
 The promises of happiness which such a union held 
 out were amply fulfilled. Never were two persons more 
 united in heart and soul; they cultivated the same tastes, 
 followed the same pursuits, and manifested the same desire 
 to make themselves respected and beloved. 
 
 The first interruption to this scene of happiness arose 
 from the death of Zulima’s mother. A grievous loss it was 
 both to her daughter and son-in-law : and if it be permitted 
 to those who quit this world to bear into the next tidings of 
 those they had left behind them, she could convey to Sidi 
 Achmet the delightful assurance of having left their only 
 child happy and beloved. 
 
 There are persons who believe that one sorrow must 
 be the harbinger of another, and who, impressed with 
 that belief, act sometimes in such a manner as to ac¬ 
 celerate, if not to produce it. Such conduct could not 
 
Letters from the Grave. 215 
 
 be imputed to the baroness ; but from the time of her 
 mother’s death she had indulged strong apprehensions 
 for which there did not appear to be the slightest ground. 
 Still they had taken such complete hold of her, that 
 neither the remonstrances of her husband nor her own 
 good sense were able to remove or even to diminish 
 them. 
 
 Two children were the issue of their marriage. Never 
 were children healthier, or possessed of more life and spirit. 
 Who could have predicted aught but lengthened existence 
 to two such beings P Who, in the roses that gave such 
 animation to their cheeks, could have expected to find 
 the seeds of fatal disease and early death? Yet Zulima 
 could not shake off this sad presentiment, and she never 
 looked steadfastly at her children without an involuntary 
 shudder and a sigh. 
 
 They had now reached their tenth and eleventh years, 
 and as yet disease had never visited them. From this the 
 ceaseless care and watchful superintendence of their mother 
 was unsparingly bestowed to protect them. The long cata¬ 
 logue of disorders incidental to infancy was daily—indeed, 
 almost hourly—run through in the anxious mind of the 
 doating mother; and there was no precaution, even to the 
 extent of limiting the boundary and direction of their daily 
 ■walks, that she did not adopt in order to protect her dear 
 children from the possibility of contracting disease by in¬ 
 fection. But how vain are all human devices and human 
 
216 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 calculations ! An accident, trifling in itself, destroyed in a 
 moment the efforts of years, and defeated almost the only 
 
 aim of Zulima’s existence. The children were caught in a 
 
 # 
 
 thunder-storm at the extremity of the park, and ran for 
 shelter into a cottage, in which a woman, with a child 
 in her arms, had but just taken refuge. That child had 
 the small-pox, and of the most malignant character. 
 
 The children returned to the chateau after the storm 
 had subsided, and eagerly told their mother what they 
 had seen. The mother was from that moment convinced 
 that her long-cherished forebodings would he speedily 
 and fatally confirmed. The children sickened, and the 
 disorder proved to he of the most aggravated kind. 
 Strong as their constitutions were by nature, carefully 
 as they had been reared, and diligently as they were 
 attended by the ablest physicians, the malady was of 
 too deadly a nature to be resisted. They both died within 
 a few days of each other. 
 
 After a long endurance of grief, which the loss of 
 both her children had made almost insupportable, Zulima 
 returned to society. But her mind seemed entirely changed, 
 and she was like a reed shaken by the wind. Her husband 
 engrossed all her fondness and all her fears. She felt that 
 her life was drawing to a close, and that she was fast hasten¬ 
 ing to the tomb which enclosed her innocent and lamented 
 children. She contemplated with the deepest anguish 
 the situation of her beloved husband, when she should 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 217 
 
 no longer be able to anticipate his wishes and minister 
 to his wants. She was sure that no other would ever 
 love him as she did, and for the first time a pang of 
 jealousy shot through her heart as she contemplated the 
 possibility of another bearing her name and occupying her 
 place. 
 
 The baron beheld this fresh grief of his wife with 
 deep despondency. He did everything to divert her mind 
 from brooding over such gloomy ideas: he never left her, 
 he tried all means to soothe her, he impressed upon her 
 that the visitations which had affiicted them came from 
 God, who, for wise though inscrutable ends, chose to 
 try the faith and fortitude of His creatures. But all was 
 unavailing, and his efforts to comfort and console her 
 proved ineffectual. 
 
 It cannot be supposed that grief acting upon so feeble 
 a frame could be long sustained. It undermined her con¬ 
 stitution, and the seeds of consumption had already been 
 sown. In the young and the happy its progress is often 
 slow ; but with her it was rapid, and quickly developed. 
 
 For some days before she breathed her last, she was 
 in close conference with a domestic who had been her 
 foster-sister. With her she arranged the affairs of her 
 household, leaving such and such directions to be followed 
 after her death. The parting with the baron, as it was 
 the last, so it was the hardest duty she had to perform. 
 Their union had been a happy one : none of those 
 
21 8 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 storms which shake the peace of married life had ever 
 vexed them. Her children, who might have comforted the 
 father in the absence of their mother, had been taken 
 from them, and now she was to he removed herself, 
 and to leave him a lone and solitary being. This was 
 insupportable agony. She tried to speak comfort to him 
 but she could not, nor could his grief be softened; it 
 was deep and exquisite, and convulsed every fibre of 
 his frame. They only who have passed a life of blissful 
 love together (alas! that they should be so few!) can 
 conceive the pangs, the anguish of such a scene! It 
 seems as if human nature must sink under it, as if the 
 over-burthened heart must break at once. At last the 
 death-blow came, and more suddenly than could have been 
 expected. The countess had uttered a few words, amongst 
 which were these remarkable ones,—“You will have warn¬ 
 ings from the grave,”—when, in an attempt to raise herself, 
 with a view of placing her hand on the extended arm of her 
 husband, her head fell helplessly on her bosom, and she 
 never moved again. 
 
 I draw a veil over the scene that followed. The 
 baroness was buried by the side of her children, and some 
 few weeks after the funeral, her husband found upon a little 
 altar, before which they had been in the habit of saying 
 their prayers together, a letter addressed to him. “ God 
 of heaven!” he exclaimed. “It is her handwriting, and 
 she is dead. It is a letter from the grave ! ” The last 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 219 
 
 words of his uncle—the last words of his wife—had been 
 nearly the same : both had talked of warnings from the 
 grave. u And this is one ! ” He tore it open with a 
 mixed feeling of awe and surprise, and read as follows :— 
 
 “ The wife is no longer visible to her afflicted husband, 
 hut is permitted to hover near him—to know every action 
 of his life—every thought of his heart. She watches over 
 him by night as well as by day. Hot a sigh nor a prayer 
 from him is unheeded or unheard. Oh ! my beloved hus¬ 
 band ; how deep and terrible was the anguish of that 
 dreadful night, when, having placed me by the side of the 
 cold and lifeless forms of our dear children, you returned 
 to that chamber, which was once the scene of our mutual 
 happiness! What convulsions then shook your exhausted 
 frame ! What scalding tears rushed down your cheeks ! 
 What hursts of tenderness and grief were there poured 
 forth, that testified to the depth of your affection, and 
 recalled to your wounded spirit all those endearing ap¬ 
 pellations which we were wont to bestow so lovingly and 
 lavishly on each other. Let me be still, as I was then, 
 the sole object of your thoughts! I am ever near you in 
 spirit; and we shall meet again ! 
 
 “ Zulima.” 
 
 Besides the expressions which might have been ex¬ 
 pected from the tenderness of a wife, there were proofs 
 
220 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 which could not be mistaken : she had accurately described 
 the scene which followed her funeral—the handwriting 
 could not he mistaken; it was hers, and could not he imi¬ 
 tated. 
 
 The baron was not a superstitious man, hut it might 
 be amongst the ways of Providence to suffer even the 
 dead to speak from the grave and communicate with 
 the living. He became convinced that the baroness, for 
 purposes which he could not penetrate, hut possibly to save 
 him from sin, was permitted to assume the office of monitor. 
 At all events, to be thus spoken to from the tomb was 
 matter for solemn contemplation. 
 
 Two months had elapsed since the receipt of the first 
 letter, when, on the same spot, at the same hour of the 
 night, he found a second. It was still from Zulima. 
 
 “ The first storm of grief has passed away. The 
 tempest no longer bows down my beloved to the earth. 
 Deep groans no longer disturb his rest. He is anxious 
 no more- to he shut out from the light of day, nor to 
 indulge his sorrow in solitude and darkness. Heaven 
 has mercifully ordained that grief shall not endure for ever, 
 but find its termination in the gradual reaction of the mind, 
 as well as in the healing halm and comforts of religion. 
 
 “ My beloved, our children are at rest and enjoying 
 eternal happiness. But you have many and powerful calls 
 upon you. You have a large domain, a numerous tenantry. 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 22 1 
 
 You have to watch over their interests here, and to warn 
 them that there is an hereafter. You will not quit our 
 chateau, for you will not remove from the sphere where 
 your actions may be most beneficial. Be actively kind 
 in deeds. Go often among the poor and the afflicted; 
 enter their cottages—acquaint yourself with their wants— 
 encourage and reward their virtues. Bebuke them for 
 evil, but rebuke them not too harshly. These are your 
 public duties. Assemble around you wise and good men, 
 who may banish gloom from your hearth. The dissolute 
 and the gay will find no favour in your sight. You will 
 live as if you were fitting yourself, by good actions here, 
 for that blessed futurity which shall restore you, and for 
 ever, to 
 
 “ Zulima .” 
 
 If the baron felt less awe in the perusal of this second 
 letter, it was to be attributed to the difference in its style 
 and contents. It spoke the quiet language of advice— 
 it had none of those bursts which wound the heart and 
 give a sharper poignancy to grief. It entered calmly 
 and mildly into his pursuits, and pointed out the path 
 which best might lead him to present and to future peace. 
 If it soothed his sorrow, it made him feel a more rooted 
 affection, if that were possible, for a wife whose anxiety 
 for his welfare was active even beyond the grave. 
 
 Months passed away, and no more warnings were 
 received, and no more letters. But time, whilst it softens 
 
222 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 sorrow, supplies no antidote for solitude. The baron was 
 a man of an active and social mind; he had been a soldier, 
 and had seen stirring scenes. Was it to be expected that 
 such a man would be contented with his present mode of 
 living ? There were hours and days in which the sight and 
 recollection of the places where he had been so happy, 
 most painfully revived his grief, and rendered all his pur¬ 
 suits irksome and distasteful. He resolved to retire from his 
 chateau, and seek for tranquillity in a distant possession. 
 A purchaser was easily found—the lawyers were employed 
 to complete the necessary instruments—a day more, and 
 the castle and its domain were to pass for ever from his 
 hands. On the night preceding, he proceeded, as usual, to 
 his bed chamber, and a letter met his eyes in the same 
 place where the previous ones had been deposited—the 
 same handwriting—the same seal. He tore it open. 
 
 “Can I recognise my beloved in the deed he is about 
 to do ? Can I persuade myself that he has quite forgotten 
 his Zulima and her children ?—that he is wearied with 
 the guardianship of their unconscious remains?—that their 
 tomb is to he profaned by the presence of strangers, to 
 whom it cannot ever be an object of either interest or 
 affection? Zulima left to her beloved the charge of this 
 sacred spot; and she trusted that its gates would no more 
 he opened till death should call her beloved from this 
 world, and place him by the side of his much-honoured 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 22J 
 
 wife. And must this sweet and consoling hope he now 
 abandoned P Will the husband fly from the grave of the 
 wife who loved him ? Oh no! no! he will not do this; 
 he will never surrender the custody of that lifeless body 
 to foreign keepers, and suffer its bones to mingle with 
 those of aliens and of strangers ! 
 
 “ Zulima.” 
 
 So powerful an appeal changed in an instant the de¬ 
 termination of the baron. He had altered his mind— 
 he would not part with his property—and the lawyers 
 and their client were dismissed forthwith. There was an 
 abruptness in the manner in which he announced this 
 change of purpose—a restlessness in his movements—a 
 wildness in his look, which half convinced them that his 
 mind was becoming deranged. 
 
 A long period of tranquillity succeeded. A year passed 
 without any additional warning. Meanwhile he began to 
 indulge the idea of transmitting his name and race to 
 posterity. He had an illustrious ancestry—had more quar- 
 terings in his arms than I care to enumerate. Was it 
 not natural that he should wish to continue his name ? 
 Of what advantage to the dead could it be, that he should 
 he the last of his race ?—“ no son of mine succeeding.’’ 
 The family had been the stay and support of the state; 
 and history had recorded the heroic actions of his ancestors 
 for five centuries. Why should not his descendants he 
 equally renowned ? The more he dwelt upon this idea, 
 
224 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 the more was he convinced of its policy. It was soon 
 known that the baron had determined upon a second mar¬ 
 riage, and the object of his choice was said to he the daughter 
 of a neighbouring nobleman. 
 
 The grave was not yet silent. Its warning voice was 
 heard again, and the following letter spoke of the impres¬ 
 sion which the baron’s intention had made upon Zulima. 
 
 “ Adieu ! once and too well beloved ! Adieu ! and 
 for ever! Zulima, no longer thy Zulima, bids thee an 
 eternal adieu ! No longer will she hover round thee! 
 No more shalt thou he the object of her solicitude and 
 care ! Thoughts of future happiness! Prospects of a 
 reunion beyond the grave ! Hopes of eternal happiness ! 
 all—all—have vanished. We shall never meet again ! 
 Another is to take the place of thy once dear Zulima. 
 She will repose upon the breast which was Zulima’s.— 
 Throne of bliss ! Another will soothe thy sorrows and 
 minister to thy joys. Another ! Is it possible P Another ! 
 and Zulima is forgotten. 
 
 “ Come, dear and innocent babes, come forth from the 
 tomb ; we are no longer remembered. Fold yourselves in 
 your mother’s arms: she is your only true parent. Your 
 bodies, with the grave that contains them, are about to he 
 bartered for gold ; the very tomb itself will be levelled with 
 the dust, and your ashes scattered to the winds. Your 
 
Letters from the Grave, 225 
 
 father abandons us. Oh, unutterable anguish ! Receive 
 the last, last farewell of 
 
 “ Zulima.” 
 
 Conceive the effect of such a letter and at such a 
 time. The proof it afforded of every thought of his 
 heart being known, of every deed not only done but medi¬ 
 tated, struck him with awe and dread. He shuddered 
 as he looked around him. It seemed as if the dead could 
 not only speak from the grave, but that they could invest 
 themselves again with life and animation. He could not 
 have been more surprised had Zulima herself appeared 
 before him. Then the fondness of her adieu—the keen¬ 
 ness of her reproaches—the manner in which she seemed 
 to cut him off from all hopes of rejoining her in a future 
 state—all these were as so many daggers planted in his 
 heart. And why should he have incurred them ? What 
 chance of happiness could there he in a second marriage 
 celebrated under such circumstances P Might not the dead 
 be able, and, if able, also willing to destroy its peace ? 
 
 So deep an impression did these reflections make upon 
 him, that he resolved to abandon his intention, and give up 
 all thoughts of a second marriage. 
 
 Whether these awful warnings had been so harassing 
 to the baron as to undermine his health, I know not, but 
 about a year after the receipt of the last letter, he was 
 taken ill, and the progress of his malady soon left no hopes 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 of his recovery. When the physicians had announced 
 the fatal tidings, that hut a few hours of life remained to 
 him, he desired the services of religion, and in consequence 
 of this desire was visited by Father Anselm. 
 
 The baron received the good Father with a look ex¬ 
 pressive of satisfaction rather than of sorrow. He had 
 about an hour before received another warning, and that 
 the last. It was still from Zulima, and was in the following 
 brief hut expressive words :— 
 
 “ Come my beloved, the hour has arrived, and we are 
 about to he reunited. Zulima awaits you.” 
 
 The letter lay on the pillow of the dying man, and by 
 the side of it a small casket, in which all the former letters 
 had been preserved. 
 
 Father Anselm administered the last consolations of 
 religion, and then the baron recounted to him the singular 
 story which our readers have just read. He produced the 
 different letters—he could have no doubt of their being in 
 the handwriting of his beloved wife, and each was descrip¬ 
 tive of the circumstances in which he had been placed at 
 the time of its reception—no one could have imitated her 
 handwriting so closely—no one could have so accurately 
 seized her turn of thought and expression—no one could 
 have had a foreknowledge of the design which had occa¬ 
 sioned those letters. 
 
Letters from the Grave. 
 
 227 
 
 Father Anselm was struck with the singular narrative. 
 As a believer in the sacred volume he could not deny the 
 possibility of such an interposition of Providence; but in 
 . modern times no such interposition had been known. Still 
 it was not for him to pronounce that they were forgeries ; 
 besides, he saw that any effort of that kind would have 
 no effect upon the mind of the baron. He knew the 
 letters to be written by Zulima, and he believed that for 
 wise, but to him incomprehensible, purposes, these warnings 
 had been permitted. 
 
 He died in that persuasion the same night. 
 
 It is almost a pity to draw aside the veil and to dissolve 
 the charm. Many would have been better pleased to have 
 been kept in awe and wonder. However, the day after 
 the baron had been interred, Father Anselm was sent 
 for to the chateau. He there received the confession of 
 Zulima’s foster-sister, who informed him that a few days 
 before the death of the baroness, she had several confer¬ 
 ences with her, in which she made her take a solemn oath 
 not to divulge during the baron’s life the secret she was 
 about to confide to her, but to obey her instructions to 
 the letter. She was aware of her approaching dissolution, 
 and the idea of the baron’s removal from the chateau, and of 
 his second marriage was insupportable. She placed before 
 her imagination all the probable circumstances which might 
 occur after her death. She foresaw the first deep grief 
 of the baron — his pursuits — the influence which time 
 
228 
 
 Letters from the Grave. 
 
 would have upon him—the likelihood of his being tired 
 of solitude, and of his wish to dispose of a place which 
 served to revive his grief—the chance of his marrying 
 again—in short, every contingency that might happen from 
 the period of her own death to that of the baron. The 
 first letter was calculated to impress him with awe, and 
 with the conviction that his wife was yet suffered to interpose 
 her advice, and to enter into every thought and intention 
 of his heart. The result was such as has been described. 
 The foster-sister, by living in the chateau, was necessarily 
 acquainted with every event, and could deposit such letters 
 as were applicable to all the circumstances which had 
 been foreseen. 
 
 Father Anselm could not justify the conduct either of 
 Zulima or her-foster sister. But, in consideration of their 
 mutual attachment, and the oath imposed upon the latter, 
 he visited her only with a slight penance and a gentle 
 rebuke. 
 
229 
 
 LEAF THE SEVENTH. 
 
 THE ORSINI. 
 
 —♦— 
 
 I returned home with Father Anselm soon after the 
 events recorded in the last chapter; hut I remarked a 
 strange alteration in his manner. He, whose temper was 
 so serene, whose general demeanour was unruffled by pas¬ 
 sion, became on a sudden restless and uneasy. Some secret 
 anxiety seemed to prey upon him. He would walk hastily 
 to and fro; then stop, as if he had something to divulge; 
 and then again resume his walk, and leave the house with¬ 
 out speaking a word. I tried to discover some ground for 
 this change. I had been his constant companion, and be¬ 
 lieved myself to be acquainted with every event of his 
 life. I would ask him,—I would solicit his confidence. 
 But, upon reflection, such a proceeding seemed indelicate. 
 What he did not choose to reveal I had no right to en¬ 
 quire into. I resolved, therefore, to wait for an oppor¬ 
 tunity,—which was speedily afforded me. 
 
 I was one day expressing some anxiety to be acquainted 
 with the fate of the Orsini family after he had quitted them. 
 He had been walking, as usual, in his hurried manner, 
 
230 
 
 The Orsini. 
 
 when he turned suddenly round and confronted me. “ How 
 is it that you have penetrated the thoughts of my heart ? 
 I have long been wishing to disclose them, and often have 
 determined to do so the next time I saw you; hut the next 
 time came, and I had not the courage. Alas ! my dear 
 friend, I fear the affairs of this world and the passions of 
 human nature have still too much influence over me, and 
 that my heart and mind are not, as they should be, devoted 
 to the duties of my station, and the sacred commands of 
 my heavenly Master. My soul is not sufficiently raised 
 above this fleeting world; the clay of earth still envelopes 
 me. I am but a feeble man, with all his imperfections, 
 his selfish wishes, and his worldly affections. 
 
 “ I too have been thinking of the fate of the Orsini, 
 and of one who, if living, must yet be dead to me. Will 
 you believe, can you pardon me, for having indulged the 
 desire of a long pilgrimage—of a visit, ere I am called 
 hence, to the spot where those events occurred which wrecked 
 the happiness of my life ?” 
 
 “ Pardon you, good Father ! I enter fully into your feel¬ 
 ings. But you are of a feeble frame, and ill able to encounter 
 alone the fatigues of such a journey. I will go with you.” 
 
 A gleam of pleasure shot across the features of the 
 monk. He grasped my hand.—“ It is what I have wished, 
 but dared not hope for. We will set out forthwith, for an 
 inward monitor warns me that what remains for me to do 
 in this life must he done quickly.” 
 
The Orsini. 
 
 231 
 
 Few preparations were necessary, and we set out on 
 our journey two days after this conversation. At the 
 monk’s earnest request we took the same route which he 
 had followed in early life. We passed through Berlin, 
 Dresden, and Vienna, exploring the scenes which he had 
 once visited, hut which had undergone such changes that 
 he could scarcely recognize them. 
 
 From Vienna we took the road to Venice through 
 the Tyrol, and there remained for the space of three days 
 to recruit our strength, and dwell at leisure on the magni¬ 
 ficent scenery with which that country abounds. 
 
 On the fourth day we resumed our journey, and on the 
 evening of the fifth we arrived at Venice. Father Anselm, 
 with the instincts of filial affection, made his way to the 
 hotel at which his father had alighted years before, when 
 he carried off his mother, the young and beautiful Paulina 
 Orsini. Here we learnt that the aged Count Orsini, and 
 his daughter, the Countess Sophia, were now the only 
 inhabitants of the Orsini palace; for the countess, as soon 
 as she had discovered the deception that had been em¬ 
 ployed to induce her to marry Spontani, insisted upon 
 living separate from him. Spontani quitted the Venetian 
 territories, and took up his residence at Pome. 
 
 So lonely and secluded did the count remain, so com¬ 
 pletely had he abandoned his former habits, and so strictly 
 had he abjured all company, that his name ceased to be 
 mentioned publicly, and he seemed to be altogether for- 
 
O 'y n 
 ~ J 2 
 
 The Orsini. 
 
 gotten. The Countess Sophia was equally indisposed to 
 intercourse with society. At early dawn indeed she might 
 he seen walking to the neighbouring convent to hear mass; 
 hut, closely veiled and feeble in her steps, no one could 
 have recognized the once gay and lovely Sophia. 
 
 Father Anselm scrupled to present himself at the Orsini 
 palace without some intimation of his intention being con¬ 
 veyed to the count; but accident created an occasion for 
 facilitating his introduction, without subjecting him to the 
 disagreeable alternative of soliciting an interview, or of 
 intruding himself unasked. He had an old acquaintance 
 at Venice, Father Vasali, who, on the occasion of great 
 festivals, celebrated mass and preached in the cathedral, 
 which was regularly attended by the count and his 
 daughter. Vasali was to preach on Ascension-day, but 
 he was taken ill two days before ; and, full of years and 
 good deeds, expired on the evening of the second day. 
 Father Anselm was with him in his dying moments, and 
 received his last wishes ; one of which was that he would 
 deliver the Ascension sermon. The time was short, his 
 mind was ill at ease, but the wish of his dying friend was 
 paramount to all other considerations. 
 
 The church was crowded, for the death of Vasali was 
 known to few. At the conclusion of the De Profundis , 
 Father Anselm ascended the pulpit. His figure, though 
 emaciated, was erect and commanding, his walk measured 
 and feeble. But the moment that he threw back his cowl, 
 
The Orsini. 
 
 2 33 
 
 and drew up his figure to its utmost height, he appeared 
 to have lost all traces of weakness and infirmity. His 
 eyes were peculiarly expressive. He surveyed the con¬ 
 gregation for a few minutes, and then commenced his 
 discourse with the following befitting tribute to the memory 
 and virtues of the departed churchman :— 
 
 “ The will of heaven has been accomplished ! He, from 
 whom you this day expected to receive counsel and conso¬ 
 lation, whose piety was a steady and a shining light, whose 
 fortitude strengthened, and whose mildness encouraged the 
 wavering and desponding portions of his flock;—he, the 
 good shepherd, the faithful pastor, has been removed from 
 this world of frailty and sin;—he is gone to receive the 
 reward of his long and virtuous labours. Why should I 
 presume to fill the place of such a man P I, the lowliest 
 and the most unworthy ! But it was his last wish, his last 
 command, that I should be the bearer of his final blessing, 
 as I was the listener to his dying prayers. Oh ! think that 
 he speaks to you from the grave, that he exhorts you, 
 through me, to stand firm and undaunted in the faith, to 
 remember his constant efforts for the welfare of your im¬ 
 mortal souls, and his hope in death that his flock may at last 
 be folded in the arms of the one and Eternal Shepherd ! ” 
 The deep and awful tone of the Father’s voice, the 
 solemn manner in which he delivered the injunctions of the 
 dying Yasali, the pauses in his speech, as if grief had 
 choked his utterance, the exultation with which he dwelt 
 
2 34 
 
 The Orsini. 
 
 upon the virtues of him who was to be seen no more, so 
 fixed and chained the attention of the hearers, that you might 
 have heard a whisper in the remotest corner of the church. 
 
 He dwelt next upon the solemnity of the occasion, and 
 proceeded to descant upon the fleeting happiness of this 
 life, its uncertain enjoyments, the reverses of fortune, the 
 sudden fall from the summit of human happiness to the 
 abyss of misery and want. 
 
 I was so placed as to have a full view both of the count 
 and his daughter. She never raised her head nor put aside 
 her veil; but the manner in which it was agitated suffi¬ 
 ciently proved the depth and agony of her feelings. The 
 count's attention was extreme; he fixed his eyes upon the 
 Father, as if he had recognized a face he had seen before, 
 but could not recollect when or where. 
 
 u We enter life,” continued the Father, “with the ex¬ 
 pectation of long years of happiness. Youth is so full of 
 hope and promise; and the scene is so enchanting. The 
 sun shines with unclouded brightness ; the air is perfumed 
 with the sweets of flowers; whilst the birds, soaring as they 
 sing, seem anxious to pay the tribute of their earliest 
 melody at the gates of heaven. Such is the morning of life! 
 But at noon clouds and storms succeed ; the scene and the 
 seasons, and with them the feelings, are all changed; 
 worldly projects mar the sincerity of our actions, and base 
 passions disgrace the noblest of God's works. At eventide 
 all Nature is deformed. The whirlwind has swept over its 
 face, and destroyed the trace of all that was lovely and 
 
The Orsini . 
 
 235 
 
 beautiful in the morning. Call to mind the mortal feuds 
 that disgrace our annals ! Think of the unnatural prac¬ 
 tice of fomenting discords that are allowed to live even 
 beyond the grave! 
 
 “ Is this the mere creation of fancy P Is this a picture 
 which the imagination sketches, but which is never ex¬ 
 hibited in real life P Would that it were ! May there not 
 be amongst you the sons of virtuous parents, who have been 
 separated from their families by the unnatural desire of 
 rendering one member rich by the sacrifice of another; 
 which devotes the daughter to misery that the son may 
 gratify his ambition or his avarice ? Is not this the conse¬ 
 quence of your abhorred and impious feuds ? If, then, the 
 unoffending and the innocent be involved in sufferings so 
 severe, in a fate so unmerited, I charge you to profit by 
 such a lesson, and be warned in time. One of these vic¬ 
 tims may, perhaps, be now amongst us, bowed down and 
 wearied with the load of life, and praying for that hour 
 which shall place him where the ‘wicked cease from 
 troubling and the weary are at rest.’ 
 
 “ Believe not, my dearest brethren, that I am desirous 
 of wounding your feelings; but I am desirous of rousing 
 you to a sense of the nothingness of all worldly projects— 
 of the vanity of all hopes that are founded upon the things 
 of this world. It is as though we would write words upon 
 the sand, and expected that the waves should not obliterate 
 them. There is but one hope that can never be disappointed, 
 for it is founded upon the rock of ages. Be virtuous! be 
 
11,6 
 
 The Orsini. 
 
 faithful! be merciful to each other! be charitable to all! 
 ‘ Comfort and help the weak-hearted, and raise up them 
 that fall!’ Be not like the Levite, who ‘looked upon the 
 wounded man, and passed by t on the other side;’ but he as 
 the Samaritan, who ‘had compassion on him, and bound 
 up his wounds.’ ” 
 
 The good Father concluded with another affecting tribute 
 to the memory of Vasali, and with imploring the blessing 
 and the mercy of God upon all His creatures. 
 
 He was so exhausted by his effort that he could with 
 difficulty make his way through the crowd that pressed 
 round him, so anxious were they to behold the preacher 
 who had been thus honoured by the object of their venera¬ 
 tion and affection. 
 
 The next day we visited the Doge’s palace, from whence 
 a covered way leads over the “Bridge of Sighs” to the 
 state prison. The good Father seemed to feel a melancholy 
 pleasure in surveying the prison in which he had been so 
 unjustly immured. 
 
 We repaired afterwards to the Austrian consulate to 
 make enquiries after the early friend of his youth. He had 
 long since paid the debt of nature. “ All are gone,” he said, 
 as we turned away—“ all whom I loved and esteemed are re¬ 
 moved ! and like some barren and solitary rock in the ocean, 
 I alone am left to bear the billows and to brave the storm.” 
 
 The third day after the Ascension sermon, a major-domo 
 was announced, with a message from the Orsini palace. 
 
The Orsini. 
 
 237 
 
 The good Father’s presence was earnestly entreated. He 
 bowed his head in token of acquiescence and set out. 
 Before his departure, however, I informed him that the 
 count and his daughter had been present at the sermon, 
 and, though they did not seem to recognize him, had evi¬ 
 dently applied part of the discourse to themselves. “ The 
 hand of God is in this!” he exclaimed ; “ I may yet be the 
 blessed instrument of saving a sinner.” 
 
 He repaired to the palace without any attendant. I 
 saw that he wished to commune with himself as he walked, 
 and to arm himself with fortitude. I did not press my 
 attendance upon him, hut remained at home uneasy and 
 anxious for his return. When he reached the palace, he 
 rested for some minutes upon a marble seat in the portico, 
 as if desirous of delaying the interview to the latest moment. 
 At length he gave notice of his arrival, and was conducted 
 by the major-domo with the highest respect through rooms 
 which had once echoed to the song and the dance, but were 
 now desolate and deserted. 
 
 The count was alone. Father Anselm contemplated 
 his face for a moment, then, drawing his cowl closer, said, 
 “ What would the Count Orsini with the humblest of God’s 
 ministers P ” 
 
 “ Father,” replied the count, “I was in the cathedral 
 on Ascension-day, and it seems as if the Almighty, in 
 His mercy, had inspired you with the power of placing 
 our sins before us in their most appalling light. At times 
 
23 8 
 
 The Orsini. 
 
 it appeared as if you were acquainted with, my history, for 
 
 the picture you drew was a vivid representation of its 
 
 painful phases. I have indeed lived for the world and its 
 
 ambition ; but the world has deserted me, and ambition 
 
 has deceived me. I had parents whom I converted into 
 
 slaves. I had a sister whose innocence and beauty ought to 
 
 % 
 
 have found in me their firmest supporter. For purposes of 
 my own I destroyed her happiness, and suffered her to pass 
 to her grave without one memorial, one proof of affection.” 
 
 “ God pardon you !” groaned Father Anselm. 
 
 “Nor is this the whole extent of my guilt. My sister 
 sent me her noble and virtuous son to he the mediator and 
 peace-maker between us. I would not receive him. I 
 hated him, for I had wronged his mother. I contrived his 
 ruin—I threw him into the state prison upon a charge of 
 treason; and knowing he loved my daughter with an affec¬ 
 tion which she returned, I made her believe that he was 
 false and dissolute, and thus induced her to marry another. 
 I thus destroyed the happiness of two innocent beings. 
 Whose guilt can equal mine ? My son, instead of being 
 an honour to his name, ruined himself by gaming, and died 
 in his attempt to take the life of another. Such has been 
 the issue of all my ambitious projects—disappointment, 
 crime, sorrow, and remorse. 
 
 The Father, whom this confession had deeply moved, 
 threw the cowl off his face, and fixing a steady look 
 upon the count, said,— 
 
The Orsini. 
 
 2 J 9 
 
 “ Man of many sins ! where there is repentance, 
 true, deep, heart-deep, repentance, there is hope ; and 
 though it be the eleventh hour, the twelfth shall not 
 pass away without bringing with it pardon. May God 
 forgive you in your last moments as I forgive you in 
 this! Ill Yes! I! ! ” 
 
 The count was awe-struck. The Father, still fixing 
 his eyes upon him, proceeded :— 
 
 “ Have years of grief so altered me, that the Count 
 Orsini cannot recognise in Father Anselm the injured 
 Winceslaus ? ” 
 
 “ Has the grave given up its tenant to torture me ? 
 Have the dead been sent to give me a foretaste of the 
 punishment that awaits such crimes ? Otho Winceslaus 
 sunk under his sorrows and his wrongs ! ” 
 
 “ He abandoned the name of his father and his an¬ 
 cestors. He was no longer the pride and hope of his 
 parents. But he still survives in the wan and wasted 
 form before you.” 
 
 “ It is as it should be,” said the count after a solemn 
 pause. “ Behold the effects of presumptuous pride, hum¬ 
 bled to the earth, levelled and lowly in the dust.” He 
 then threw himself on his knees before the Father. 
 
 “ It is fitting that I should thus implore pardon and 
 mercy, that the haughtiness of the Orsini should he 
 chastised, and the cup of humiliation drained to the dregs. 
 Winceslaus ! forgive me ! ” 
 
240 
 
 The Orsini. 
 
 The lowliness, the contrition, of the count removed 
 the last feeling of anger, if any remained, from the 
 heart of the good Father. He saw no longer before him 
 the daring and haughty offender, marching to his purpose 
 through guilt and blood ; he recognised in him no longer 
 the ambitious noble treading under feet all the dearest 
 ties that hind man to his family and his kind. He beheld 
 only in the wasted being, clinging to his knees, a man 
 who had deeply sinned and had been deeply punished; 
 who having been raised to the highest pinnacle of great¬ 
 ness, was now sunk to the lowest point of degradation. 
 His own good and generous nature made him fling him¬ 
 self by the side of the count; he threw his arms around 
 him, he begged him to he comforted, he assured him 
 that he had long, long since pardoned him, and that 
 he had taken the journey to Venice solely for the pur¬ 
 pose of seeing the last of his race, and of employing 
 the last moments of his life in asking forgiveness for their 
 sins, and in offering up prayers for their salvation. 
 
 Conduct so noble and so little expected, and alas! 
 so little merited, w 7 rung the heart of the count. He 
 exhausted himself in alternate praise and censure, blessings 
 and curses ; praise and blessings upon his nephew, cen¬ 
 sure and curses upon himself. Father Anselm checked 
 him for these sinful ebullitions, soothed him with the 
 kindest expressions, and fortified his good intentions with 
 the assurance of their eternal recompense. 
 
The Orsini. 
 
 241 
 
 The uncle and nephew remained long together, the 
 former pressing him to pass the remainder of his days 
 under the roof where his presence and his prayers would 
 be of such efficacy. He would have led him on the 
 instant to his cousin, the Countess Spontani, hut Father 
 Anselm had not yet fortitude enough for such an interview, 
 and he begged for a few hours to prepare himself for a 
 struggle which he could not contemplate without an inward 
 conviction of his inability to support it. He proposed, with 
 the count’s approval, to revisit the palace on the morrow, 
 and in the meantime to announce his intention to the 
 countess, and hoped that her father would kindly he the 
 medium of communication, and so prepare his daughter for 
 the dreaded interview. 
 
 The count promised his mediatorial offices, and with 
 this assurance to comfort and encourage him, Father Anselm 
 withdrew, and shortly afterwards rejoined me at the Hotel. 
 
 The whole of the night was passed by the good 
 Father in the solitude of his chamber. He would not 
 take any rest, he was often in earnest prayer, and deep 
 groans showed the mortal agony that shook him. 
 
 Early in the morning he proceeded to the palace, and, 
 being feeble from want of rest and suffering, I insisted 
 upon accompanying him to the palace gates. After I had 
 left him, I turned to see whether he had entered. He 
 sate himself down for a few minutes, and then with much 
 effort, and leaning upon his staff, passed into the palace. 
 
 n 
 
The Orsini. 
 
 242 
 
 The count had no sooner opened the door of his daughter’s 
 apartment than he retired, and left Father Anselm to enter 
 it alone. His cowl had fallen from his face, and exposed his 
 grief-indented countenance; his step was slow, feeble, and 
 tremulous. The countess, who had been reclining upon 
 a couch, started at the sight of her beloved, and, throwing 
 her arms around him, sobbed audibly upon his shoulder. 
 The Father was equally affected, and seemed to gasp for 
 breath. Some minutes were spent in this speechless atti¬ 
 tude, when the countess, recovering a little fortitude, 
 stepped back, that she might the better contemplate the 
 features of her beloved. “ Winceslaus ! you have suffered 
 much, and the impress of sickness and sorrow tells a fearful 
 tale! ” 
 
 “ And do I not read the same sad effects in the features 
 of Sophia ?” 
 
 “ Every day has been a day of woe and misery. Sleep 
 does not refresh me, food does not nourish me, exercise does 
 not strengthen me; I seem as if my heart would break, 
 and I pray for death.” 
 
 “ It is the will of God, Sophia, that we should live this 
 transitory life in sorrow and suffering, that we may be 
 better prepared for the world to come, where grief shall not 
 intrude, nor wickedness prevail. Would I could speak 
 words of comfort to you; but I cannot, I cannot! Oh ! 
 Almighty Father ! soften the sorrows of our hearts !” and 
 with these words the stricken Father sank upon his knees 
 
The Orsini. 
 
 24 3 
 
 to pray, with Sophia by his side. And never from two 
 bruised and afflicted hearts did more fervent and sincere 
 prayers ascend to the throne of grace. 
 
 Oh that the wicked, who are the causes of such sor¬ 
 rows, could behold the anguish of their victims ! 
 
 “ Dear, yet agonizing, moment,” exclaimed Sophia, 
 “ that unites us once more before we die, and that enables 
 us, in the remembrance of all that we have suffered, to 
 know and to feel that it has not been the consequence of 
 our own misdeeds! W e have no remorse to feel, no pardon 
 to implore, for the heartless disruption of our plighted 
 vows, or the annihilation of our once fondly-cherished 
 hopes. Our love was not torn asunder by our own hands, 
 nor was the wreck of our earthly happiness our own deed. 
 Blessed is it that we have been permitted to renew the 
 pledge of our former affection, and to pray for blessings 
 upon each other, and humbly but firmly to hope that we 
 may meet again ! ” 
 
 Winceslaus had covered his face with his cowl, to hide 
 the tears that furrowed his wan cheeks. The voice, the look, 
 the words of his beloved had deprived him of all power of 
 utterance. He would have spoken, but he could only clasp 
 his hands in agony, and, lifting up his eyes to heaven, 
 beseech Providence not to visit him above his strength. 
 
 “ And now, Sophia, we part.” 
 
 “ Part! what! to meet no more ? to see each other for 
 the last time ? Oh no, no ! it must not—it cannot be; 
 
244 
 
 The Orsini. 
 
 oh! do not separate ns! Have we not been separated 
 long enough ? have we not endured grief enough ? Must 
 'VVinceslaus go forth again a wanderer upon the earth ? He 
 has no home, no resting-place; here let us die together !” 
 and she clung close and closer to him. Otho held her in 
 his arms, and looked at her as if he would fain die with 
 that last look : collecting all his fortitude, for one great and 
 final effort, he imprinted a reverential kiss upon her fore¬ 
 head, and, placing her gently upon the couch, rushed out of 
 the palace. 
 
 Human endurance could not support a renewal of so 
 afflicting an interview. Otho lingered to ascertain that 
 Sophia had recovered from her prostrate condition, and 
 then, with a slow and feeble step, departed. 
 
 But this was not to be their last meeting. He was to 
 see her once again, but it was only to mock his hopes, and 
 to reveal to his agonized senses the marvellous change 
 which an interval of two days had wrought in her ap¬ 
 pearance. The ravages of that stealthy disease, con¬ 
 sumption, had long preyed upon her constitution, and now 
 the powerful reaction upon her already debilitated frame 
 showed but too painfully the mastery it had acquired over 
 her. The family physician confirmed our worst apprehen¬ 
 sions, and, in the presence both of her father and an old 
 domestic, announced to her that recovery was hopeless. 
 This disclosure, so fearful to almost all persons, did not 
 shake the serenity of her mind. She entreated only that 
 
The Orsini. 
 
 2 45 
 
 they would inform her how long she might be expected to 
 live; and, being assured that she could not survive more 
 than two days, she prepared herself for her last hour with 
 piety and resignation. The first of the two days she spent 
 in solitary prayer and in writing, beseeching her father to 
 communicate the melancholy truth to Otho, and to require 
 his presence on the following day. 
 
 The certainty that she had but so short a time to live 
 had softened, though not subdued, that violent grief which 
 had displayed itself at their first interview. She was im¬ 
 pressed with the conviction that it became her duty now to 
 moderate those feelings which tied and bound her to a 
 world she was about to quit. She prayed for a calm and 
 resigned mind. It was not so with her lover. He had 
 not been able to gain such a mastery over his feelings, for 
 he knew that the only object of his affection would soon 
 be taken from him. But when he saw the pain it occa¬ 
 sioned to her who was dying before him—when he beheld 
 her struggle to preserve a tranquil countenance, and was 
 convinced that his own grief rendered that struggle more 
 difficult—when he found that instead of fitting her mind 
 for eternity by the consolations of religion, and the hope and 
 promise held out by her merciful Redeemer, he was making 
 her still cling to the things of this world, he cast off, by a 
 strong effort, the passions of the man, and stood before 
 her, the humble and holy minister of God. 
 
 Thus passed her last moments. As her beloved and 
 
246 
 
 The Orsini. 
 
 her father hung over the bed of death to receive her last 
 wishes, her features assumed a look of divine sweetness. 
 The hectic flush, which had long quitted her pallid cheeks, 
 now returned to give them a parting glow, the eye re¬ 
 sumed its lustre, and a momentary smile played upon her 
 lips. She now herself became the counsellor of peace, the 
 preacher of resignation. But a brief space, and they should 
 all be reunited. Her last action was to place her father’s 
 hand in Otho’s. She implored Otho never to quit her 
 father, but to abide by him and comfort him “ even unto 
 death.” The solemn promise was immediately given. “ It 
 is enough. Bless you—bless you!” and making an effort 
 to rise and throw her arms around him, she fell back upon 
 her pillow, and in a deep and long sigh expired. 
 
 My narrative is concluded. It were unnecessary to add 
 how deep was the grief of Anselm and the count. I re¬ 
 mained with them till I saw comparative calmness estab¬ 
 lished, and then bade my valued friend an eternal adieu! 
 
247 
 
 LEAF THE EIGHTH. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 — 
 
 I had left the friend of my heart, the companion of 
 my journey, who had made me the confidant of his sorrows 
 and his cares, whose judgment directed me, and whose 
 kindness always soothed me. I had left him behind me, 
 and in this world we were to meet no more. With these 
 gloomy and melancholy feelings I set out for my home. 
 
 From Venice I took the road through the Milanese, 
 intending to proceed to Lausanne, Berne, Lucerne, Geneva, 
 and to Lyons, from whence I could travel to Strasbourg. 
 After visiting Milan, the lakes of Como and Maggiore, 
 I proceeded through Baveno on the great Simplon road 
 to Domo d’Ossola, and began to ascend the Val Vedro, 
 which introduces the traveller into the depth of the Alpine 
 recesses. I had agreed with a voiturier to carry me from 
 Milan to Lyons ; hut he was taken ill before we arrived 
 at the Lago Maggiore, and I was obliged to hire a kind 
 of caleehe with two horses, under the guidance of a 
 strong, but ill-favoured young man, who was to carry 
 me to Lyons. 
 
248 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 Without detaining my readers with a long account 
 of the scenery of this part of Italy, I shall only say 
 that it is in the highest degree sublime. Here are mon¬ 
 strous masses heaped together in disorder, hut producing 
 a sensation of wonder, if not of dread, of the power which 
 had placed them there. How awful was it to contem¬ 
 plate the dark and seemingly interminable paths that 
 wound between these masses ! Here and there were forests 
 of pine and larch, dense and dark, and well fitted for 
 deeds of rapine and murder. In the masses of rock there 
 were deep caverns capable of receiving and concealing 
 whole regiments. 
 
 My conductor, as all conductors are in that part of 
 Europe, was anxious to create an interest in the feelings 
 of his employer, by his garrulity and his anecdotes. These 
 anecdotes are never gay or amusing, hut wonderful and 
 terrific, and full of robbery and murder. He was very 
 attentive to the effect which they produced on my mind. 
 He was, as I have already said, an ill-favoured man, 
 and the expression of his countenance was particularly 
 forbidding; it was a mixture of cunning and cruelty. 
 He had known many robberies to have been committed, 
 even in these mountains. There was nothing very alluring 
 in this conversation; hut I did not discourage it. I en¬ 
 quired whether any of these atrocities had been committed 
 lately, and half jocularly, half seriously, hoped he had 
 not been concerned in any of them himself. My guide 
 
The Last of the Family . 
 
 249 
 
 immediately made a full stop with his cattle, and, turning 
 towards me, said in a strong dialect,— 
 
 “ And if I have, am I worse than those Austrian tyrants, 
 (my curses light on them !) who have robbed us of our all. 
 I was a peaceful vintager, and my vineyard was sufficient for 
 my old father, myself, and my beloved Alice. It was on the 
 banks of the Ticino. The Austrians took possession of the 
 country, spoiled my vineyard, and drove myself and my 
 father from it. But, worse than that, the wretches tore my 
 Alice from me, and compelled her to become the mistress 
 of their commander. Ha ! ha ! ha ! (And his laugh 
 was demoniac.) But I repaid him for his brutality. I 
 watched my opportunity and found him asleep. I roused 
 him only to tell him that he had not a minute to live, and 
 instantly stabbed him to the heart. Was it not well 
 done ? From that moment I cast off all love of country 
 and kindred ; took one last look at my ruined vineyard, 
 and fled to the mountains of Calabria. There I found 
 men as reckless and as desperate as myself. I joined a 
 banditti, and, if revenge could gratify us, we have had 
 our fill. At length we were forced from our mountains, 
 and had to traverse Italy. To avoid suspicion we travelled 
 in twos and threes to the place of our destination, occasion¬ 
 ally getting acquainted with travellers, that we might be 
 better informed of their business and destination.” 
 
 The daring candour of this confession, by which my 
 conductor announced himself to be a robber, whose occupa- 
 
250 The Last of the Family. 
 
 tion it was to intrude himself into the concerns of travellers 
 like myself, was not at all calculated to put me at my 
 ease in the wildest parts of the mountains. However, 
 
 I affected to disguise my fears, and enquired when we 
 should arrive at Lausanne. “ I will consult the horses,” 
 he said, with a sneering laugh. “ Perhaps they may object 
 to so long a journey.” He bent his head over them, and 
 after a minute or two, added, “ I thought so ; they are 
 of opinion, that they shall be more comfortable in these 
 cool and refreshing mountains.” A shrill whistle from a 
 thick mass of trees at no great distance was answered by 
 a whistle from my guide, and before I could lay hold of 
 my arms, the caleche was surrounded by a body of ten 
 or twelve men. I endeavoured to expostulate with the 
 leader, stating myself to be a simple traveller, without 
 any public character or employment, and that I was 
 returning to my home in Germany. I added that I was 
 an Englishman. “ Inglesi! ” said one of the gang. “ They 
 are the allies of the tyrants.” The caleche and the guide 
 and myself were now directed to take a path which led ‘ 
 to the most secret recess of the mountains, and to one 
 of those caverns which had excited my curiosity and awe. 
 
 If the cavern seemed spacious at its entrance it was 
 much more so inside. Several apartments were on each 
 side of a long passage, which led to a hall of large 
 dimensions. It was in great confusion,—boxes, furniture, 
 guns, and sabres, were dispersed on every side; for the 
 
The Last of the Family . 251 
 
 banditti bad only just readied their present abode, after 
 being obliged to quit Calabria. 
 
 My situation reminded me of Gil Bias in the Bobbers’ 
 Cave, and I only wished that I might have equal good 
 fortune in effecting my escape. After I had left the 
 caleche and seen my effects taken possession of, I leaned 
 despondingly against one of the pillars. The captain, for 
 so I judged him to be by the deference paid him, advanced 
 towards me, and with more courtesy and polish in his ad¬ 
 dress than I expected to find, said, “You seem depressed, 
 signor. Do not fear us; we are rough in fight, but mild 
 to our prisoners when they conduct themselves properly.” 
 
 I bowed, and lamented the fate that cut me off 
 from home. He made no reply, but calling Stephano, or¬ 
 dered him to prepare the evening’s entertainment. It 
 was plentiful, and the wines of Sicily and Naples cir¬ 
 culated in great profusion. They were a gay and 
 thoughtless set, and would have been boisterous in their 
 cups had not a command from their captain kept them 
 within bounds. He called upon one of them to recount 
 one of their adventures for the amusement of such of 
 the band as had not belonged to it when it took place. 
 After a glee sung in good style, Stephano related the 
 following story:— 
 
 “ One of our chief employments, and which furnished 
 us with the sinews of war—money, was to seize and carry 
 
252 The Last of the Family. 
 
 off persons of rank and wealth, for whose ransom we 
 demanded sums proportionate to their riches. We had 
 contrived a plan for carrying off Lncien Bonaparte, the 
 Prince of Canino, from his palace near Borne. That 
 would have been a prize worth having, for his ransom 
 would have produced a galloping consumption in the hags 
 of every one of the family, from Madame Mere down 
 to Cardinal Fesch. We knew the room to which he 
 had retired. Five of us rushed into it, and hurried 
 off the person we found in it, wrapping him in a cloak 
 and preventing him from making the least noise. We 
 carried him safely to the mountains, where we were 
 received with joyful exclamations. 4 The Prince of Canino 
 must have a royal ransom ! * The cloak and the gag 
 were instantly removed, and our prisoner treated with all 
 that respect which his rank and riches deserved. We 
 prepared his repast at a separate table, served him our¬ 
 selves, and treated him with due honours. The prince 
 surveyed all this with astonishment, and enquired whom 
 we took him for. A general laugh hurst from all of 
 us, till the captain replied that we knew ourselves to be 
 in the presence of the brother of the French emperor. 
 It was now his turn to laugh, hut it was a laugh which 
 seemed to he accompanied with a sensation of fear;—it 
 was the laugh of surprise, if I may so express myself, 
 rather than of good-humour. 
 
 “ ‘ I, the Prince of Canino, and Bonaparte’s brother ! 
 
The Last of the Family. 
 
 253 
 
 You are mistaken in your man ; I am his highness’s 
 painter.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Pho ! pho ! your highness ! You cannot deceive us. 
 We all of us know you. We could not be mistaken, for 
 we traced you to the room in which we found you.’ 
 
 “‘You are right, gentlemen. The prince was in that 
 room; hut, rendered suspicious and watchful by the many 
 attempts that have been made to rob, and, perhaps, as¬ 
 sassinate him, he heard the hurried steps of several per¬ 
 sons along the passage that leads to his room, and desiring 
 me to remain, proceeded by a secret door to another part 
 of the palace.’ 
 
 “For a minute or two the band were staggered. At 
 length the leader pronounced it to he a fabricated story 
 for the pupose of diminishing the amount of his ransom. 
 It was then resolved that the prince should write an order 
 upon his treasurer for a very large sum, upon the payment 
 of which depended his liberation. The prisoner resisted 
 for some time, hut the more he resisted the more firmly 
 were we convinced that we had secured the real prince. 
 A messenger was sent off with the draft, and he returned 
 with a letter confirming the painter’s account of his escape, 
 and offering three thousand crowns for his release. Our 
 golden hopes were thus disappointed; hut, as a last proof 
 of his not being the prince, we made our prisoner give 
 us a specimen of his art, which he did by grouping the 
 hand round their leader whilst he was issuing his orders. 
 
2 54 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 All doubt was now removed, and the poor painter was 
 liberated as soon as we received his ransom. 
 
 “ Our next exploit was more successful. We had heard 
 of a lawyer at Naples who lived in a retired street, and 
 was immensely rich; but, distrusting the government, kept 
 his money secreted in his house. Now nothing can be 
 more legitimate than a hatred of lawyers who exist by the 
 plunder of others. Ergo, to despoil them is a duty we 
 owe to our fellow-creatures. But the lawyer had a double 
 right to our services; for, though he affected in public 
 the greatest austerity of manners, he had inveigled a young 
 female from Sicily, who lived with him as his mistress; 
 but, with the jealousy of the most jealous of Spaniards, he 
 kept her confined to the house, and never suffered her to 
 stir except with him, and concealed by a veil. Here, I 
 say, was a double claim to our services. He is a lawyer, 
 and of course lawful prey. Then he is a hypocrite, for 
 he pretends to chastity and practises fornication. To 
 punish hypocrisy is a virtue. Thirdly, we are opening 
 the door to a prisoner, and restoring the Sicilian female to 
 her liberty. In fact, our project deserved to be classed 
 amongst those noble actions which immortalize the actors 
 concerned in them. 
 
 a The lawyer was a cunning fellow, very prone to sus¬ 
 picion, very reluctant to obey any calls that required his 
 presence abroad. He neither liked leaving his treasure 
 nor his mistress. Thieves might deprive him of both in 
 
The Last of the Family. 
 
 2 SS 
 
 his absence, or the lady herself might take wing and fly 
 away with some of his sequins. 
 
 “For a time all our devices to draw this limb of the 
 law from his den were in vain. But if he was watchful 
 we were active, and at length we hit upon a scheme which 
 placed the lawyer in our power. We had found out that 
 he was law agent and steward to the Cardinal Braschi, 
 whom of course he fleeced, as in duty hound. One of 
 our corps was directed to ingratiate himself with the car- 
 dinars valet, who was to command the immediate attend¬ 
 ance of the lawyer at the cardinal’s villa, about a mile 
 from Naples:—this villa we had hired for the occasion. 
 The lawyer, knowing the cardinal’s valet, did not fail to 
 obey the mandate, and, getting into a carriage which he 
 believed his eminence had sent for him, was conveyed to 
 the villa accompanied by one of us, whom he conceived 
 to be a fresh physician called in to the cardinal. Resolved 
 to extract as much mirth as possible from the adventure, 
 we had prepared a member of the band, who had a deep 
 and sonorous voice, to play the part of the sick cardinal, 
 whom, however, the little lawyer was not to be suffered 
 to see. We arrived at the villa. Everything was silent 
 as it should be when so great a man as a cardinal is indis¬ 
 posed. To the enquiries we made respecting his eminence, 
 the domestic made no reply, but shook his head and lifted 
 up his hands in a most doleful manner. I entered the 
 chamber first, and pretended to have some consultation 
 
256 The Last of the Family. 
 
 with the other physician before I returned to the ante¬ 
 chamber. I then informed the lawyer that I found his 
 eminence in great danger, and that his voice was so changed 
 that I could hardly recognize it to be the voice with which 
 I had been so familiar. After being thus prepared, the 
 lawyer was introduced. 
 
 “ ‘ Had not your eminence/ I said, ‘ better delay any 
 business of importance till after your recovery ?’ 
 
 “ ‘ Ho, my friend/ replied the pretended cardinal; ‘time 
 is precious: the hand of death is upon me. Is Giacomo 
 Maggi here P ’ 
 
 “ ‘ He is/ 
 
 “ ‘ How much of my revenues is in your hands ?’ 
 
 “ ‘Ten thousand dollars, so please your reverence/ 
 
 “ ‘ Ten thousand only ! I thought it was more, much 
 more/ 
 
 “ ‘ I do not know exactly, your eminence. Perhaps 
 fifteen, for I recollect there were some tithes paid in yester- 
 day.’ 
 
 “ ‘ ’ Tis well, Giacomo. But where are they ? Are they 
 secure ? 9 
 
 “ ‘ They are always deposited with my own slender 
 means in a vault under my house, the key of which I 
 always carry about me/ 
 
 “ ‘ Careful Giacomo ! But other sums can he called in. 
 —At this awful moment I would settle all worldly affairs. 
 Call in all my monies, and leave me drafts for all out¬ 
 standing credits/ 
 
The Last of the Family. 
 
 2 57 
 
 “ Giacomo hesitated, and thought they might be more 
 
 safely done at home. But the cardinal insisted, and Gia- 
 
 • 
 
 como drew drafts to the amount of some thousand dollars. 
 
 “‘ And now, Giacomo, as I feel tired, and must take the 
 composing draught which my physicians have prescribed 
 for me, attend me here to-morrow, that I may make a final 
 settlement of my affairs. I shall not forget your faithful 
 services/ 
 
 “ With many an audible prayer for his eminence’s 
 recovery, but with many a secret wish for his death, if 
 the legacy should be a large one, Giacomo took his leave 
 to return home. But we had prepared for him a different 
 destination; and, instead of seeing him to his own home, 
 we took him to ours in the mountains. 
 
 “The surprise, the shock of the little lawyer may be 
 
 conceived. He uttered all sorts of oaths, threatened us 
 
 with the vengeance of every court and tribunal in the 
 
 kingdom. The thunders of the Church were to come in 
 
 aid of the vengeance of the law. He would have every 
 
 one excommunicated. The cardinal was to devote us to 
 
 fire and faggot, excommunication, impaling, hanging, auto 
 
 da fe ism,—nothing was too severe for the perpetrators of such 
 
 an atrocity. Thus spoke the lawyer in the violence of his 
 
 rage. We did not attempt to check him, as it was part 
 
 of our game to add fuel to his fury. We asked him 
 
 what would become of the cardinal and his own chore amie 
 
 during his absence. At length, having sufficiently enjoyed 
 
 his raving, *we asked him whether he suspected that he was 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 in the power of men from whom there was no escape or 
 rescue, and whether he thought it possible he should ever 
 revisit Naples or his home, except through the medium 
 of a large ransom. The mere mention of ransom almost 
 deprived him of reason. It was c the iron that entered 
 into his soul/ He avowed himself a poor man, who had 
 the fortunes of others in his possession, hut had no money 
 of his own. However, if we would only permit him to 
 return home, he would undertake to bring hack all the 
 money he could scrape together. 
 
 “ ‘ Cunning, cunning Giacomo V we exclaimed ; ‘ and 
 who is to guarantee your return P The word of a lawyer ! 
 Who would take it ? and as to your character ! that we 
 know from your profession. Write an order to your lady¬ 
 love to bring you all the hags in that famous vault which 
 is under the house, and of which you keep the key always 
 about your person/ 
 
 “ He hesitated; he entreated us to he more merciful. 
 We pointed to a pine tree, which towered far above the 
 rest, and observed,— 
 
 “ ‘You see that sturdy, horizontal branch, which 
 stretches across the sward. There , there shall you he sus¬ 
 pended if our orders are not obeyed in the morning. 
 Meantime eat, drink, and he merry; but remember, we 
 are not to he trifled with. Long have we waited for 
 you; and there are some here, Master Giacomo, who owe 
 you this good turn/ 
 
 “ He trembled, but partook of our feast; nay, he 
 
The Last of the Family, 
 
 259 
 
 pressed the circulation of the wine cup, hoping, perhaps, 
 to intoxicate us, and then to bribe some one to connive at 
 his escape. After a short conversation apart with our 
 captain, I appeared to take an interest in his distress, and 
 to listen to his proposals. They were that I should be the 
 bearer of a note to his housekeeper, apprising her of his peril, 
 and desiring her to send at night-fall a sufficient force for 
 his release, for which service I was to receive one thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 “‘Agreed!’ said I; ‘but as our captain must see your 
 order, you must give me the one you mention, which I will 
 conceal, and write another for his inspection, which I will 
 produce, directing your housekeeper to he herself the bearer 
 of all the treasures in your vault. In this order you must 
 enclose the key. This second paper will he given to me, and 
 I shall proceed with both to Naples. I will destroy the 
 latter on the way, so that the former one only will he 
 executed/ 
 
 “ I delivered the first order to our captain, and departed 
 next morning with the second. ‘ The lawyer and his hags ! ’ 
 shouted out some of the hand—‘ The lady and the bags ! ’ 
 shouted others. I went my way, the lawyer giving me one 
 of those significant looks which seemed to say, ‘We un¬ 
 derstand each other! ’ 
 
 “ I found everything in confusion at Giacomo’s. No 
 tidings had been heard of him ; he had not been to the car¬ 
 dinal’s, nor had he been sent for. I asked for the Sicilian lady. 
 At first, the servant would have denied her ; hut, informing 
 
26 o 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 her that I had a letter from the lawyer, I was instantly 
 admitted to her presence. Truth obliges me to say that 
 if any one felt uneasiness at the absence of Giacomo, it was 
 not his mistress. She was a laughing, thoughtless girl, and 
 made herself merry at the account of the lawyer’s sur¬ 
 prise and fright. She wished she could have seen the 
 little man in his fits, and begged us to keep him wdth 
 us by all means. I assured her that at present he was in 
 very safe custody, and that his guardians were so fond of 
 him that they w T ould not part wdth him without the pay¬ 
 ment of a large sum, of which she was to be the bearer. 
 I then gave her his note and the key; and, making use of 
 the interval to receive the drafts which Giacomo had drawn, 
 returned in the evening that we might load the bags upon 
 mules, and leave the city without exciting suspicion. 
 
 “ Meanwhile the lawyer was far from being at his ease. 
 Two of the band were set to watch him, and the captain, 
 in order to torment him, affected to believe that he had 
 been tampering with his troop. As day declined, he put on 
 a sterner aspect, and threatened to hang him upon the pine 
 tree if he found out that any treachery had been practised. 
 The lawyer invoked all the saints in the calendar, to bear 
 testimony to his innocence; but ever and anon he would ad¬ 
 vance to the brow of the mountain, fixing his eyes upon the 
 road which wound around it in the direction of Naples. 
 
 “ Our captain now assumed an air of uneasiness and im¬ 
 patience ; he feigned a look of surprise and apprehension. 
 
The Last of the Family . 
 
 261 
 
 * The dust rises in clouds at the foot of the mountain. 
 There must be horsemen. By St. Januarius, there is a 
 troop of horse! We are betrayed! Bring the lawyer 
 here, and hang him from that branch the moment the first 
 horseman appears!’ 
 
 Ui Spare me! spare me! noble captain. I know the 
 officer. I will intercede for you. I sent for—that is, I 
 expected him.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Oh you did, friend Giacomo ? Then bid buona notte 
 to the world/ 
 
 “ Giacomo struggled and clung to the captain’s knees ; hut 
 he spurned him off, and the rope was put round his neck. 
 
 “‘ One quarter-of-an-hour, and no more. Look out, 
 Yincentio, now. Are the horsemen far up the mountain?’ 
 
 “ f I see no horsemen, but three mules, heavily laden; 
 on one of them is a female, and the last hears a soldier. 
 No, by heaven, ’tis Stephano !—Stephano and the bags— 
 Stephano and the lady !’ 
 
 “ ‘ Huzza ! take off the rope from the lawyer’s neck. 
 His hour is not yet come.’ 
 
 “ As soon as Stephano had reached the crest of the 
 mountain with Beauty and the hags, he bowed to the 
 lawyer with a smile as if he had executed his orders most 
 faithfully. Giacomo looked as if his eyes would have 
 started from their sockets. 
 
 “‘ Was this the order I gave you ?’ he said in an under¬ 
 
 tone. 
 
262 
 
 The Last of the Family . 
 
 “ ‘ I dared not execute it/ I replied, loud enough for 
 the captain to hear. 
 
 “ ‘ There is some mystery here, my friends/ said the cap¬ 
 tain. ‘ Speak out, Stephano ! There has been an attempt to 
 corrupt the fidelity of my band. That is death by our laws.’ 
 
 “ The lawyer protested his innocence over and over 
 again, and appealed to me. I turned my head away in 
 seeming confusion. 
 
 “ ‘ Attend, comrades/ said our captain in a voice and 
 manner that made the lawyer tremble. ‘ Stand forth, 
 Giacomo Maggi! Look at him ! He protests his innocence 
 —he says he gave hut one order, and that order has been 
 obeyed; the lady and the money have done us the honour 
 to place themselves under our protection. But there was 
 another order—a secret one—which would have endangered 
 the safety of us all. It was to direct the lady to apply for 
 a troop of soldiers, who were to attack and secure us.’ 
 And he read the order aloud. 
 
 “A cry of indignation burst from the whole band. 
 Giacomo felt that his last hour was come. The voice of 
 the band was for instant death. The lawyer cast himself 
 before us in an agony of fear; his knees trembled—his 
 whole frame was convulsed. Lucien Bonaparte’s painter 
 would have had a fine subject for his pencil. But I thought 
 that as our object was not really to put the lawyer to death, 
 we had done quite enough to frighten him. 
 
 “ I interfered in his behalf—‘We have got his treasures 
 
The Last of the Family . 
 
 263 
 
 and his lady-love. Of what benefit would be his miserable 
 carcass ? Let him live and carry on his work of pillage. 
 Besides, the cardinal, who is dying, has appointed him to 
 make his will, and he is to have a large legacy/ 
 
 “ A loud laugh burst from the whole hand. 
 
 “ ‘ The cardinal! the cardinal! His eminence must he 
 too ill. What says his physician?’ and our captain ad¬ 
 dressed himself to me. 
 
 “ ‘ That the febrifuge was so efficacious as to enable his 
 eminence to get out of bed and pay us a visit the moment 
 Giacomo left him. But ask the cardinal himself?’ 
 
 “ Vincentio, who had personated the cardinal, assumed 
 the deep, sonorous tone he had then used: ‘ Giacomo Maggi! 
 how much of my revenues is in your hands ? Ten thousand 
 dollars ! I thought more, much more. But ’tis well. Where 
 are they ? Call in all my monies. I have hut a short time 
 to arrange my worldly affairs. To-morrow I will make a 
 final settlement, and shall not forget your faithful services.’ 
 
 “ Convulsions of laughter followed this repetition of 
 the cardinal’s directions, and Giacomo became the laugh¬ 
 ing-stock of the whole band. 
 
 “ ‘ But he stirring,’ said our captain, ‘ or Giacomo will be 
 too late for the cardinal. Give him one of the mules. And 
 now farewell, my little lawyer—if you can recommend any 
 rich client of yours to our notice, you shall be well feed. 
 There is the key of your vault, take precious care of it. 
 Give our duty to the cardinal, and tell him he has our 
 
26 4 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 prayers for his recovery. And don’t forget yourself when 
 you make his will,—call in all his monies. Ha! ha ! ha ! ’ 
 
 “ The poor lawyer was then suffered to depart amidst 
 the shouts of the whole troop.” 
 
 This adventure gave great amusement to all the 
 company, except myself, who, though not so rich as the 
 lawyer, nor possessed of so charming a chere amie , felt that 
 I had fallen into the same hands, and that my release 
 would not be effected without the payment of a ransom. 
 
 The following song concluded the festivities of the night. 
 
 The Robber’s Song. 
 
 Here’s a health to all robbers of ev’ry degree, 
 
 And the toast includes many besides you and me; 
 
 We’re robbers in practice, and robbers in name,— 
 
 We dislike to be thought so, but rob all the same ! 
 
 ’Tis a passion all ranks and all stations pervades, 
 
 The life-blood that feeds all professions and trades; 
 
 The barrister robs the attorney, and he 
 Robs his client, to pay the keen barrister’s fee. 
 
 The client, when robb’d of his all, runs away, 
 
 And the lawyer is robb’d when he loses his prey. 
 
 The tradesman’s a robber for giving short weight, 
 
 And the publican robs with his chalk on the slate. 
 
 The tax-gath’rer robs, as in duty he’s bound, 
 
 But for conscience sake takes but one-fourth of the pound; 
 
 The state robs the people, the people the state, 
 
 The great rob the little, the little the great. 
 
 So here’s to all robbers of ev’ry degree, 
 
 The toast includes many besides you and me ; 
 
 We’re robbers in practice, and robbers in name,— 
 
 We dislike to be thought so, but rob all the same ! 
 
The Last of the Family. 
 
 265 
 
 To sleep under such circumstances was impossible. I 
 had no fears for my life, but I might be detained for a long 
 time, by the demand of a ransom larger than I could pay. 
 However, I resolved to know the worst at once, and next 
 day, when the whole band were assembled, I addressed 
 them thus:— 
 
 “ Gentlemen, I am, as I told you, a traveller returning 
 to his home after a fatiguing journey. I am far from 
 being rich, and therefore wholly unable to pay a large 
 ransom. You will be convinced of this when you examine 
 my valise. Here is the key.” 
 
 The captain immediately ordered it to be brought to 
 him and opened. Besides wearing apparel there were 
 several letters, a purse with sufficient money to carry me 
 home, and a small casket in which were three rings. 
 One had been given me by the count, in remembrance 
 of his daughter ; the second as a proof of his own esteem ; 
 the third was a token of friendship from Father Anselm. 
 The papers were laid aside as not worth reading; but 
 the casket and the rings fixed the attention of the captain. 
 The ring, in remembrance of the countess, had an inscription: 
 
 “ Sophia ! infelix Sophia ! Nata -, mortua -.” The 
 
 count’s had the arms of the Orsini. As soon as he cast 
 his eye upon them, he struck the table with his hand, 
 and vehemently exclaimed,—“ Torments and furies ! How 
 came this into your possession?” The band stared at us 
 both in mute astonishment. Such a burst of passion, in 
 such unmeasured language, had never before escaped him. 
 
266 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 “This instant satisfy me, or yonr head shall roll on 
 yonder sod.” 
 
 “ There needs no threat to make me. I came from 
 Venice, where I had left my friend at the palace of 
 Count Orsini, from whom I received this ring as a token 
 of his esteem. This other was given me in remembrance 
 of his daughter ; and the third by Father Anselm, formerly 
 Count Otho Winceslaus.” 
 
 “Beware how you trifle with me. You have men¬ 
 tioned names which I dare not trust myself to repeat. 
 You have called up recollections which I would not will¬ 
 ingly have had revived. All former scenes now rush upon 
 my memory in their blackest horror. Have I not broken 
 every tie and link—abandoned all—fled from all—abjured 
 name and country to be the-” 
 
 The end of the sentence remained unfinished, for he 
 fell back exhausted in his chair. 
 
 There was for some time a deep silence. At length 
 several of the band questioned me. I was unable to 
 comprehend it. The effect seemed so inadequate to the 
 cause—so extraordinary. 
 
 When the captain had recovered some degree of tran¬ 
 quillity, he cast a searching look round him, and then 
 fixed his eye sternly upon me. I returned his look with a 
 steady gaze, which seemed to demand some explanation of 
 the strange and incoherent sentences he had uttered. The 
 band also seemed to expect some account of the motives 
 
The Last of the Family. 
 
 267 
 
 of his conduct. They began to think that he had recognized 
 a former enemy in me—some man who had done him a 
 grievous injury. I saw in their eyes the blackening scowl 
 of suspicion, which might lead to fatal consequences. 
 
 He walked up and down the cavern with an uneasy 
 step, and at length said to his comrades,—“ The recol¬ 
 lections which this person has brought to my mind re¬ 
 quire that I should examine him more closely, and alone. 
 Let the valise be carried to my apartment.” And, turning 
 to me, he said, “ Follow me !” 
 
 We retired to his room, and after being seated, he 
 began,— 
 
 “My conduct and expressions seem to have surprised you.’ 
 
 “ They have.” 
 
 “And do you not think that I must have felt sur¬ 
 prise at beholding tokens, and hearing names which I 
 have not suffered to pass my lips for years ? ” 
 
 “But I am in perfect ignorance of your history, and 
 even name. To convince you, however, that the ac¬ 
 count I gave you is true, here are letters from all the 
 personages I have mentioned. This is a letter of thanks 
 from a lady for the good offices I performed towards one 
 who loved her. It is from the Countess Sophia, who 
 now sleeps in the tomb of her ancestors.” 
 
 “ Sophia Orsini dead ! Dead ! did you say ? and, per¬ 
 haps, of grief?” 
 
 “ Of grief, most surely.” 
 

 26 8 The Last of the Family. 
 
 “ And the count, her father,—you spoke of him ? ” 
 
 “ This is a letter in which he informs me of the 
 dying wish of his daughter ;—that Otho Winceslaus, 
 known then as Father Anselm, should remain to cheer 
 the last days of her afflicted and repentant father.” 
 
 “ And have such conflicting elements met at last ? As 
 soon should I have expected the dumb to speak, the deaf 
 to hear, and the blind to see.” 
 
 “They have indeed; and, in the place of that bitter 
 hatred and unseemly discord which envenomed the souls 
 of both alike, a mutual feeling of regard and affection 
 has sprung up, and which, under the favour of heaven, 
 may yet, I trust, have time to ripen, and ‘ bring forth fruits 
 meet for repentance.’ ” 
 
 “But what about the son, the young and gallant 
 Stanislaus ? ” 
 
 “He died before his sister, the hapless Sophia—aided 
 and abetted by the count, his father, in'a dastardly attack 
 upon Otho Winceslaus, he was slain in the hall of his own 
 palace.” 
 
 “ Was it indeed so ?” 
 
 “ It was; and when the aged count shall descend with 
 his ancestral honours into the ancestral tomb, the noble 
 house of the Orsini will not have a representative left to 
 carry down its name to future generations: and thus the 
 remembrance of its race and name alike will be lost in the 
 womb of time.” 
 
The Last of the Family. 
 
 269 
 
 “ Not so; the powerful family of the Orsini, whose rise 
 dates anterior to that of either Guelph or Ghibelline,— 
 aye, older and more renowned than that of the Colonna 
 itself—a family that has given more than one Doge to 
 Yenice, and aspired even to till the Papal chair—that 
 family, I tell you, defies both time and circumstance to 
 obliterate its records from the page of history, or detract 
 aught from the grandeur of its position, so long as the state 
 of Yenice shall remain, or a noble dwell within its gates/’ 
 
 “ Possibly: I grant it may he so ; but, in thus deferring 
 to your opinion, I am forced to adopt the maxim that— 
 
 ‘ The evil that men do lives after them; 
 
 * The good is oft interred with their hones.’ 
 
 But why should this matter he one (as apparently it is) of 
 such great moment and interest to you P Surely it is better 
 to he altogether forgotten than to be remembered only by 
 the magnitude of one’s vices; and those, forsooth, of the 
 Count Orsini and his son were neither few nor light; 
 though the charitable injunction, ‘ JDe mortuis nil nisi 
 bonum / should lead us to hope that these vices may he 
 atoned for, in the case of the count, by a hearty and 
 sincere repentance; and in that of his son, by the mer¬ 
 ciful interposition which cut him off in the career of sin, 
 that would otherwise, perhaps, have increased 6 pari passu ’ 
 with his increasing years. Such, then, has been the fate 
 of the Orsini—so proud of their rank—so soaring in their 
 projects of ambition—so persevering in their wicked de- 
 
270 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 signs—and so unscrupulous as to the means of accom¬ 
 plishing them. In a few brief years the grave will have 
 enclosed them all, and not one of the line will survive to 
 perpetuate the name of that illustrious house; though, for 
 aught I know, there may yet exist in a remote corner of 
 the globe some outcast member of this family, whose deeds 
 may have acquired a wider notoriety, and will perhaps meet 
 with a retribution greater even than that with which the 
 count and his son have been visited. Who knows, for in¬ 
 stance, hut that in the person of some bandit chief-” 
 
 “ Peace, slanderer! or, by the sacred name of God, 
 which till now has never passed these Kps without the 
 profanation of an oath, your blood shall be shed on the 
 very spot on which you stand. Answer me, villain, and 
 that without prevarication or delay! How have you be¬ 
 come possessed of a secret which not even the chosen as¬ 
 sociate of my hand, no, nor my deadliest foe (for friend, 
 unhappily, I have none), has ever been able to penetrate 
 or discover ? Look well at me, sir ! and see if you can 
 trace, in these furrowed cheeks, these rough and indented 
 features, and in this embrowned complexion, any single 
 point of resemblance that should warrant you in ascribing 
 to me the character and condition of an outcast member of 
 the Orsini family?” 
 
 At this sudden outburst of indignation, my mind so 
 completely lost its balance, and my thoughts became so 
 utterly dispersed, by the fearful reahty which my simple 
 
The Last of the Family. 
 
 271 
 
 and unmeaning hypothesis had created, that, what between 
 my astonishment at the half-admitted truth of my specu¬ 
 lative surmise, (inferred from the remarkable manner in 
 which he had applied my observation to himself,) and 
 my fears for the consequences that might follow from 
 anything I might say or do, to confirm him in his belief 
 that I had really a knowledge of his antecedents, I 
 replied in as calm and level a voice as I could com¬ 
 mand,— 
 
 “I am possessed of no secret whatever, having refer¬ 
 ence to yourself, nor can I detect the faintest resemblance 
 in your form or features to any member of the Orsini 
 family with whom I have ever been acquainted.” 
 
 I looked him directly in the face as I made this 
 declaration. He advanced a step or two forward, and 
 turning upon me the full force of his dark searching 
 eyes, said, in an under-tone,—- 
 
 “ Enough ! I believe your word, but doubt the im¬ 
 pression your mind might have conceived from what 
 has passed. Now, mark me ! a solemn oath that you 
 will never, in any way, or under any circumstances, refer 
 to this conversation, nor divulge to any living soul the 
 secret I am about to impart to you, under the firm 
 persuasion that you have already half-divined it. The 
 alternative is instant death, as the only safeguard and 
 protection against disclosures that would endanger both 
 my liberty and my life.” 
 
2J2 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 I took the required oath, and pledged myself to an 
 observance of the closest secrecy. 
 
 “ Enough! ” again exclaimed the captain, in the same 
 subdued tone as before. “ Now follow me ! ” and he 
 led the way into an interior apartment, which he informed 
 me was the council room. I was in too excited a 
 condition to examine it minutely, hut in the centre was 
 a large oval stone table, unpolished, and resting on four 
 upright piles of oak about a foot in diameter, and at 
 each side was a rude bench, also of oak. At the top 
 and bottom stood two massive and moveable oak chairs, 
 with large arms, on which were carved some quaint devices, 
 evidently illustrative of some kind of masonic emblems 
 by which the conduct and actions of this lawless band 
 were regulated and determined. The captain pointed 
 to one of these chairs, in which I immediately seated 
 myself. He brought, or rather dragged, the other from 
 the opposite end, and placed it close by the side of mine. 
 He then extended his hand in token of his good faith, 
 and I met his grasp with a heartiness that must have 
 conveyed to him the assurance of my own. 
 
 “You see,” he now said, “in the person of the leader 
 of this band, a son,—an only son,—of Cosimo Orsini, 
 who was the youngest and only surviving brother of 
 the Count Orsini. My father married very early in life, 
 and my mother, unhappily for me, died when I was 
 hut two years old. At the age of eighteen I entered 
 
The Last of the Family . 
 
 2 73 
 
 the army. Little care had been bestowed on my education, 
 my father having regard only to the accumulation of 
 wealth, his portion of inheritance as a younger son 
 not sufficing for the grandeur of his ideas, nor for the 
 multiplicity of wants which those ideas had created. 
 He embarked in commercial enterprises, against the counsel 
 and advice of the count, became utterly ruined, and, 
 disdaining all offers of assistance from his brother, left 
 Venice for the Papal States, and died there in obscurity 
 about twelve years ago. When my father quitted Venice, 
 I was adopted by a near relative of my mother’s, who 
 enabled me, by a handsome provision, to maintain my 
 rank and position in the army. In my regiment was 
 a young Piedmontese, the Baron Isola. He was about 
 two years my junior, and at his father’s death had 
 inherited a good fortune, which, I presume, was all 
 squandered away, as I did not remain long enough in 
 the regiment to witness the last phase of its absorption 
 at the gaming-table. This Baron Isola had evinced a most 
 passionate desire for gambling, and I soon became in¬ 
 oculated with the fatal mania. There was nobody to 
 control us, and we plunged into a vortex of dissipation, 
 of which the gaming-table was not the only, perhaps 
 not the most injurious, element. We pursued our career 
 of pleasure with an utter disregard for every scruple 
 of honour, and suffered no obstacle to stand between 
 the object of our desire and its gratification. To supply 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 the rapacity of the gamesters, the Baron Isola had re¬ 
 course to the sale of a portion of his estates in Piedmont; 
 hut I, having neither estate nor any fund to draw from, 
 beyond my allowance, was reduced to the necessity of 
 raising the wind by stratagems and devices to which 
 now, as the leader of a troop of bandits, I could not 
 stoop without a sense of the deepest humiliation. We 
 had for some time associated ourselves with men as nobly 
 born, and as desperate in circumstances as ourselves. 
 From our position in society we were enabled to mix in 
 the highest circles, and found no difficulty in decoying 
 men of wealth to our respective hotels, and particularly 
 
 such foreigners as we knew to he possessed of ample 
 
 means. 
 
 Our success was great, for strangers had not the least 
 chance against us. But it was chiefly the English whom 
 we courted. Rich, daring, and unsuspicious, we easily lured 
 them to our haunts, where sumptuous dinners and the 
 choicest wines prepared them for the gaming-table. In¬ 
 discreet by nature, and more so after having indulged in 
 
 the pleasures of feasting, they betted largely, and always 
 unsuccessfully; hut they did not bear their losses with 
 patience. They would break out into paroxysms of rage, 
 throw dice and cards out of the window, and then return 
 with additional rashness and with the same bad fortune. At 
 length one of our party, neglecting his usual caution, or 
 thinking that his antagonist was off his guard, ventured 
 
The Last of the Family . 
 
 275 
 
 to substitute a pair of false dice, but so clumsily, that the 
 Englishman detected the cheat, and struck the offender to 
 the ground, pronouncing all the members of the bank to 
 be swindlers, whose conduct he should immediately expose 
 to the government. This was to be avoided at any risk, 
 and the Englishman was of course found dead in the street 
 at some little distance from our hotel. 
 
 “ The attention of the government had been already 
 drawn to us. The Englishman had a friend who, though 
 he did not play himself, occasionally accompanied him to 
 the gaming-table, and who now suspected that he might, 
 perhaps, have been a considerable winner, and assassinated 
 for his gains on his way home. He accordingly concerted 
 with the government a plan for our detection. Some of 
 the police were dressed in the uniform of English officers, 
 and were introduced by the Englishman, who informed us, 
 with a significant look, that his friends could speak no 
 language but their own, and of which he knew us to be 
 totally ignorant. At the same time, they had great pre¬ 
 sumption and confidence, though totally ignorant of the 
 game. They played ; and, to our astonishment, succeeded 
 in every throw. Immense sums of money now changed 
 sides, and the bank was in danger of breaking. Ho 
 alternative remained but a recourse to those practices which 
 were always resorted to in cases of necessity. The tables 
 were turned in our favour, and the sums we had lost re¬ 
 turned to us as quickly as they had left us. On a sudden, 
 
276 
 
 The Last of the Family. 
 
 however, the dice were seized and opened, and the imposi¬ 
 tion was at once discovered. The pretended English officers, 
 now addressing ns in good Italian, informed us who they 
 were, and proceeded to arrest us. We fought and resisted 
 as long as possible; two of our party were killed, and the 
 same number of the police. All the rest of my companions 
 were secured and carried off. I saved myself by jumping 
 out of the window. 
 
 “ Character, credit, fortune, all were now gone. Where 
 was I to seek shelter for my wretched guilty head P I 
 had no home to return to—no father, mother, or sister to 
 whose love I could appeal in my distress. My pride would 
 not permit of my seeking protection from the Count Orsini, 
 as my cousin Stanislaus had systematically shunned me 
 whenever we chanced to meet at one of the many gambling- 
 tables he frequented. I wandered all night, and hid myself 
 in the day in thick woods, to escape the pursuit which 
 I knew would be ordered by the state. In this dreadful 
 plight, I traversed the Roman States, and threw myself 
 into the wild mountains of Calabria. There, a lost and 
 desperate man, whose character nothing could restore, and 
 who had neither a country nor friends, I changed my name 
 to Vanoni, and consented to become the leader of a band of 
 robbers. 
 
 “Any detail of the many adventures in which I have 
 been engaged it would neither be pleasant to you to hear, 
 nor to me to recount. Enterprise and danger are congenial 
 
The Last of the Family. 277 
 
 to my feelings ; but oh ! tbe baseness and meanness of 
 my occupation !—tbe leader of a band of robbers ! Yet 
 disgraceful as it is, I see no chance of abandoning it. 
 What country would suffer me to be at peace ? What 
 society would associate with me ? Where could I have 
 the opportunity of repairing past crimes by repentance 
 and a new course of life P No, no ! The finger of scorn 
 would be constantly pointed at me. I should see contempt 
 in every eye; I should hear reproach from every tongue. 
 To be the object of hatred, or of vengeance—that I can 
 bear; but to live an object of contempt is worse even than 
 torture, or the most ignominious of deaths. No, no ! 
 
 “ One act of justice, however, shall be done forthwith: 
 the friend of the Orsini shall not have to say that he 
 received injury and insult from the last of the family. You 
 shall be conducted to Lyons by a more trustworthy guide 
 than the one by whom you were inveigled to our haunts. 
 
 “ There is one favour, however, which you can do to 
 a friend of mine, and consequently to me. We have 
 among us a person whom we secured in one of our 
 expeditions, and who has been with us a long time. He 
 has never been one of our band, nor would ever take 
 part in any of our expeditions. But he has been useful 
 to us by his skill in medicine, and to that skill many of my 
 men owe their lives. Between him and myself a friendship 
 was established, and the soothing of many an hour, in which 
 I have been nearly overwhelmed with sorrow, I owe to 
 
I 
 
 278 The Last of the Family. 
 
 him. His is a fearful tale, but, as it was communicated 
 to me in confidence, it must be communicated to you in 
 a similar manner. He is now sixty, perhaps more. Age 
 has brought with it some of its concomitant infirmities ; 
 and the life we lead, and the mountains we inhabit, are 
 no longer fit for him. He wishes to retire to Germany, 
 where he can find some humble abode, in which he may 
 pass the remainder of his days. Will you take him 
 with you, and give him the benefit of your advice and 
 protection P ” This I promised with the utmost readiness, 
 and the companion of my journey was immediately intro¬ 
 duced as M. Yerseuli. 
 
 As soon as my caleche could be got ready, we took 
 our leave of the leader and his troop, who seemed to part 
 with my companion with great reluctance. “ Farewell! ” 
 said the leader, as he took me aside. “ Sometimes bestow 
 a thought upon me; and let the severity of your censure 
 be softened by the recollection of the shame and remorse 
 that gnaw the heart of the last of the Orsini! ” 
 
 We set off immediately. 
 
279 
 
 LEAF THE NINTH. 
 
 THE CONVENTIONALIST. 
 
 For some miles after we had left the mountains we 
 remained silent, as if each were pondering over the scene 
 and the persons he had just quitted. At length Verseuli 
 exclaimed, “ Poor Vanoni—or, rather, Orsini! what a life of 
 wretchedness and guilt!—the consequence of early indul¬ 
 gence and early orphanage. The same passions which lead 
 to evil might have been productive of the noblest results 
 had they been under the guidance of a virtuous father 
 or mother anxious for the welfare of their son. The rock 
 on which he split was freedom of action, which had no 
 proper direction, and which, like a vessel without pilot or 
 rudder, was at the mercy of every wind and wave. Those 
 very qualities, which shone so conspicuously at the gambling- 
 house and the brothel, and which can now direct the ex¬ 
 ploits and curb the turbulent dispositions of robbers, might, 
 under more favourable circumstances, have achieved for 
 him a name and a station amongst the excellent men 
 who live in the page of history, and the gratitude of man¬ 
 kind. How often the after-life takes its colour and its 
 
2 8o 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 tendency from the first step. Early errors are scarcely 
 ever repaired.” 
 
 Such were the first remarks of Verseuli, and he closed 
 them with the following :— 
 
 “ If I am not entitled, from my own experience, to he 
 the censurer of others, it at all events enables me to foretell 
 the consequences which must result from certain actions, 
 and to give to others that advice and warning which I 
 have, alas ! hut too much neglected myself.” 
 
 Our conversation now turned naturally upon Orsini, 
 whose sad and disgraceful fate we both anticipated, as he 
 could never be prevailed upon to abandon his present oc¬ 
 cupation. We knew full well that, except in the cloisters 
 of a monastery, there was no spot to which he could retire 
 in safety.* 
 
 My fellow-traveller had evidently mixed much in life, 
 and I did not forget what Orsini had told me, that his was 
 a fearful history. 
 
 We reached Lyons without any event of importance, 
 and there we quitted the caleche and our driver, by whom 
 
 * The count had sent Father Anselm to his nephew in the hope of 
 reclaiming him from his unworthy pursuits, and inducing him to seek 
 in some other country a more honourable career. But the uncle’s re¬ 
 monstrances were fruitless; and his nephew perished in a desperate 
 attempt to suprise the chateau of an Italian nobleman—Domo d’Ossola. 
 He was borne off the field by the hand, and buried in a cavern in one 
 of the mountains. Under the name of “Vanoni,” the only inscription 
 upon his tomb, no one can suspect that he is looking upon the grave of 
 the last of the illustrious race of Orsini. 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 281 
 
 we sent letters to Orsini. Yerseuli accompanied his with 
 a large packet of such drugs as might he useful to the 
 band. 
 
 As soon as the driver had departed, one of the officers 
 of the police came to our hotel, and delivered me a letter 
 from the sub-prefect, requiring my immediate attendance. 
 I obeyed accordingly, and the sub-prefect abruptly asked 
 me if I was well acquainted with my fellow-traveller. I 
 reflected that my companion might have motives for not 
 being known, and that it might excite or confirm any sus¬ 
 picion against him if I replied that he was but an acquaint¬ 
 ance of yesterday. I answered at once that he had been the 
 intimate friend of the nephew of an illustrious nobleman at 
 Venice with whom I had been acquainted ; that he had 
 long resided in Italy, and was now going to live with me 
 in Germany. The sub-prefect paused, and was silent for 
 several minutes. At length he took out of a portfolio the 
 portrait and signalement of a person whose name he con¬ 
 cealed by placing a card over it. “ Is it not,” he said, 
 “ the exact likeness of your friend’s face, and the exact 
 description of his figure?” It was indeed so exact that 
 I had no doubt of his being the person. However, I af¬ 
 fected to say that it did not strike me to be more than a 
 general resemblance, which we often see between two per¬ 
 sons not at all connected by any ties of kindred or of 
 country. I did not attempt to challenge his opinion on any 
 other ground, and, as he did not press the point further, 
 
282 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 I imputed the result of his apparent indifference to the 
 goodness of his heart. 
 
 “ I am inclined,” he said, “ to accept your version 
 rather than act on my own belief, because I am not desirous 
 of aggravating the sorrows of any man, or of being the 
 means of putting his life in peril. Imprisonment for life, 
 or perhaps the punishment of death, would he the lot of 
 the man whose identity with that portrait could he satis¬ 
 factorily established. We then parted, and upon my return 
 to the hotel, I immediately informed Yerseuli of my con¬ 
 ference with the sub-prefect. He did not change counte¬ 
 nance, though I thought I observed a slight convulsion of 
 the under lip. I proposed that we should set off for 
 Strasbourg forthwith,—a proposal which met with his 
 ready concurrence. We arrived at Strasbourg at night, 
 and thereby escaped any particular survey of our persons, 
 and any interrogatories as to our destination. The next 
 morning I went to the prefecture, and by dint of a few 
 cogent arguments procured leave for us to quit the city, 
 and pass to the other side of the Rhine. I doubt not the 
 feelings of my fellow-traveller were unpleasant enough 
 during the interval between our departure and our land¬ 
 ing on the German side of the Rhine ; hut he had been 
 so intimate with danger, that no trace of fear or anxiety 
 was discoverable in his look or manner. He seemed to he 
 a man whose mind was prepared for every contingency. 
 
 The interest I had shown in his service, and the anxiety 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 283 
 
 I had evinced for his safety, entitled me to his confidence, 
 which he gave me to the fullest extent, as soon as we 
 had quitted the French territories, and begun our journey 
 to the heath. I shall continue calling him by the name 
 he assumed. His history he recounted as follows :— 
 
 “Yery early in life I became intimate with the late 
 Duke of Orleans, my father having been one of his 
 tutors. I was a few years younger than he was, but 
 he became extremely attached to me, and I was the 
 companion of his pleasures, as well as the sharer of 
 his studies. You have heard, perhaps, that there was 
 an abruptness in his behaviour, a want of delicacy, which 
 made him particularly obnoxious at court, both to Louis 
 XYI. and to the queen. The former disliked him for 
 the immorality of his private life, the latter for his 
 deficiency in those attentions which were due to her 
 elevated situation and to the elegance of her manners. 
 The duke, instead of attempting to remove this dislike, 
 imbibed a deep hatred of the royal family, and eagerly 
 availed himself of every opportunity for giving currency 
 and credit to the scandalous anecdotes against them. 
 He took into his confidence all those who were disaf¬ 
 fected to the government, and who wished to give to 
 France such a constitution as she had enabled the 
 Americans to establish upon their separation from England. 
 In them the wish might proceed from a real love of 
 freedom; in him it arose from a desire to gratify his 
 
284 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 revenge against the reigning family, and from a hope 
 that the gratification of that revenge might throw the 
 power of the state into his hands. His immense fortune 
 afforded him the means of creating discontent amongst 
 the populace. Sometimes he effected this by the monopoly 
 of corn, and thus increasing the price of bread, which in¬ 
 crease was imputed to the court, and particularly to the 
 influence of the queen ; at other times by diminishing the 
 demand for labour, by corrupting the military, and exciting 
 insurrections. In these manoeuvres he was actively sup- 
 
 m 
 
 ported by many of those who afterwards were such pro¬ 
 minent actors on the revolutionary stage. They made him 
 their dupe, whilst he considered them merely as the flexible 
 agents of his crooked and treacherous machinations. 
 
 “ The events of the year 1789 opened a wider field for 
 his intrigues. In the National Assembly he was one of 
 the most active in bringing about the suppression of pri¬ 
 vileges and of feudal rights and titles. Mirabeau, Con- 
 dorcet, and others, laughed in private at the folly of the 
 man who had lent himself to this act of suicide, though in 
 public they dignified it with the name of the most exalted 
 patriotism. I take shame to myself for having been blinded 
 by their representations; but I was young. The example 
 of America was recommended in speeches and in pamphlets 
 by those who were the real friends of liberty, as well as 
 by those to whom any change is acceptable. 
 
 4 ‘After the suppression of privileges and feudal rights, 
 
The Conventionalist . 
 
 285 
 
 the revolutionary torrent became too strong to be resisted 
 by the more moderate. and by those who were desirous of 
 repairing the edifice but not of destroying it. Prudence was 
 designated as indifference to the cause of freedom; modera¬ 
 tion was characterized as little less than treason. Then 
 was exhibited the spectacle of the most illustrious families 
 trampling upon the records of their ancestors, and giving 
 their title-deeds and patents of nobility to the flames round 
 which the populace were dancing ‘ in transport and rude 
 harmony.’ Religious orders and monasteries were all 
 suppressed; and the nobles, who believed that they had 
 established their claims to the gratitude of their country by 
 the sweeping sacrifices made to liberty and equality, saw 
 their castles and their property devoted to pillage and con¬ 
 flagration, as monuments of an aristocracy which ought not 
 to survive the extinction of the privileges of their order. 
 Nor could the nobles really consider this as any other than 
 the natural effect of their own conduct. They had indeed 
 helped to destroy their own castles ; they had proclaimed to 
 the nation that nobility was an abomination,—that they 
 had exercised a tyrannical power, (which the possession of 
 these exclusive privileges had given them,) for the oppres¬ 
 sion of their tenants and dependants. The populace viewed 
 these castles as so many fortresses which had offered the 
 means of attacking them with impunity, and they resolved 
 that they should no longer remain as monuments and 
 mementoes of their former degradation. 
 
286 
 
 The Conventionalist . 
 
 “Towards the end of the year 1791, after the first con¬ 
 stitution had been accepted by Louis XVI., the second 
 National Legislative Assembly was convoked, (though the 
 Orleanists had endeavoured in the National Assembly to 
 procure a decree for deposing the king,) and I was elected 
 a member of it. I need not enter into a history of the 
 proceedings of that Assembly; but, during the whole of 
 its sittings, the Duke of Orleans never ceased caballing 
 against the peace of the royal family. Every means that 
 could possibly inflame the passions of the populace were 
 resorted to. The king was pronounced to be insincere, and 
 the queen treacherous. We all look with horror upon 
 the excesses of an infuriated rabble who, indiscriminate 
 in their rage and madness, involve the innocent with the 
 guilty, the feeble with the strong, the innocence of infancy 
 with the helplessness of old age, in the same punishment and 
 ruin. But let us reserve part of our execration for those who 
 set this machine in motion ; who secretly and safely pre¬ 
 pared these scenes of horror, and charged the mine which, on 
 its explosion, was to produce such wide-spread destruction. 
 It has been too much the fashion to involve Louis XVI. 
 in indiscriminate blame for the patience of his endurance, 
 and his total want of firm resistance to the projects of the 
 revolutionists. But, having let the first opportunity slip, 
 he had no longer the power of repairing his error, or re¬ 
 covering his position. Had Broglio taken a strong position 
 on the heights of Montmartre, and menaced Paris, the 
 revolution might perhaps have been destroyed in embryo; 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 287 
 
 or, had the tennis-court been surrounded by a military 
 force, and the principal agitators arrested, such an act of 
 firmness might, perhaps, have stemmed the revolutionary 
 tide. Perhaps! But counsels of such vigour, even had 
 they been adopted, might have been unavailing, for the 
 military would probably have refused to act. Disaffection 
 had made rapid strides among them from, the period of the 
 taking of the Bastille, where hundreds of victims to the 
 tyranny of the court were said to be immured, and where 
 one prisoner only was found, whose imprisonment was not 
 the consequence of any offence against the state, nor of any 
 arbitrary act on the part of the government. 
 
 “ It is true that Louis XYI. might have resisted the 
 demands of the infuriated mob, and would have died more 
 nobly, perhaps, at the head of the small hand which re¬ 
 mained faithful to him : but he would neither have checked 
 the torrent, nor have driven hack the tide. With our pity 
 for his misfortunes, he would indeed have blended a feeling 
 of admiration for his constancy and firmness ; hut his re¬ 
 sistance would have been as ineffectual to control the mighty 
 force of the revolutionary element, as a pebble cast into the 
 sea would he to arrest the influx of the ocean-wave in its 
 progress towards the shore. The crown fell from his head 
 the moment he put on the bonnet rouge , on the 20th June, 
 1792. 
 
 “ These reflections may appear extraordinary to you, 
 when I come to touch upon a future period of my life; 
 hut they have been the result of meditation in retirement, 
 
288 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 when the impulse which had goaded me at a former period 
 had lost its passion and its power. 
 
 “ After the 10th of August the king ceased to reign even 
 nominally; and short was his passage from the throne to 
 the scaffold. Between the period when he took refuge in 
 the National Assembly (such a refuge as a man finds who 
 is forced to seek an asylum amongst his enemies) and 
 the fatal 21st of January, the intrigues of the Orlean- 
 ists were incessant. Being so intimate with the duke, 
 I became necessarily acquainted with his most secret 
 advisers. Robespierre, Danton, and Couthon were amongst 
 the principal ones—Marat was an auxiliary. Robespierre 
 had a pale and cadaverous cheek, with eyes which, being 
 generally bloodshot, imparted an expression of cruelty mixed 
 with cunning. There was none of that daring and defiant 
 look so remarkable in Danton and Couthon. Robespierre 
 was essentially a coward, and he sent his victims to the 
 guillotine not so much with the view of crushing any hos¬ 
 tility to the revolution, as with a determination to remove 
 all persons who might be thought to endanger his own safety. 
 
 “ If ever there was a human being who, more than 
 another, delighted in blood, that man was Danton. By a 
 cruel mockery he was appointed minister of justice, and 
 one of his first acts was to clear the prisons of the priests 
 and nobles with whom they were crowded. For three days 
 the work of butchery was carried on without the least inter¬ 
 ference on the part of the Legislative Assembly. Some of 
 
The Conventionalist . 289 
 
 the most venerable priests were massacred, in the sanctuary 
 even of the church, and before the very altar itself. 
 
 “ The Legislative Assembly,—contemptible from its 
 cowardice and infamous for its crimes,—was replaced by 
 the National Convention, of which I became a member. 
 The first act of their authority was the abolition of royalty, 
 and the next was the trial of the king, who, with his family, 
 was kept a close prisoner in the Temple. I was a member 
 of the Committee of Public Safety, and the debates upon 
 the fate of the king were frequent and violent. At one of 
 them, a member of the Committee urged the policy of 
 banishment, which would at once proclaim to the world 
 our reluctance to establish the Republic in blood, and our 
 conviction of being strong enough to repel any attempts 
 which foreign powers might make, even with the advantage 
 of possessing the persons of the royal family. 
 
 “ Danton immediately rose, and with one of his violent 
 gestures and coarse oaths, opposed the proposition, which 
 he considered as cowardly. The tree of liberty required to 
 be watered with the blood of tyrants, and the punishment 
 of one king would strike terror into the hearts of all others. 
 
 “ Robespierre was of the same opinion, but he went 
 more into detail. He was more refined in his cruelty than 
 Danton. He insisted upon the necessity of a formal trial, 
 which would give a semblance of justice to their proceedings, 
 without being of the least service to the monarch, whose 
 guilt was placed beyond a doubt. Besides, in the cor- 
 
 u 
 
290 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 respondence which the Committee kept up with the English 
 Jacobins, it was made a sine qua non that the precedent 
 of the trial of Charles I. should be followed. This would 
 give heart to the English revolutionists, who would thereby 
 be convinced that no intention was entertained of abolish¬ 
 ing the republican, and returning to the monarchical, regime. 
 
 “ Our correspondence with England, Scotland, and Ire¬ 
 land, was carried on, not direct to or from England, but 
 by the circuitous route of Ireland, and chiefly from one 
 of the southern ports in that country, from whence smug¬ 
 gling vessels easily conveyed them to the French coast, 
 and returned with the instructions of the Committee of 
 Public Safety. This mode of correspondence was never 
 suspected by the English Government, nor were any of 
 the papers or correspondence seized at the time of the 
 arrest of those persons whose trials took place towards 
 the end of the year 1794. The fact is, that the persons 
 who were taken up by the English Government, and tried, 
 were none of them the men with whom the Committee 
 of Public Safety had corresponded. Nothing seemed to us, 
 at one time, to be more encouraging than the prospect of 
 affairs in that country; we were prepared for an imme¬ 
 diate explosion. 
 
 “But the measure which the English Jacobins expected, 
 and which the Committee of Public Safety, the Orleanists, 
 and the Bobespierres, the Dantons, and the Barreres, had 
 determined upon, was one of the means which retarded 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 291 
 
 instead of accelerating the progress of the revolutionary 
 cause, and made the revolution itself an example to be 
 shunned rather than a precedent to be imitated. The 
 king was brought to trial. I was, of course, in my 
 place as a member of the Convention. The Jacobins ex¬ 
 pected that he would exhibit in this trying moment the 
 same meekness wdiich had marked his conduct from the 
 commencement of the revolution. 
 
 “ I had earnestly entreated the Duke of Orleans not to 
 he present at the trial; urging that, as he would not openly 
 espouse the king’s cause, his absence might be attributed 
 to a humane desire not to sit in judgment upon a man 
 to whom he was so nearly related. I had hoped that he 
 would have felt the soundness of my advice. But after 
 I had left him, Robespierre and another member of the 
 Committee of Public Safety pressed upon him the necessity 
 of sacrificing any feelings of kindred to the duty he owed 
 to his country. They instanced the case of Brutus, and per¬ 
 suaded him (I fear he required but little persuasion) to 
 an act which has made his name odious to all posterity. 
 Robespierre had his own motives,—he was anxious to 
 make the duke his tool, that he might afterwards be 
 the better able to sacrifice him at pleasure. 
 
 “ The king was accompanied to the bar of the Con¬ 
 vention by his noble defenders Malesherbes, Tronchet, and 
 De Seze. There was nothing forced in his demeanour,— 
 nothing of that assumed courage which a man under such 
 
292 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 perilous circumstances thinks it necessary to adopt. It was 
 calm and dignified. It was the air of a man conscious 
 of his innocence, and from that consciousness derived his 
 intrepidity. It was a moment of thrilling interest—the 
 last of a long line of monarchs was standing at the bar to 
 plead for life and death before men who, hut a few, few 
 months since, would have bent the knee to him in a 
 spirit of abject servility and homage. 
 
 “ The President of the National Convention on that 
 memorable day made every attempt to insult the fallen 
 monarch and to entrap him. But the effort, whilst it 
 disgraced the individual, placed the character of the mo¬ 
 narch in a more distinguished point of view. They 
 addressed him as Louis Capet, though, as they were 
 trying him for the crimes alleged to have been committed 
 by him as King of France, they ought not merely in 
 point of delicacy, hut of right, to have given him the 
 title. The unmanliness of the insult produced no re¬ 
 proach, no indignant complaint from the monarch. He 
 answered every question with a readiness and candour as 
 unexpected by his judges as it was honourable to himself. 
 The defence having been concluded, the king rose to address 
 the Convention. Although losing none of that dignified 
 hearing so remarkable in the Bourbons, I was more struck 
 by the expression of benevolence which was spread over his 
 otherwise melancholy features, and which was the best re¬ 
 futation that could have been given to those charges of 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 2 93 
 
 tyranny and oppression with which it had been endeavoured 
 to connect his name and conduct. It is clear, indeed, that he 
 would have been acquitted on the very first day of his trial; 
 but the Jacobin clubs as well as the committees had neglected 
 nothing that could prejudice and inflame the public mind. 
 
 “ After the Convention had adjourned, and Louis XYI. 
 had been sent back to the prison of the Temple, we met 
 in committee, where we had no sooner assembled than 
 Danton, striking the table with his fist, burst into the 
 
 following exclamation :—‘ Qui aurait cru que ce - de 
 
 Capet aurait montre tant de calme, et meme de courage P ’ 
 And, turning to Robespierre, he added,—‘Sacre —! que 
 nous avons mal fait! C’est toi, qui nous as force a ce 
 coup. Nous aurions trouve des moyens plus surs et plus 
 secrets! ’ Robespierre retorted upon Danton, and from that 
 moment a breach took place between them, which led to 
 the death of Danton. The Committee were thus divided 
 between the Dantonists and the partisans of Robespierre. 
 But they acted in concert against the king. 
 
 “ Your imagination cannot figure to itself the excite¬ 
 ment which then pervaded the metropolis. Few men had 
 leisure, and scarcely the desire, to deliberate with coolness. 
 Reason, judgment, and justice, were without the slightest 
 influence; and though the irresponsibility of the king was 
 a fundamental principle of the constitution, it had no more 
 weight than so much waste paper against the sweeping plea 
 of expediency and state necessity. You will remember 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 294 
 
 that the only difference in the Convention was as to the 
 nature of the punishment; and that of the seven hundred 
 and twenty voters, six hundred and eighty-three declared 
 him guilty. Thirty-seven refused to vote; but not one of 
 them dared to pronounce the king innocent. 
 
 “ And now I come to a point in my history which I 
 would willingly forget. I voted for the king’s death, being 
 then impressed with a belief in his treasonable conduct, 
 and the conviction that banishment or imprisonment would 
 only multiply the dangers of our situation, and that con¬ 
 sequently his death would be the best means of establishing 
 the Republic. 
 
 “I have lived to convince myself of the injustice of 
 my opinion, and to feel the bitterest remorse for the 
 share I took in the transaction. 
 
 “Never shall I forget that execrated day, when the 
 sentence of death was pronounced, and the appel nominal 
 was resorted to. There were seven hundred and twenty- 
 one members present. When the name of the Duke of 
 Orleans (Egalite) was called, almost every one expected 
 that, if he did answer, he would have voted for some 
 punishment short of death. He disappointed this expec¬ 
 tation, and, without the slightest hesitation, gave his vote 
 for “ Death.” No sooner had he given it than an unani¬ 
 mous cry of ‘ Le scelerat!’ burst from every part of the 
 assembly. Three hundred and sixty-six voted for death. 
 An ineffectual effort was made to appeal to the nation. 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 295 
 
 The majority then decided that the sentence of death 
 should be executed within twenty-four hours. 
 
 “ There was a long silence in the Committee that night, 
 a feeling as if some sudden event would occur to prevent 
 the consummation of our purpose. Our sittings were 
 permanent, as they had been during the whole trial,— 
 that is, they were never suspended, even during the night, 
 for we had constant communications with the Sections, 
 particularly the most Jacobin ones. We had reports every 
 hour; and aides-de-camp were in constant attendance to 
 convey our orders to the national guard. 
 
 ‘‘Scarcely one of the members of the Committee sat 
 down, but all continued walking about, making frequent 
 ejaculations in a low tone of voice. Danton at length 
 
 spoke out:—‘ Enfin ce- de Capet ne nous genera 
 
 plus. Demain nous aurons sa tete dans le petit panier!’ 
 The coarseness and cruelty of the man who was making a 
 mockery of the king’s last moments occasioned an almost 
 universal shudder. As I passed Robespierre, who still 
 kept walking, I heard him mutter to himself,—‘ Et ta tete, 
 coquin, roulera aussil’ Barrere merely observed,—‘Enfin 
 la Republique sera consolidee! ’ 
 
 “ An aide-de-camp was now announced, who brought 
 the intelligence of the murder of a member of the Conven¬ 
 tion, who had voted for the king’s death. He was mur¬ 
 dered in the Cafe de Foix, in the Palais Royal. The 
 assassin had been immediately arrested. This intelligence 
 
296 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 produced a general consternation in the Committee, for we 
 suspected that this would not be the only deed of ven¬ 
 geance which the Bourbonists would inflict. We ordered 
 the public accuser to he sent for immediately, and the 
 assassin to he brought before us. He was brought in, 
 hound with cords, between two gendarmes. 
 
 “ He was asked his name and occupation. He replied 
 boldly to each question, and added, ‘ a sworn enemy of all 
 regicides and Jacobins! ’ Being interrogated as to his 
 motive, he replied, ‘ that it was to set an example to every 
 loyal subject to select some one member of the Convention 
 who had voted for the king’s death, and make him pay 
 the penalty of his life.’ Danton :—‘ Sacre! mais c’est un 
 peu trop fort!’ Barr ere, whose nerves were never strong, 
 looked alarmed. Robespierre said,—‘ Quelle histoire nous 
 chantez-vous done P Bah! c’est une mensonge ! ’ The 
 prisoner (an officer of the Swiss guard) surveyed him with 
 a menacing look, and then said,— 
 
 “ 4 You are amongst the first marked out for vengeance. 
 Every one of you will he cut off. Do you think that 
 France has no loyal hearts ready to die for their sovereign? 
 If one fail in the attempt he will be succeeded by another. 
 Hot a single regicide will be permitted to live. I have 
 struck my blow; others will follow with theirs.’ 
 
 “Many questions were put to him to draw forth in¬ 
 formation of a plot against the Republic, and the persons 
 concerned in it; but he refused to furnish the slightest 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 297 
 
 intelligence, simply asserting that each would be informed 
 of the plot when he became the victim of it. He was then 
 ordered to prison, from whence in a few hours he was 
 conveyed to the scaffold. 
 
 “ But as we could not believe that this would he a 
 solitary instance of vengeance, the Committee redoubled 
 its precautions. The number of guards in attendance 
 was trebled, and, as the execution of the king was to 
 take place the next morning, cannon were planted on the 
 bridges, on each side of the Place Louis Quinze, and at 
 the entrance of the walks which lead from the Place to 
 the Tuileries and to the Champs Elysees. Additional 
 troops were stationed in and about the Temple; and 
 Santerre, to whom was confided the command of the 
 military escort that was to conduct the king to the scaffold, 
 was sent for to receive the most positive orders to accelerate 
 the procession as much as possible, and not to suffer any 
 delay after the king had ascended the scaffold. A cannon 
 discharged from the corner of the Hue St. Florestan was to 
 announce that the sentence had been carried into execution. 
 
 “ There were no thoughts of sleep that night in the 
 minds of the Committee. Each was too much occupied 
 with the next day’s awful programme. No rolling of 
 carriages or waggons was heard, for none were allowed to 
 pass till after the execution. The monotonous step of the 
 troops as they marched along the streets, and the heavy 
 tread of the gendarmes’ horses, as they went their rounds 
 
298 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 to prevent or disperse any groups in the squares or boule¬ 
 vards, were the only sounds that disturbed the gloomy 
 silence of the night of the 20th January. One or two of 
 the members of the Committee occasionally inspected the 
 different posts, to ascertain that such officers had been 
 stationed there as had been selected by the Committee. 
 Santerre himself was closely watched by two of our most 
 confidential spies, lest he might waver in his resolution at the 
 last moment, and suffer some friend of the Bourbon family to 
 gain access to the ill-fated monarch. 
 
 “ The night was cold and raw, and a heavy fog hung 
 over Paris. The public mind and feeling seemed hushed 
 into a still and solemn silence, as though they apprehended 
 the certain advent of some impending calamity that was to 
 overwhelm themselves and their families in one general 
 ruin. Nothing, in short, was wanting to complete the 
 horror and dreariness of the scene. 
 
 “ I know not whether my feelings were shared by any 
 members of the Committee, hut, whilst wishing that the 
 deed were done, I dreaded the arrival of the fatal moment. 
 
 “ The morning dawned at length, and the crime was 
 consummated. The brutal exultation of Danton, when the 
 booming of the gun announced that the royal victim had 
 passed from life to death, burst forth in the following joyous 
 
 exclamation:—‘ II a peri, le-tyran! VivelaRepublique ! 1 
 
 Robespierre maintained his usually stern and sullen aspect. 
 
 “ After the execution I wrapped myself closely in my 
 
The Conventionalist . 
 
 299 
 
 cloak, and visited different parts of Paris, to mark the effect 
 upon the minds of the people. Many of the Parisians would 
 have shut their shops, as on a day of mourning. But the 
 terror inspired by the Jacobins was so great that no person 
 dared to show any external sign of horror or regret. Still 
 no one could fail to recognize, in the general aspect of the 
 city, the presence of a great calamity. The shops were open 
 as usual, but none frequented them, and the persons who 
 kept them were not visible. Groups were not permitted 
 to be formed in the streets, and friends, as they passed each 
 other, stopped not to pay compliments or make inquiries, but 
 interchanged fearful or gloomy looks, and passed on. Even 
 the most determined Jacobins seemed for the moment to 
 be stunned by the blow, and spoke not in their usual style 
 of boasting and menace. The only coaches seen in the 
 streets were those attended by gendarmes conveying some 
 state prisoner to the Conciergerie. Occasionally might he 
 seen a single pedestrian hurrying with quick step along 
 the boulevards, unable to conceal his indignation, which 
 vented itself in execrations and menaces against the regi¬ 
 cides. If I went into any of the cafes or restaurants it 
 was as if I was entering the abode of silence. There were 
 persons in them, but they were all employed in reading 
 the journals of the day. The entrance of every fresh 
 person seemed to rouse their attention for a moment; but no 
 one conversed with his neighbour, lest, if he happened to 
 make use of an expression which might be construed into 
 
3 °° 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 a feeling of pity for the fate of the decapitated monarch, 
 the police, whose engines pervaded all society, would im¬ 
 mediately drag him to prison and the scaffold. The ap¬ 
 proach of night was dreaded, for strange apprehensions were 
 entertained of fresh insurrection and renewed carnage. Men 
 believed that the royalists, though not strong enough to 
 save the king, would revenge themselves upon the most ob¬ 
 noxious members, or set fire to different parts of the capital. 
 Bockets were occasionally thrown up after nightfall, and 
 these were believed by the Jacobins to be signals from the 
 royalists, and by the royalists supposed to he preludes to 
 some system of sweeping arrests and massacre on the part 
 of the Jacobins. 
 
 “The death of the king, which was to secure the 
 stability of the Eepublic, was deemed insufficient of itself 
 to accomplish that end, and was therefore followed up by the 
 proscription and punishment of all who were themselves, 
 or through their relations or connections, supposed to he 
 attached to the ancient regime. 
 
 “ Then ensued an era the like of which no eye had 
 ever seen, nor tongue described. Every crime was com¬ 
 mitted in the name of liberty; and mercy, justice, and 
 religion were banished from the land. Men courted the 
 applause of the populace by the avowal of atheism. The 
 shrine of the Yirgin was profaned by the presence of the 
 courtesan; and the goddess of Eeason seated herself upon 
 the altar of the living God. The religion of our Eedeemer 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 301 
 
 was scoffed at as a fraud upon mankind, and abolished by 
 a decree of the Convention. Impunity for crime was 
 openly proclaimed by the doctrine that death was but an 
 eternal sleep. None were secure from punishment but the 
 guilty; innocence afforded no protection, and infancy and 
 old age were equally unsafe. Every day witnessed whole 
 families perishing on the scaffold ; and three minutes were 
 sufficient to cut off three generations. The virtuous Males- 
 herbes, his daughter and her child, were all executed at 
 the same time. The veriest wretch that had been released 
 from the galleys was received as a competent witness 
 against the most upright magistrates ; and Fouquier-Tin- 
 ville, the public accuser, had always evidence at command 
 to swear away the lives of any one who might be obnox¬ 
 ious to the Jacobins, or who might be selected as a sacrifice 
 to individual revenge. It was sufficient to denounce a man 
 as an enemy to the Republic, and the bare denunciation was 
 taken as equivalent to proof. Suspicion was held to justify 
 imprisonment, and even death; nay, that the facility of 
 clearing the ground for the occupation of the new aspirants 
 to power might be rendered more ample, victims were ar¬ 
 raigned, condemned, and executed on the unheard of charge 
 of ‘ suspicion of being suspectedt And thus no pretexts 
 were wanting, and no door was left unopened for the ad¬ 
 mission of the foulest and most colourless accusations that 
 the malice and ingenuity of these demons could devise. 
 In the old republics a reward was bestowed upon him 
 
3 02 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 who had saved the life of a citizen; in the modern one 
 a premium was offered for taking it away. 
 
 And, as if the death of the king did not suffice to 
 appease the fury of these Jacobinical fiends, they must need 
 glut their vengeance with the blood of the beautiful and 
 heroic queen of France, and of the excellent and virtuous 
 Madame Elizabeth ; whilst the only son of Louis XVI. was 
 left to pine in prison, through ill-treatment, neglect, and want. 
 
 “Of all the men who perished on the scaffold, with 
 the exception of Danton, Robespierre, and their companions, 
 the execution of the Duke of Orleans was the least re¬ 
 gretted. All remembered his insatiable animosity against 
 the royal family, all recollected his savage and unnatural 
 vote against the king. He passed on to the scaffold, in the 
 midst of the assembled multitude, without a single excla¬ 
 mation of pity; and, with a refinement of cruelty, almost 
 as barbarous as his own nature, he was paraded in triumph 
 before the doors of his own residence, ‘ The Palais Royal/ 
 He died under the double torture of the curses of mankind 
 and the stings of his own conscience. I had abjured the 
 duke’s acquaintance from the moment he gave his vote 
 against the king; and this was so well known in the Com¬ 
 mittee of Public Safety, that it saved me probably from 
 being involved in the same fate to which Robespierre had 
 consigned him for the very action which he had recom¬ 
 mended as emulating ‘ all Greek, all Roman fame.’ 
 
 “ There remained now, of the more violent of the Ter¬ 
 rorists, Robespierre, Danton, Camille Desmoulins, Herault 
 
The Conventionalist. 303 
 
 de Sechelles, and others. These were divided into two 
 parties, of which Danton and Robespierre were respec¬ 
 tively the leaders. A third was formed by the members 
 of the commune of Paris ; but, the two former parties 
 uniting to effect its overthrow, it was speedily annihilated. 
 Robespierre now directed the whole weight of his power 
 against Danton and his adherents, who, in less than a 
 fortnight afterwards, shared the fate of the members of 
 the commune. But these executions, which Robespierre 
 had designed as the means of consolidating his power, 
 were soon rendered intolerable, and but three months had 
 elapsed, after the death of Danton, when he experienced 
 the same fate, with twenty-one of his accomplices. 
 
 “ I pass over the interval between the punishment of 
 Robespierre and the day of the Sections in 1795. The 
 Convention had become odious to the nation for its crimes 
 and its cowardice. Another revolution seemed to be in¬ 
 evitable. The new Constitution, which the Convention 
 proclaimed, was obnoxious to the National Guard, who, 
 speaking the feelings of the Parisians, wished for a state 
 of greater security, and would have rejoiced at the resto¬ 
 ration of the Bourbons, could they have been restored 
 without any reference to the past, for the punishment of 
 revolutionary offences, or for the resumption of national 
 property. The National Guard, however, determined to 
 dictate to the Convention, and assembled a large force. 
 The Convention must have yielded, but for the appearance, 
 on the revolutionary stage, of a young man, who was to 
 
304 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 change the face and fortune of affairs, not only in France, 
 but throughout the whole continent. This young man, 
 Bonaparte, was selected by Barras to command the regular 
 troops against the Sections, and by his vigorous and prompt 
 measures (he had but a few hours to arrange them) quelled 
 the insurrection, and restored the power and influence of 
 the Assembly. In consequence of the new Constitution, I 
 became a member of the Council of Five Hundred. All my 
 colleagues in the Committee of Public Safety, with the ex¬ 
 ception of two or three, had perished. I know not to what 
 cause I ought to attribute my safety; perhaps it was on 
 account of my insignificance, and of the little mention that 
 had ever been made of my name. But I soon found that 
 I was obnoxious to every party: to the Royalists, for the 
 share I had in the king’s death; to the moderate or Anti- 
 Jacobin party, for the post I had held in the Committee 
 of Public Safety. Shunned by my friends, and disowned by 
 every Section that retained any authority, or semblance of 
 authority, in Paris, I stood before the world a solitary being, 
 cut off from all social intercourse, as if I had been the sole 
 actor in the gigantic crime that had been perpetrated in 
 the much abused name of Liberty. They who did not detest 
 me, suspected me; whilst they who did not suspect me, 
 detested me. Thus gloomily and wretchedly passed my life 
 for four years, till Bonaparte’s return from Egypt. 
 
 “ The affair of the 18th and 19th Brumaire (10th and 
 11th November), 1799, produced another order of things, 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 305 
 
 and another Constitution in the ever-changing destinies of 
 France. The Councils of Ancients and of Five Hundred, 
 with the five Directors, ceased to exist. By some fatality I 
 was close to the Deputy Arena in the orangery at St. Cloud, 
 where, as was said, he drew a dagger against Bonaparte. 
 I became immediately an object of suspicion, and thus 
 Bonaparte and his adherents were added to the enemies 
 I have already mentioned,—the B-oyalists and the Anti- 
 Jacobins. My legislative functions ceased from that memo¬ 
 rable day, and I became a proscribed man. I had neither 
 wife nor family, in whose affection I could have found con¬ 
 solation and peace. I knew not that I had any relation 
 in the world. No one loved me—not a living creature was 
 attached to me, save one, whose fidelity was neither in¬ 
 creased by prosperity, nor diminished by adversity—my dog 
 Castor, who had been my companion for many years. 
 
 “ I had now to devise some means of subsistence, 
 having been deprived of my legislative functions, and 
 without any chance of obtaining any other public em¬ 
 ployment. Paris could no longer afford me a secure 
 asylum, for who would countenance or employ a regicide ? 
 I was a good classical scholar and mathematician, and 
 hoped to obtain a situation as preceptor in some distant 
 part of France. I obtained one at Bar-sur-Aube, but 
 it was with difficulty that I could procure a passport 
 in my own name, so well known, and so obnoxious; and 
 yet I did not dare to change it. I left Paris in the 
 
 v 
 
3 ° 6 
 
 The Conventionalist . 
 
 diligence, taking with me my faithful Castor. It was 
 dark when I set out. The diligence was full, hut it 
 was impossible to discover who were my fellow-travellers. 
 We stopped to breakfast at a small village, and when 
 we re-entered the diligence to continue our journey, the 
 conversation became general. We discussed the recent 
 events at Paris, and I soon found that they were all 
 in favour of the revolution, which had annihilated the 
 Councils of Ancients and of Five Hundred. I took 
 especial care, therefore, not to let drop a word which 
 could enable them to discover that I had been a mem¬ 
 ber of that ill-fated assembly. We dined at Coulommieres, 
 and the first person who met my eyes on alighting from 
 the diligence at the inn was one of the gendarmes who 
 had been in constant attendance upon the Committee 
 of Public Safety. I spoke to him, and remarked that 
 his answers were short, dry, and repulsive. He was 
 communicative enough, however, to my fellow-passengers, as 
 I soon experienced. At dinner the familiarity, which 
 had previously subsisted, was changed into behaviour the 
 most frigid and uncourteous ;—no one spoke to me. If 
 I addressed any one, he pretended to be entirely occupied 
 with the person next him. Hay, it seemed as if each 
 had removed his chair as far as possible from me, that 
 he might not touch so proscribed a being. The pang 
 of the moment was bitter, but I took my resolution 
 instantly. 1 drew the landlord aside, and told him 
 
The Conventionalist . 
 
 307 
 
 that the confinement of the diligence had disordered me, 
 and that I had determined to prosecute the rest of my 
 journey on foot ; and with my only friend Castor, who 
 was rejoiced at being again at liberty, I took the road 
 to Bar. It was a fatiguing journey, rendered more so 
 by solitude and the bitterness of my feelings. However, 
 I reached my destination, and immediately entered upon 
 my functions as preceptor. I believe I gave sufficient 
 satisfaction to my employers. But I abstained from 
 frequenting either the cafes, theatres, or public assem¬ 
 blies, lest some person might recognize the regicide. 
 There were beautiful and sequestered walks along the 
 banks of the Aube, and there I wandered every evening 
 with my dog. I had now full opportunity for entering 
 into a strict examination of my past conduct. I went 
 carefully over all the documents relative to the king’s 
 administration, his arrest, trial, and death. Now, that the 
 revolutionary stimulus had lost its power, I was able 
 to reason impartially, to weigh and compare the evidence 
 for and against him, and to come to a deliberate and 
 just decision upon the whole case. I would not be 
 satisfied with one review, I re-travelled the same ground, 
 and always arrived at the same conclusion. The mon¬ 
 strous injustice which had been committed, the innocence 
 of the king, and the horrible crime of his death, were 
 demonstrated with almost mathematical certainty. I was 
 absolutely stupefied at the fact of not a single deputy 
 
3°8 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 being found, in an assembly of seven hundred and twenty, 
 bold and just enough to pronounce his innocence. 
 
 “ It is the custom in the public academies to have 
 exhibition days, in which the scholars are publicly ex¬ 
 amined. A large concourse of their friends is thus brought 
 together, and the masters are, of course, expected to he 
 present. I would most willingly have absented myself from 
 it, but this was impracticable. The public examination 
 took place, and the usual rewards were distributed. Several 
 of my pupils were amongst the number, and I began to 
 think I had obtained a situation which promised me at 
 least a decent maintenance and repose. But I had been 
 recognized by one of the parents of my pupils, and the 
 principal of the establishment required my attendance 
 next morning in his private cabinet. I was not long in 
 being informed of the cause. A regicide could not, of 
 course, be a fit preceptor for youth, and the parents of 
 many of the boys had insisted on my removal. Com¬ 
 plaint would have been useless, and I retired with one 
 observation,—that I could not blame them for the view 
 they had taken, even at the expense of justice, but I could 
 solemnly aver that my political opinions had never been 
 intruded upon my pupils. 
 
 “ I had been six months at Bar without having made 
 one acquaintance that could be of any assistance to me in 
 my extremity. I knew not where to go ;—to Paris I could 
 not return. I knew of no place farther from Paris that 
 
The Conventionalist . 
 
 3 09 
 
 could promise safety. At Bar I could not remain. I left 
 it, determining that I would take the first road that led 
 eastward from the city. Still, accompanied by my dog, I 
 walked as fast and as long as I could, that I might he at 
 as great a distance as possible before night. With great 
 fatigue I accomplished nearly twelve leagues, having taken 
 but little refreshment the whole day. Towards the evening, 
 I discovered a considerable village in the distance, and 
 hoped to reach it before dark; but I presumed too much 
 upon the strength of my constitution. On a sudden, I felt 
 myself very faint and exhausted. I was seized with giddiness, 
 and from that moment lost all consciousness. How long 
 I lay by the road-side in this insensible state I cannot tell; 
 but at last the moaning of my dog, who had placed himself 
 close by me, brought a woman to my assistance; and by the 
 aid of her husband, I was removed to their abode, where, 
 after being laid on a bed, I soon recovered. I then in¬ 
 formed them that I was a traveller who had fainted on 
 the road from the joint effects of want of nourishment 
 and fatigue. The kind-hearted couple instantly provided 
 me a plain but welcome repast, and insisted on my resting 
 myself for two or three days. I complied most willingly, 
 not knowing any place to which I could proceed without 
 risk of discovery. During these three days I found that my 
 kind hosts had several children, who, from the isolation 
 of the place, had not been able to obtain any education; 
 for there was no school, and no schoolmaster, in the village. 
 
t 
 
 310 The Conventionalist . 
 
 The idea immediately struck me that I might be able to 
 procure a humble livelihood, and be more secure from 
 recognition here than in a place of greater note. I con¬ 
 sulted my host, who seconded my wishes with the greatest 
 readiness; and behold me now schoolmaster of the vil¬ 
 lage of Beaucaire. The children of my host were my 
 first pupils, and, being very assiduous in the discharge of 
 my duty, I soon increased the number of my scholars, and 
 was held in great respect by their parents. 
 
 “ Four years elapsed without any event of impor¬ 
 tance. If I did not enjoy happiness, I was at least 
 tranquil, and my vocation, though humble, was respectable 
 and useful. I could have been well content to have passed 
 the remainder of my days in the village, but for me 
 there seemed to be no permanent repose, and no secure 
 home. Bonaparte, on his way to Italy to be crowned 
 king in 1805, (having the year before been raised to the 
 imperial dignity,) was to take his route through the 
 village, and every place, however small, was expected to 
 present an address of congratulation on the occasion. We 
 had no public character in the village—no mayor—no 
 military officer—no superior officer of police ; but an address 
 was deemed a matter of necessity. The principal persons of 
 the village, chiefly small farmers, assembled and requested 
 my attendance. It was then resolved that no person was 
 so proper, to draw up the address and to present it, as the 
 schoolmaster. This was a cruel and unexpected blow. If 
 
The Conventionalist. 311 
 
 I refused, it would be imputed to a want of regard for 
 the villagers, and of allegiance to the head of the 
 government; if I consented, recognition would be sure 
 to follow. Bonaparte was not a man to forget, or to 
 forgive. But this risk I was obliged to incur,—I had no 
 alternative; and, impressed with the belief that what¬ 
 ever adverse event might happen in consequence would 
 arise from the vote I had given against the king, I yielded 
 with apparent cheerfulness to the desires of the good 
 villagers. The address was prepared, and, at the head 
 of the procession, I took my station at the entrance 
 to the village. Bonaparte arrived, and, instead of passing 
 with his usual rapidity, was obliged to halt on account 
 of some damage to his carriage. He alighted from it, 
 whilst it was being repaired, and walked up and down 
 with his usual impatient step, his hands behind him. I 
 advanced with the deputation, and begged permission to 
 read our address. ‘ Bead ! read ! ’ he replied in a quick 
 tone of voice, and the address was read. He confronted 
 me, and stood still. Ho doubt the villagers were inwardly 
 exulting at the proof they had given of their loyalty; 
 whilst he was occupied with thoughts of more importance. 
 He then enquired ‘ the name of the village, and whether 
 I was mayor or syndic, or what public office I held?* I 
 answered his questions briefly, and informed him that 
 unless the schoolmaster could be called a public officer, 
 there was no other. ‘ What was the chief trade carried 
 
3 12 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 on ? what the amount of our taxes ? what the number 
 of the conscripts furnished ?’ To none of these enquiries 
 could I give him any satisfactory answer. My ignorance 
 surprised him, and he asked me ‘whether I was not a 
 native of the village/ I replied in the negative, hut that 
 I had resided there some time. ‘How long?’ ‘About four 
 years/ ‘What was the cause of my fixing my residence 
 in so obscure a place ? ’ ‘ The want of a more lucrative 
 
 employment/ ‘ What did I teach the children ? ’ ‘ Only 
 
 common arithmetic, writing, reading, and mensuration; 
 there were none who required a classical education, or 
 were able to enter upon a course of mathematical studies/ 
 
 ‘I understood mathematics, then ?’ ‘I answered in the 
 affirmative/ ‘ In all its branches ? in its connection with 
 the operations of war—with the management of artillery 
 in the field—and with the siege and defence of fortified 
 places ? ’ I replied that I did. He looked surprised, 
 and bluntly demanded ‘why I had not chosen a military 
 life ? ’ I answered that my inclinations led me to civil 
 employments. ‘What had they been before I resided in 
 the village ?’ ‘The same/ ‘Where?’ ‘At Bar-sur- 
 Aube/ ‘ Why did I not remain there, where I might have 
 had a larger field for my exertions ? ’ ‘A difference of 
 opinion with my employers/ ‘Upon political subjects, no 
 doubt ? 9 I replied still in the affirmative. 
 
 “ ‘ And you thought it necessary to conceal yourself in 
 this village P ’ 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 3 1 3 
 
 “ 1 Conceal! * I exclaimed, with a degree of indignation 
 I could not repress ; besides, it was necessary that I should 
 not degrade myself in the eyes of the villagers, all anxious 
 listeners to our conversation. Bonaparte immediately fixed 
 his eyes upon me. 
 
 “ ‘ And before you came to Bar-sur-Aube, what might 
 have been your profession ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Member of the Council of Five Hundred; of the 
 National Convention ; of the second Legislative Assembly/ 
 “ ‘ And of the Committee of Public Safety P 9 
 “ ‘ Yes/ 
 
 “ ‘ And you voted the death of the king ? 9 
 “ ‘ I voted with Sieyes and the majority/ (Sieyes 
 had been one of Bonaparte’s most confidential advisers.) 
 
 “ 4 And you were in the Council of Five Hundred at 
 St. Cloud, on the 18th and 19th Brumaire ? 9 
 
 “ ‘ I attended my duty when the sittings of the Council 
 of Five Hundred were ordered by the Council of Ancients 
 to he transferred to St. Cloud/ 
 
 “ ‘ And you recollect the events of those memorable 
 days ? 9 
 
 “ ‘ Perfectly. The Council was dispersed by the military, 
 assisted by the President of the Council, Lucien Bonaparte/ 
 “ 4 There was some attempt made by the Deputy Arena ?’ 
 “ ‘ It was said so ; but I did not see it, though I was 
 close to him/ 
 
 “ ‘ Perhaps it was a convenientblindness ? 9 
 
3H 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 “ ‘ I am incapable, sire, of a falsehood. I had no pre¬ 
 vious intimacy, no acquaintance, with the Deputy Arena; 
 he was a countryman of your majesty’s.’ 
 
 “ My calmness and courage seemed to surprise him. 
 
 “ ‘ One of my grenadiers warded off the blow ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ I repeat to your majesty that I saw no blow 
 attempted ; and, if there had been, I had no concern in it, 
 though by chance I happened, in that moment of confusion, 
 to be near my colleague. I had no enmity, public or 
 private, to gratify. I discharged my duty as an honest 
 citizen. Who but a madman would have selected such 
 a moment for attempting your majesty’s life, surrounded as 
 you were by your guards ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ The assassin, then, you think, ought to go to work 
 more quietly, more secretly?’ 
 
 “ ‘ As I hate assassination, I have never contemplated 
 the best means of committing it.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Bah! bah! des mots, des phrases ! ’ 
 
 “He was now told that his carriage was ready. He 
 immediately got into it, and, as soon as he was seated, said 
 to me, ‘On my return from Italy I may take a different 
 route ; but do you report yourself to the prefect of Lyons.’ 
 I bowed, and he departed. 
 
 “ During the whole of this conference every word had 
 been heard by the villagers who had accompanied me; and 
 thus was disclosed every particular of the history of their 
 schoolmaster. It had produced an immediate revulsion in 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 3*5 
 
 their feelings towards me. Without speaking a word or 
 saluting -me they moved off in a body, leaving me quite 
 alone. I returned disconsolate enough to my humble 
 abode, and prepared to resume my occupation. But at 
 the usual hour of school next day, not a hoy attended of 
 the fifty or sixty of whom the school consisted. The 
 children of my kind host were amongst the absentees. My 
 means of subsistence, humble as they were, were thus 
 destroyed in an instant; but, unconscious of any offence or 
 neglect in my occupation, I called upon my host to express 
 my surprise, and to enquire the reason. Bespect, kindness, 
 had all vanished. The mark of Cain upon me, from having 
 voted the death of the good king, and the suspicions enter¬ 
 tained by the great emperor, were sufficient reasons for not 
 committing their children to the care of a man capable of such 
 actions. I remonstrated against the injustice of this conduct 
 towards a man who had never instilled improper political 
 or immoral principles into the minds of their children. 
 But remonstrance was of no effect, and it absolutely 
 appeared as if my presence was deemed a profanation. 
 I left them, with thanks for their former kindness, and took 
 my way through the village homeward. What a contrast 
 in two days ! But eight-and-forty hours ago there was not 
 an inmate of any house or cottage who would not have 
 hastened to greet me, as I passed, and to invite me to their 
 humble but hospitable board. Now, every door was closed. 
 Those who were in the street no sooner discovered me in 
 
3 l6 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 the distance than they hastened home, to avoid all contact 
 or conversation with me. I could not have been more 
 shunned had I been infected with the plague. Oh ! hitter 
 agony, to be thus cast off from all converse with one’s 
 fellow-creatures! to meet no eye that does not express 
 scorn! to hear no voice that does not convey reproach ! 
 
 “Again was I thrown upon the fidelity of my poor 
 Castor; but where to steer our course, or to find shelter for 
 our houseless heads, I could not divine. The village no longer 
 afforded me a home;—nay, when I wished to dispose of 
 the few effects I possessed, with the view of adding some¬ 
 thing to my small means, I could not find a single pur¬ 
 chaser. No one would contaminate himself with the 
 possession of any article which had belonged to a regicide. 
 Blessings upon the poor and innocent villagers !—their pre¬ 
 judices did them honour, for they were founded on virtue ! 
 
 “ I locked up my cottage, leaving the goods in it, with 
 an inscription on the door,—‘For the accommodation of 
 any poor traveller destitute of a home.’ I had to run 
 the gauntlet of the village once more as I passed from 
 my cottage to the high road. My heart was full of grief; 
 for there is something in taking a final farewell, in casting 
 a last look upon objects, even the most inanimate, with which 
 we have been familiarly acquainted, that ‘ weighs heavily 
 upon the heart.’ The village had been such a quiet 
 asylum—its inhabitants had been so hospitable and kind, 
 that I could have no other feeling than that of deep and 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 3i7 
 
 painful regret. I should have experienced some alleviation, 
 some diminution of the bitterness of that feeling, had a 
 single person given me a parting shake of the hand, or 
 bestowed upon me a single blessing. But no one spoke 
 to me, no one came near me, and I went forth with my 
 dog a forlorn and banished man. 
 
 “ After leaving the village, I had to ascend a high hill; 
 and when I had reached the top (shall I confess the weakness 
 of my nature ?) I could not refrain from tears as I turned 
 a longing, lingering look upon the spot on which my cottage 
 stood, and on the peaceful dwellings that surrounded it. 
 
 “ Exul ut, invitus, cedit, mandante tyranno, 
 
 Littora nativi linquere jussus agri; 
 
 Triste iter instituit, fatis vexatus iniquis, 
 
 Et proferre pedes, et retinere timet: 
 
 “ Donee, in excelsi consistens culmine montis, 
 
 Desuper in charos lumina torqnet agros; 
 
 Qua, bene nota, cito dum lumine quseque pererrat, 
 
 Irrigat albentes plurima gutta genas.” * 
 
 “I linger too long upon these scenes, but age may 
 plead some excuse for garrulity, and I love to dwell upon 
 this strange epoch of my life. 
 
 “ Bowed down, however, by these successive disap¬ 
 pointments, and persuaded that a life, prolonged under 
 a sense of incessant apprehension and alarm, would only 
 point the pang of remorse for the share I had in the 
 
 * These lines formed part of an exercise “ sent up for good” by the 
 late Dr. Hawtrey, and were written by a friend of the author’s at Eton. 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 3 j 8 
 
 king’s death, I yielded at once to the thought, which 
 rushed into my mind at this depressing crisis, that I 
 could only find a refuge and release from all my troubles 
 in death and the grave. I embraced the idea with a 
 morbid kind of satisfaction, and a moment sufficed to 
 confirm me in the belief that there must he a limit beyond 
 which human endurance cannot he expected to go; and 
 that, if it be God’s will that we should have reached 
 that point, it is also mercifully permitted to us to fix and 
 determine the boundary ourselves. With this argument 
 to console me, and which, to my weak perceptions and 
 disordered mind, appeared so just and natural, I formed 
 my resolution on the instant, and prepared to ‘ shuffle 
 off this mortal coil.’ 
 
 “At a short distance from the village flowed a river, 
 both deep and rapid, having its banks lined on either 
 side by closely-planted alders. This river formed part 
 of the landscape which, from the brow of the hill, I 
 was now looking upon for the last time; and this feeling 
 of finality, with reference to the gratification of our out¬ 
 ward senses, no doubt suggested to my mind the far more 
 complete and comprehensive one involved in the destruction 
 of that life from which those senses derive their capabilities 
 for enjoyment, or their proneness to depression and despair. 
 
 “With these gloomy thoughts, and with an inexpres¬ 
 sible dread of being discovered in the act I was about to 
 commit, I wrapped my cloak closely round me and de- 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 3*9 
 
 scendcd the hill in a contrary direction to that from which 
 I had approached it. A qnarter-of-an-honr brought me 
 to the river’s edge : all there was still and silent, save the 
 gentle rippling of the water. Not a sound or a footfall 
 fell upon my ear—not a living object met my enquiring 
 gaze; and I was glad to perceive that the low and sweep¬ 
 ing alders would most effectually screen me from all obser¬ 
 vation. With a slow and stealthy tread I approached the 
 thickest of them, and was in the act of descending the 
 bank (a somewhat precipitous one) for the purpose of as¬ 
 certaining the depth of the water at that particular point, 
 when my foot suddenly slipped, and I was carried almost 
 to the margin of the river. With the natural instinct of 
 preservation I held fast by one of the branches, on a level 
 with my breast, and in this position retained my grasp of 
 it for several minutes. Under ordinary circumstances, my 
 first impulse would have been to crawl or- scamper up the 
 bank, out of danger of the dreaded stream, with all pos¬ 
 sible haste; but the circumstances which had placed me in 
 that position were not of an ordinary character. I had 
 gone to that spot with the settled purpose of putting an 
 end to my life; and yet I am now found, from a sudden 
 surprise which aroused the primary instinct of our 
 nature, doing my utmost to preserve it. Surely, thought 
 I, still retaining my hold of the branch, the love of life 
 was not implanted in our nature for nothing, else this 
 hough would never have been seized by me, when chance 
 
3 20 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 and accident were aiding me in the accomplishment of an 
 object on which I was so intently and so resolutely bent. 
 Surely, thought I, still ruminating on the impression which 
 this incident was probably meant to convey to my mind— 
 surely, the hand of God is in this, and as surely do I feel 
 that I now stand before my Maker a rebuked, if not a 
 repentant, sinner. I did not trust myself to look again on 
 the river, hut with an averted face climbed slowly up the 
 bank, and retraced my steps to the hill. 
 
 “ Arrived there, I turned my eyes once again in the 
 direction of the quiet village that lay beneath; and I could 
 not help contrasting the repose and contentment which 
 reigned in the humble abodes of these rustic boors, with 
 the exciting scenes through which I had already passed, 
 and the still more harrowing ones that yet awaited me. 
 I had leisure also for debating what course I should 
 take, and what efforts I should make to procure the 
 means of subsistence. At length I determined upon a 
 step which you will, perhaps, think was the last I ought 
 to have adopted. I resolved to proceed to Lyons, and 
 to report myself to the prefect as the emperor had ordered 
 me. Nothing more desperate than my present situation 
 could befall me, and I knew not that I had placed 
 myself within the range or penalty of the law. He 
 might seize my person and imprison me,—but whither 
 could I fly in France without being within the reach of 
 his power ? 
 
The Conventionalist . 
 
 321 
 
 “ These, and a thousand other doubts and difficulties, 
 were presented to my unsettled mind; hut, as I was in 
 the position of a man who discerns danger in every step 
 he meditates taking, I decided upon going to Lyons, and 
 trusting to Providence for the issue. 
 
 “ It was not difficult to obtain a private conference with 
 the prefect, a worthy man who had lost all his sons by the 
 conscription. I wrote to him in my own name. There was 
 a courtesy, I cannot call it a kindness, in his reception of me, 
 and I entered at once upon my business, and gave him a 
 faithful sketch of my political life. 
 
 “The candour and sincerity of my manner produced 
 their effect upon the prefect, who, after a pause, in which 
 he appeared to he reflecting whether or no he should place 
 me under the surveillance of his officers, desired me to call 
 again the next day. I did so, and he pursued his enquiries 
 more in detail; hut I had little more to disclose, except 
 some minor points which did not at all vary my original 
 narrative. I had two more conferences with him, but they 
 led only to repetitions of our former discussions. Ho doubt 
 the police had their officers about me, who could report my 
 proceedings and mode of living to the prefect; but they 
 had nothing suspicious against me. I neither visited, nor 
 was visited by, a single being. 
 
 “So forlorn a situation could not but inspire a feeling 
 of pity. We can scarcely picture to ourselves a more 
 wretched condition than that of being forsaken by the 
 
 x 
 
322 
 
 The Conventionalist . 
 
 world. It seems to be a punishment too severe even for 
 the greatest criminal. 
 
 “ At my last interview, the prefect informed me that he 
 had not received any orders respecting me; and that, having 
 obeyed the commands of the emperor in reporting myself, 
 I was at liberty to remain at Lyons or to quit it, putting, 
 however, the police in possession of my future place of 
 abode. At the same time he proved to me the impossibility 
 of eluding any research that might be made after me ; for, 
 during the interviews I had had with him, a painter had 
 been employed to take an accurate likeness of me, which he 
 showed me. 
 
 “ Having terminated the official part of his business, he 
 made some kind enquiries as to my intentions and desti¬ 
 nation. I could not give him any satisfactory information, 
 for I was wholly without friends or means. After having 
 reflected for some minutes, he mentioned an Italian family, 
 who had been for some years resident near Toulon, and 
 who were in want of a preceptor. The father had come 
 to Lyons for that purpose, and he would consult him upon 
 it; but it would be necessary to communicate to him the 
 story of my life, that neither party might have to reproach 
 the other with injustice. Count Amalfi was the name of 
 the nobleman; and, after one or two interviews, my services 
 were accepted. I left Lyons with the count, after a grate¬ 
 ful farewell to the good prefect. 
 
 “ Count Amalfi’s political opinions were thoroughly 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 3 2 3 
 
 Italian; that is, he hated the dominion of foreigners, 
 lamented the degeneracy of his countrymen, and ardently 
 desired that Italy should become one great and inde¬ 
 pendent state, in which the Pope should be deprived of 
 all temporal power, and considered only as the head of 
 the Church. The power of Bonaparte was less ob¬ 
 noxious to him than that of any other ruler, on ac¬ 
 count of his Italian origin; hut he looked forward to 
 the moment when Italy should throw off her fetters, and 
 he released from the bondage which had so long oppressed 
 her. 
 
 “ I now enjoyed a long interval of repose. The 
 count and the countess were amiable, and their children 
 clever and docile. We passed a life of perfect retirement, 
 mixing in no political intrigues, little solicitous about 
 public events, and believing that the destinies of France 
 and Italy were at last fixed and settled. Bonaparte’s 
 authority seemed to be consolidated, and his marriage 
 with a daughter of Austria, and the birth of a son, 
 appeared to place his dynasty on a rock too strong to 
 be shaken by human hands. But we had not taken 
 into our calculation one contingency: we had only looked 
 for the means of undermining Bonaparte’s power amongst 
 the sovereigns of Europe. Austria was his ally by blood; 
 Russia was too distant to give him any trouble, and, more¬ 
 over, stood in awe of him; Prussia was in his grasp, 
 Spain at his feet, Denmark in his toils, Sweden and Por- 
 
3 2 4 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 tugal too feeble to give him any uneasiness : bis power 
 and bis influence were felt and acknowledged throughout 
 the whole continent. The most formidable enemy to 
 Bonaparte was Bonaparte himself. It may be said of 
 him, that, whilst labouring with one hand to enlarge and 
 heighten the edifice of his power, he was as assiduously 
 undermining its foundations with the other. As I am 
 not about to intrude upon the province of the historian, 
 I shall pass over the events that occurred between the 
 years 1805 and 1814. The restoration of the Bourbons 
 was an event which would have been considered as the 
 dream and prophecy of a madman, had any one predicted 
 it a few months only before it happened. 
 
 “ The change was by no means acceptable to Count 
 Amalfi. He had in early life been acquainted with 
 many of those philosophers, whose works, if they did not 
 produce the revolution, tended to prepare the public 
 mind for it. He had been intimate with Vergniaud, 
 Brissot, Condorcet, and other members of the Girondist 
 party, and thought it necessary after they had fallen 
 victims to the party of the Mountain to retire from 
 Paris, and live in retirement. To him, therefore, the 
 return of the Bourbons was an event which he con¬ 
 sidered to be injurious to the real interests of France. 
 He was prepared to expect the preponderance of foreign 
 influence, and the revival of many of those principles 
 and institutions of the old regime which had been so 
 
The Conventionalist. 325 
 
 justly abolished. He had many conversations with me 
 on the subject, and hoped, no doubt, to find in me a 
 strenuous supporter of his political opinions; but politics 
 had long ceased to interest me. I had no wish to 
 embark again upon that agitated sea where I had en¬ 
 countered both tempest and shipwreck. I desired to 
 live in retirement and peace, and to render myself use¬ 
 ful in the line I had chosen. From being a man of 
 tranquil habits, devoted to his family, and fond of rural 
 pursuits, the count became on a sudden a restless poli¬ 
 tician, whose whole attention was devoted to the state 
 of parties, and to every shifting scene on the political 
 stage. He engaged in an active correspondence with the 
 malcontents in Paris, went twice or thrice himself to 
 the metropolis, and frequently sent and received couriers. 
 He was absent a full fortnight upon one expedition, 
 which remained a secret from every member of his family. 
 There was much in this state of affairs to alarm me for 
 the count ;—I did not doubt that he had engaged in 
 some plot or intrigue against the reigning family, which 
 would certainly expose him to peril, without accomplish¬ 
 ing the object of his wishes. The result burst upon 
 me like a clap of thunder. Bonaparte had quitted the Isle 
 of Elba, and suddenly landed at Cannes. The count 
 received immediate information of the event, which seemed 
 to give him more satisfaction than surprise, and he set 
 out forthwith to join the ex-emperor. The rapid and 
 
326 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 uninterrupted march to Paris, the facility with which 
 he resumed the reins of government, and the flight of 
 Louis XVIII., are well known. The count accompanied 
 the emperor to Paris, and I then discovered that he 
 had been in active correspondence with him during the 
 whole period of his residence at Elba. He sent for me 
 to join him at Paris, an order which I obeyed with 
 reluctance, and with a foreboding of evil. I had no 
 sooner reached the capital, than the count informed me 
 of the designs he had in view. He would not accept 
 of any post in the ministry, but conjured me to become 
 a member of Bonaparte’s Legislative Assembly. I re¬ 
 sisted his entreaties to the utmost; I reminded him of 
 the disasters I had experienced, of my unwillingness and 
 unfitness for public employment, and of the little like¬ 
 lihood that power, so regained, could be permanently 
 established. All my efforts were ineffectual; the count 
 attacked me on my weak point,—the gratitude I owed 
 him for the asylum and kindness I had experienced in 
 his family for so many years. I resisted no longer, and 
 was accordingly invested again, after more than fifteen 
 years’ absence, with the functions of a legislator. 
 
 “ You know the brief existence of the new system, and 
 of the authority of the man who had organized it. He lost 
 everything in losing one battle, and was again deprived, and 
 for ever, of the sovereign power. Paris now became no 
 longer a safe place of residence for the count or for me. 
 When all was over, but before the allies entered Paris, 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 327 
 
 we quitted it, and returned to the count’s residence near 
 Toulon. Here we were employed in making every pre¬ 
 paration for a further migration, being quite convinced that 
 the restored family would require a certain number of 
 victims. We were not long in suspense. The ordinance of 
 the 28th July was published, and, though it was modified 
 afterwards, I was unhappily amongst the number of those 
 who were banished for ever from the soil of France. 
 The count, who had not been a member of the Conven¬ 
 tion which voted Louis XVIth’s death, was not included 
 in the same category; but he felt sure that his residence 
 in France would he no longer secure, and therefore he 
 resolved to settle in Italy. I accompanied him, though 
 my functions as tutor to his children had now ceased, 
 both his sons having attained their majority. Though 
 no longer useful as a preceptor, I assisted the count 
 in the management of his property and of his house¬ 
 hold affairs. His villa was situated in the vicinity of 
 Naples, and combined magnificence with elegance. He 
 interfered no more in political affairs; and you may easily 
 imagine that my recent experience had not made me less 
 anxious to quit the field and attach myself exclusively to a 
 retired and quiet life. I hoped I had now found an asylum 
 for the rest of my days, and that I might safely copy the 
 inscription which Gil Bias put up— 
 
 . . ‘ Spes et Fortuna valete! 
 
 Sat me lusistis : ludite nunc alios!’ 
 
328 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 “But I had not yet disarmed Fortune of her malice, 
 and was again destined to endure her bitterest frown. The 
 Neapolitan government is one of the most tyrannical and 
 suspicious that ever existed. In no country is the system of 
 espionage carried on with greater zeal and severity. There 
 is not a nobleman, however illustrious and respectable, 
 whose hotel is not beset with spies. Everything that 
 occurs, however insignificant or important, every conver¬ 
 sation, every visitor, and every visit, are proclaimed to the 
 police, and always with exaggerations which serve to give 
 the tale-hearer more consequence and a greater claim to 
 reward. It was soon known that the count had arrived 
 from France, and brought in his train a Frenchman who 
 lived quite retired, was of studious habits, and never visited 
 the capital. Such a man could not he other than a dan¬ 
 gerous man, a plotter, a Jacobin. More vigilant inquiries 
 were immediately instituted, and it was soon discovered 
 that I was a regicide, and one who, by being a member 
 of Bonaparte’s Legislative Assembly, had come within the 
 denomination of a relapsed regicide. The count was sent 
 for, and had a long conference with the minister and the 
 Inquisitor-General. There was a gloom, an uneasiness 
 in his countenance, when he returned, and his eyes occa¬ 
 sionally flashed with indignation. 
 
 “ After the dinner, which was hurried over with un¬ 
 usual rapidity, and of which neither the count nor the 
 countess partook, the servants were dismissed, and the 
 
The Conventionalist . 
 
 329 
 
 count turned towards me with the deepest impression of 
 sorrow. ‘ My friend/ he said, taking my hand, ‘ I grieve 
 to be the hearer of sad tidings !—we must part! ’ 
 
 “ The intelligence was so unexpected and painful that 
 I made an involuntary start. ‘ Part, my lord ! And why, 
 and wherefore P Is my presence no longer welcome ? 
 Have I deserved your displeasure ? ’ 
 
 “‘Ho, no, my dear friend. You have always been, 
 and still are, worthy of my friendship; hut your residence 
 with me is displeasing to the government. They have 
 intimated this to me in no very graceful manner, and de¬ 
 manded your immediate dismissal. I remonstrated;—I dwelt 
 upon your retired and quiet habits; your unwillingness to 
 mix in any political plots and intrigues; and my readiness to 
 become the guarantee for your peaceable conduct. But it 
 was of no avail. Their resolution had been taken, and when 
 I hinted the impropriety of interference in my family, the 
 only reply was, that if I did not send you away, the govern¬ 
 ment would have you arrested and sent to prison. What 
 was to be said ? what could I do ? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ Nothing more, and perhaps you did too much for 
 your own safety. There remains but one thing for me to 
 do,—to take my leave with all speed, and become again 
 a solitary wanderer, hunted down by every government as 
 a beast unfit to live. God bless you, my dear count! 
 The happiest days of my life have been passed under your 
 roof; and, as I am about to quit it for ever, may Provi- 
 
3 30 
 
 The Conventionalist . 
 
 dence, in its mercy, suffer me to find a speedy termination 
 of all my sufferings in the grave ! ’ 
 
 “We separated for the night; and early the next 
 morning, as soon as there was sufficient day-light, I took 
 my departure accompanied by my old, but now feeble, 
 friend, Castor, whose fidelity remained unshaken, though 
 his strength was almost gone. I had left a letter for the 
 count, acquainting him with the reason of my departure 
 without taking a final farewell of the countess and him¬ 
 self, which would have been afflicting to them, and deprived 
 me of the little fortitude I retained. 
 
 “ I had no fixed purpose. The blow had been so 
 sudden that I had no time to arrange any plan, nor to 
 select any sequestered spot where I might lay down my 
 head and die. I avoided the high road, taking one 
 which led to the mountains. I journeyed slowly, for the 
 ascent was fatiguing, and dog and master were no longer 
 so active as they used to be; besides, my heart was 
 broken. 
 
 “ I travelled till evening without meeting a single house 
 or traveller, and without being able to procure the slightest 
 refreshment. Quite worn-out with fatigue, I rested on a 
 bank under a clump of trees; my dog, as tired as myself, 
 lying at my feet. Our repose was soon interrupted by 
 a noise from an adjacent wood, followed by the discordant 
 voices of men, who appeared to be armed, and of the 
 roughest and sternest countenances. One of them ad- 
 
The Conventionalist. 
 
 33* 
 
 vanced before the others, and made a blow at me. It did 
 not take effect, but Castor instantly seized the fellow, who, 
 without a moment’s hesitation, plunged a stiletto into his 
 throat. The faithful creature howled in agony, and, as 
 if conscious that he had received his death-blow, wished 
 to spend the last moments of life in testifying his affec¬ 
 tion and gratitude to his master. He licked my hands 
 and feet, raised himself upon his hind legs to receive 
 my caresses, and, with one melancholy and long howl, 
 expired. The ruffians stood still, as if the scene had 
 touched even their rugged hearts. ‘ You have killed my 
 only friend,—now dispatch me!’ I exclaimed. They did 
 not, however, offer me any outrage, but announced their de¬ 
 termination to carry me with them to their recess in the 
 mountains. I offered no objection, but solicited permission 
 to bury my faithful friend. They granted it willingly, and 
 even helped me. And as I laid my poor Castor in the 
 silent grave, I wished that I was laid there beside him. 
 We then covered it with the greenest sod, and, when all 
 was done, I sat down and wept like a child. 
 
 “ Oh nature, how powerful art thou sometimes in mould¬ 
 ing forms that seem as hard as iron, and in subduing hearts 
 that appear to be incapable of any touch of human feeling! 
 The banditti, for banditti they were, surveyed the grave 
 and the mourner with pity ; and two of them, each taking 
 me by the arm, led me gently away. 
 
 “ After a walk of two hours we arrived at their abode 
 
33 2 
 
 The Conventionalist. 
 
 in the mountains, and I was presented to their leader. 
 His name was Yanoni. I discovered immediately that 
 he had moved in higher circles, and that his present 
 occupation had been forced upon him by some calamitous 
 event or crime. I was soon favoured with his friendship, 
 and he used every effort to persuade me to become one 
 of his hand. This I resisted, and giving the hand a 
 sketch of those events which had made me a proscribed 
 outcast, they ceased to importune, hut nevertheless detained 
 me. 
 
 “ My situation was by no means an enviable one; hut 
 even if I had been set at liberty whither could I go in 
 peace and safety ? I resolved, therefore, to use every effort 
 to mitigate their ferocity, and to induce them to spare 
 human life. I became also their medical adviser, and was 
 of use to them in healing the wounds they received in their 
 different skirmishes. I entitled myself by these means to 
 their gratitude, and there was not one of them who would 
 not at last have perilled his life in my defence. 
 
 “ It is not my business to relate, nor would it afford you 
 any pleasure to hear me describe, the different scenes of 
 which I was a witness during my residence among them. 
 At last we were obliged to quit the Calabrian moun¬ 
 tains, and to remove to the fastnesses of the Alps, where 
 it was my good fortune to become acquainted with you. 
 Feeling the infirmities of age coming upon me, I was anxious 
 to quit the band, and find some asylum, if possible, in some 
 
The Conventionalist . 
 
 333 
 
 one of the German States. The count had enabled me, 
 during the Hundred Hays, to invest some money in the 
 funds, the interest of which will he sufficient to maintain 
 me, with economy. My banishment did not involve the 
 confiscation of my property. 
 
 “ Such is the history of my chequered and disastrous 
 life.^ 
 
 We arrived at the heath in safety, and Verseuli found 
 an asylum with me till I was able to procure him a more 
 suitable residence in the neighbourhood, which I did in 
 about six months after our return. We were constantly 
 together, and maintained throughout a most friendly inter¬ 
 course. He seldom, if ever, referred to the painful events 
 of his early life, and I had too great a regard for his 
 feelings ever to touch upon them myself. 
 
334 
 
 LEAF THE TENTH. 
 
 —4— 
 
 My landlord had been most anxious for my return, 
 which unfortunately was delayed beyond the period of his 
 daughter’s life. She had been particularly desirous of 
 seeing me in her last moments. She had been declining 
 ever since the trial and death of her husband, for whom, 
 all unworthy as he was, she retained the strongest affection 
 to the last—“ First love ! forgotten never ! ” 
 
 Her body was deposited in a quiet nook of the village ' 
 church, and over her tomb a plain marble tablet has been 
 placed with this short and simple inscription:— 
 
 Ella, Baroness Lauerstadt. 
 
335 
 
 LEAF THE LAST, 
 
 “ Last scene of all.”—S hakespeare. 
 
 My health began to be visibly impaired. Society did 
 not cheer me; and the company even of the landlord 
 and Verseuli often fatigued me. My mind became more 
 gloomy; my heart more depressed. I would sit for hours 
 in silence, and seemingly lost in thought; hut my ideas 
 were wild and wandering, and could not he fixed steadily 
 or long upon anything. I retraced the events of years gone 
 by. I compared the past with the present. I was now 
 become old and feeble, without any of those dear ties that 
 bind man to man. A beloved wife had perished from 
 grief; a son had shortened his own life, had broken the 
 heart of his mother, and left his father a solitary being,— 
 a forlorn and desolate wanderer on the face of the earth ! 
 
 Amidst such vexing thoughts, one project, one wish, 
 alone engrossed me. All other plans were weak and value¬ 
 less. It was “ the Aaron’s rod that swallowed up all the 
 rest.” I felt that I had not long to live, but was anxious 
 to lay my hones in the same grave with my wife and son. 
 It may he supposed, from the tenacity with which I clung 
 to this feeling, that my mind had become as enfeebled as my 
 
33 6 
 
 Leaf the Last. 
 
 body. I tried to conquer it, and to regard as a matter of 
 little moment what might become of the body, when the soul 
 had quitted its mortal tenement. But my efforts were vain ; 
 nay, the feeling became more powerful after every struggle 
 to subdue it. I desired once again to look upon the graves 
 of my beloved ones, and in due time to take my place by 
 their mouldering remains. I resolved to return to France. 
 
 It may be supposed that Yerseuli and my landlord 
 heard this determination with surprise and sorrow. For a 
 while they remonstrated against it; but they found it 
 unavailing, and opposed it no longer. Winter had now 
 begun to visit us with its chilling blasts and its mantle of 
 snow; so that my departure was necessarily postponed till 
 the return of spring. The interval I employed in looking 
 over the rough notes I had made upon the many and 
 strange incidents I had witnessed in my travels, and in 
 collecting and arranging from them the materials requisite 
 for weaving them into these “ Leaves from the Book of 
 Life.” 
 
 They have been selected with the object of advancing 
 the interests of Religion and the cause of Virtue; and, if 
 they develop the progress of bad and angry passions, they 
 at the same time remove the veil from hypocrisy, unmask 
 the hidden deformities of vice, and cast the darkening 
 shadow of a retributive justice over the abettors and per¬ 
 petrators of crime. 
 
 With these admonitory properties to recommend them, 
 
Leaf the Last. 
 
 331 
 
 the “ Leaves ’ ’ are now presented to you, kind Reader, as 
 a Christmas garland. By many, perhaps, they may be 
 thought somewhat too “green;” but should they chance 
 to retain aught of their freshness till the advent of another 
 Christmas, it will he owing entirely to your fostering care 
 and tender treatment of them. Should they, on the other 
 hand, wither and fade away, it will be through the un¬ 
 skilful manipulation of the artificer who wove them. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 V 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY GEORGE PHIBPS, 13 & 14, TOTIIILL STREET, 
 WESTMINSTER, S.W. 
 
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