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 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MAY TREAT MORRISON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER F MORRISON
 
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 -'J^'

 
 HORACE TEMPLETON
 
 ' Who arc you ? ' said the Countess.' 
 
 HOBACB TBMPI.KTO*f
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES LEVER 
 
 AUTHOR OF CHARLES O MALLEY 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
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 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
 
 The Broadway, Ludgate 
 
 NEW YORK: 416 BROOME STREET 
 
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 LONDON : 
 
 rRIXTKD Br WOODPALL AND KINDER, 
 
 MILFORD LANE, STHANP, W.C. 
 
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 HORACE TEMPLE TON. 
 
 S CHAPTER I. 
 
 W Hotel des Pkinces, Paris. 
 
 Cu 
 
 It is a strange thing to begin a " log " when the voyage 
 is nigh ended ! A voyage without chart or compass has 
 it been : and now is land in sight — the land of the weary 
 and heart-tired ! 
 
 Here am I, at the Hotel des Princes, en route for Italy, 
 whither my doctors have sentenced me ! What a sad 
 record would be preserved to the world if travellers were 
 but to fill up, with good faith, the police formula at each 
 stage of the journey, which asks, " the object of the 
 tour! " How terribly often should we read the two short 
 words — " To Die," With what sorrowful interest would, 
 one gaze at the letters formed by a trembling hand ; and 
 yet how many would have to write them ! Truly the old. 
 Italian adage, " Vedere Napoli e poi morire^'' has gained 
 a new signification ; and, unhappily, a far more real one. 
 
 This same practice of physicians, of sending their patients 
 to linger out the last hours of life in a foreign land, is, to my 
 thinking, by no means so reprehensible as the generality of 
 people make out. It is a theme, however, on which so many 
 common places can be strung that common-place people, 
 who,aboveall others, love their own eloquence, never weary 
 of it. Away from his children — from his favourite haunts — • 
 
 ■3:32289
 
 2 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 from the doctors that uuclerstood liis case — from his comfort- 
 able house — from the family apothecary — such are the 
 changes thoy ring ; and if dying were to be done often, 
 there would be much reascu in all this. But it is not so ; 
 this same change occurs but once, and its approach brings 
 with it a. ne.vy train of thoughts and feelings from all that 
 we have ever felt before. In that twilight hour of life, 
 objects that have escaped our vision in the blaze of noon- 
 day become clear and distinct ; and, even to the least 
 reflecting of minds, an increased power of perception and 
 iudsfment is accorded — the viaticum for the cominof 
 journey ! 
 
 I remcmlior being greatly affected by the stories in the 
 " Diary of a Pliysician," when first I read them : they 
 were powerfully written — and so real ! N^ow this is the 
 very quality they want : they are altogether unreal. 
 
 Terrific and heart-stirring as the death-bed scenes are, 
 they are not true to nature : the vice and the virtue are 
 alike exaggerated. Few, very few persons can bring 
 themselves by an effort to believe that they are dying — 
 easy as it seems, often as we talk of it, frequent as the 
 very expression becomes in a colloquialism, it is still a 
 most difficult process ; but once thoroughly felt, there is 
 an engrossing power in the thought that excludes all 
 others. 
 
 At times, indeed, Hope will triumph for a brief interval, 
 and "tell of bright da3-s to come." Hope ! the glorious 
 phantom that we follow up the Rhine — through the deep 
 glens of the Tyrol, and over the Al^^s ! — Only content to 
 die when we have lost it ! 
 
 There ai'e men to whom the truth, however shocking, 
 is always revealed — to whom the lawyer says, "You have 
 no case," and the physician confesses, " You have no 
 constitution." Happily or unhappily — I will not deny it 
 may be both — I am one of these. Of the three doctors 
 summoned to consult on my health, one spoke confidently 
 and chceringly ; he even assumed that kind of profes- 
 sional jocularity that would imply, " the patient is making 
 too much of it." The second, more reserved from 
 temperament, and graver, counselled caution and great
 
 flOKACE TEIIPLETON. B 
 
 care — hinted at the danger of the malady — coupling his 
 fears with the hopes he derived from the prospect of 
 climate. The third (he was younger than either of the 
 others, and of inferior repute) closed the door after them, 
 and resumed his seat, 
 
 I waited for some time expecting him to speak, but he 
 sat in silence, and seemingly in deep thought. " And you, 
 my dear doctor," said I at length, " are you equally con- 
 fident as your learned colleagues ? Will the air of Italy 
 
 ? " He lifted up his eyes as I got so far, and their 
 
 expression I shall not readily forget — so softly tender, so 
 •full of compassionate pity, did they beam, ^ever did a 
 look convey more of sorrowing regret, nor more of blank 
 despair, I hesitated — on his account I feared to finish 
 what I had. begun ; but, as if replying to the expression 
 of his glance, I added, "But still you advise me to go ? 
 You counsel the journey, at least ? " 
 
 He blushed deeply before he could answer. He felt 
 ashamed that he had failed in one great requisite of his 
 art. I hastened to relieve him, by saying with a joyous 
 air, "Well, I will go. I like the notion myself; it is at 
 least a truce with physic. It is like drawing a game be- 
 fore one has completely lost it." 
 
 And so here I am — somewhat wearied and fevered by 
 the unaccustomed exertion, but less so than I expected. 
 
 I sincerely hope it is only the fastidiousness of a 
 sick man, and not that most insufferable of all affectations 
 — exclusiveness ; but I will own I never disliked the 
 mixed company of a steam-boat so much before. It is 
 always an unpleasant part of our English travelling- 
 expei'ience, that little steam trip from our own coast to 
 the French or Belgian shore. The pleasuring Cockney, 
 only sufferable when sick — the runaway bank-clerk — the 
 Hamburg Jew — the young lady going to Paris for spring 
 fashions — the newly-married, barrister, with bis bit of 
 tawdry finery from ISTorwood, silly, simpering, and fidgetty 
 — the Irish landlord, sulky and familiar by turns ; all, 
 even to the danseuse, who, too refined for such associa- 
 tion, sits in her carriage on deck, have a terrible same- 
 ness when seen, as I have done them, something like fifty 
 
 B 2
 
 4 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 times ; nor can I suppose their united attractions greatly- 
 heightened by the figure of the pale gentleman, who 
 coughs so incessantly, and whose wan cheek and 
 colourless eye are seen to such formidable contrast 
 with the bronzed and resolute face of the courier beside 
 him. 
 
 Yet I would far rather think this want of due tolerance 
 for my travelling companions was a symptom of my 
 malady, than of that truly English disease — self-import- 
 ance._ I know of nothing that tracks our steps on the 
 Continent so invariably, nor is there any quality which 
 earns for us so much ill-will. 
 
 It is quite a mistake to suppose that these airs of 
 superiority are only assumed by persons of a certain rank 
 and fortune— far from it. Every denizen of Cheapside 
 and the Minories that travels abroad, deems himself 
 immeasurably above " the foreigner." Strong in his City 
 estimation, and charged with the leader in the Times, 
 he struts about like an upstart visiting the servants' hall, 
 and expecting every possible demonstration of respect in 
 return for his condescension. Hence the unhappy disparity 
 between the situation of an Englishman and that of any 
 other native abroad. Instead of rejoicing at any casualty 
 which presents to him a cliance meeting with a country- 
 man, he instinctively shrinks from it. He sees the 
 Frenchman, the Italian, the German, overjoyed at recog- 
 nition with some stranger from his own land, while he 
 acknowledges, in such a contingency, only another reason 
 for guardedness and caution. It is not that our land is 
 wanting in those sterling qualities which make men 
 respected and venerated— it is not that we are not, from 
 principle and practice, both more exacting in all the re- 
 quisites of good faith, and more tenacious of truth, than 
 any people of the Continent ;— it is simply that we are 
 the least tolerant to everything that differs from what we 
 have at home, that we unscrupulously condemn whatever 
 IS un-English; and, not satisfied with this, we expect 
 foreigners to respect and admire us for the very censure 
 we pass upon their institutions. 
 
 There is, therefore, nothing so compromising to an
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 6 
 
 Englishman abroad as a countryman ; except — Itelas that 
 I should say so ! — a countrywoman ! 
 
 Paris is very beautiful in spring. There is something 
 radiant and gorgeous in the commingled splendour of a 
 great city, with the calmer beauties of leafy foliage and 
 the sparkling eddies of the bright river. Better, however, 
 not to dwelllonger on this theme, lest my gloomy thoughts 
 should stray into the dark and crime-trodden alleys of 
 the Bois de Boulogne, or the still more terrible filets de 
 St. Cloud ! How sad is it when one's temperament 
 should, as if instinctively, suggest the mournful view 
 of each object! Rather let me jot down a little in- 
 cident of this morning — an event which has set my 
 heart throbbing, and my pulse fluttering, at a rate that 
 all the prussic acid I have learned to take cannot calm 
 down again. 
 
 There come now and then moments to the sick man, 
 when to be well and vigorous he would consent to be 
 poor, unfriended in the world — taking health alone for 
 his heritage. I felt that half an hour ago — but it is gone 
 again. And now to my adventure, for, in my unbroken 
 dream of daily life, it seemed such. 
 
 I have said I am lodged at the Hotel des Princes. 
 How different are my quarters from those I inhabited 
 when first I saw this city ! This would entail a cf nfes- 
 siou, however, and I shall make it some other day. My 
 salon is No. 21, the first drawing-room to the right as you 
 turn from the grand staircase, and opening by the three 
 spacious windows on a balcony overlooking the Rue de 
 Richelieu. It is, indeed, a very splendid apartment, as 
 much so as immense mirrors, gilding, bronze, and ormolu 
 can make it. There are soft couches and chairs, and 
 ottomans too, that would inspire rest, save when the soul 
 itself was restless. 
 
 Well, I lounged out after breakf;ist for a short stroll 
 along the Boulevards, where the shade of the trees and, 
 the well-watered path were most inviting. Soon w^earied 
 — I cannot walk in a crowd — I returned to the hotel ; 
 shortly toiled up-stairs, waking the echoes with my 
 teasing cough ; and, instead of turning to the right, I
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 went left, taking the wrong' road, as I have so often 
 done in life ; and then mistaking the numei-als, I 
 entered No. 12 instead of No. 21. Who would credit 
 it, that the misplacement of a unit could prove bo 
 singular ? 
 
 There was one change alone which struck me. I could 
 not find the book I was reading — a little volume of 
 Auerbach's village stories of the Schwartz- Walders. There 
 was, however, another in its place, one that told of 
 humble life in the provinces — not less ti'uthful and heart- 
 appealing — but how very unlike ! It was Balzac's story 
 of " Eugenie Grandet," the most touching tale I have ever 
 read in any language. I have read it a hundred times, 
 and ever with renewed delight. Little troubling myself 
 to think how it came there — for, like an old and valued 
 friend, its familiar features were aways welcome — I began 
 again to read it. 
 
 Whether the result of some peculiar organization, or 
 the mere consequence of ill-health, I know not, but I 
 have long remarked, that when a book has taken a sti'ong 
 hold upon me — fascinating my attention and engaging all 
 my sympathies, I cannot long continue its perusal. I 
 grow dreary and speculative ; losing the thread of the 
 narrative, I create one for myself, imagining a variety of 
 incidents and scenes quite foreign to the intention of the 
 writer, and identifying myself usually with some one person- 
 age or other of the story — till the upshot of all is, I drop off 
 asleep, to awake an hour or so afterwards witha very tired 
 brain, and a very confused sense of the reality or unreality 
 of my last waking sensations. 
 
 It is, therefore, rather a relief to me, when, as iu the 
 present case, the catasti'ophe is known to me, and all 
 speculation on the future denied. Poor Eugenie, how 1 
 felt for all your sorrows ! — wondrous spectacle of a heart 
 that could transmute its one absorbing passion into 
 another, and from love, the fondest and most confiding, 
 beget a pure and disinterested friendship! 
 
 At last the book glided unnoticed from my hand, and 1 
 slept. The sofa where I hiy stood in a part of the room 
 where a deep shadow fell from the closed jalousies of a,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 7 
 
 window, so that any person might easily have entered or 
 traversed the apartment without noticing me. I slept 
 calmly and without a stir — my dreaming thoughts full of 
 that poor girl's love. How little does any first passion 
 depend upon the excellence of the object that creates it ! 
 How ideal, purely ideal, are those first emotions of the 
 heart ! I knew something of this, too ; for, when young, 
 very young, and very impressionable, with a strong 
 dash of I'Dmance^in my nature, that lent its Claude 
 Lorraine tint to all I looked at, I fell in love. Never was 
 the phrase more fitting. It was no gradual or even 
 imperceptible declension, but a headlong, reckless plunge; 
 such as some confident and hardy swimmer, or very often 
 a bold bather, makes into the water, that all may be 
 quickly over. 
 
 I had been appointed attacM at Vienna, where Lord 
 Newington was then ambassador — a widower with an 
 only daughter. I was very young, fresh from Woolwich, 
 where I had been studying for the Artillery service, when 
 the death of a distant relative, who but a year before had 
 refused to see me, put me in possession of a very lai'ge 
 fortune. My guardian. Lord Elderton, an old diplomatey 
 at once removed me from AVoolwich, and after a short 
 sojourn at his house near Windsor, I was introduced into 
 what Foreign-office people technically denominate " The 
 Line,'" and what they stoutly uphold as the only career for 
 a gentleman. 
 
 I must some day or other jot down a few recollections 
 of my life at Gortham, Lord Elderton's seat, where, with 
 Grotius and PufFendorf of a morning, and old >Sir Robert 
 Adams and Lord Hailieburay of an evening, I was believed 
 to be inhaling the very atmosphere of learned diplomacy. 
 Tiresome old gentlemen, whose thoughts stood fast at the 
 time of Fox and Pitt, and, like a clock that went down 
 in the night, steadily pointed to an hour long bygone. 
 How wearied I was of discussions as to whether the King 
 of Prussia would declare war, or the Emperor of Austria 
 make peace ! whether we should give up Malta and lose 
 Hanover ! Pitt, must, indeed, have been a man of " dark 
 counsels, for whether he wished for an alliance with
 
 8 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 France or not was a nightly topic of debate witliout a 
 cliance of agreement. 
 
 All these discussions, far from tending to excite my 
 ardonr for the career, served to make me dread it, as the 
 most tiresome of all possible pursuits. The light gossip, 
 too, over which they regaled themselves with such excel- 
 lent relish, was insupportably dull. Who could care for 
 the pointless repartees of defunct Grand Dukes, or the 
 meaningless caprices of long-buried Archduchesses ? 
 
 If, then, I was glad to escape from Gortham and its 
 weary company, had I formed no very sanguine expecta- 
 tions of pleasure at Vienna. 
 
 I saw very little of the Continent in this my first 
 journey. I was consigned to the charge of a cabinet 
 messenger, who had orders to deliver me " safe " at 
 Vienna. Poor M'Kaye, slight as I was, lie left me veiy 
 little of the small coupe we travelled in. He weighed 
 something more than twenty stone, a heaving mass of 
 fat and fretting : the great misery of his life being that 
 Washington Irving had held him up to European ridicule, 
 for he was the original " Stout Gentleman " whose heavy 
 perambulations overhead suggested that inimitable sketch. 
 
 We arrived at Vienna some hours after dai'k, and after 
 speedily traversing the narrow and winding streets of the 
 capital, drew up within the parte cocJiere of the English 
 embassy. There was a grand ball at the embassy — a 
 sovereign's birthday, or a coronation, I forget which — but 
 I can well remember the dazzling splendour of the grand 
 staircase, a blaze of waxlights, and glittering with the 
 brilliant lustre of jewelled dresses and gorgeous uniforms; 
 but, perhaps, even more struck by the frequent announce- 
 ment of names which were familiar to me as almost 
 historical personages — the Esterhazeys, the Schwarzen- 
 bergs, and the Lichtensteins, when suddenly, with almost 
 a shock, I heard my own untitled name called aloud, " Mr. 
 Horace Templeton." It is, I believe, a very old gentry 
 name, and has maintained a fair repute for some half- 
 dozen centuries; but, I own, it clinked somewhat meagre 
 on the ear amid the hiijh-sounding svllables of Austrian 
 nobility.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 9 
 
 I stood witliin the doorway of the grand salon, almost 
 stunned by the sudden transition from the dark monotony 
 of a night journey to the noonday blaze of splendour 
 before me, when a gentle tap from a bouquet on my arm 
 aroused me, and a very silvery voice, in accents every one 
 of which sank into my heart, bade me welcome to Vienna, 
 It was Lady Blanche Newington that spoke — the most 
 lovely oreatui'e that ever beauty and station combined to 
 form. Fascinations like hers were new to me: she mingled 
 gentleness of manner with a spiritual liveliness, that 
 seemed ever ready to say the right thing at the right 
 moment. The ease with which, in different languages, 
 she addressed the various individuals of the compan}", 
 employing all the little delicate forms of those conven- 
 tionalities French and Italian so abound in, and through 
 all, an unobtrusive solicitude to please, that was most 
 captivating. 
 
 My whole occupation that night was to steal after her 
 unobserved, and gaze with delight at traits of manner 
 that my ardent imagination had already elevated into 
 graces of mind. I was very much in love — so much so 
 that, ere a few weeks went over, my brother attaches saw 
 it, and tormented me unceasingly on the subject. Nay, 
 they went further : they actually told Lady Blanche her- 
 self, so that I dreaded to meet her, not knowing how she 
 might treat my presumption. I fancied all manner of 
 changes in her bearing towards me — reserve, coldness, 
 perhaps disdain. Nothing of the kind ! She was only 
 more familiar and cordial than evei\ Plad I known more 
 of the world, or of the feminine part of it, I should have 
 read this differently : as it was, it overwhelmed me with 
 delight. There was a frankness in her tone towards me, 
 too; for now she discussed the temper and character of our 
 mutual acquaintances, and with a shrewdness of criticism 
 strange in one so young. At last we came to talk of a 
 certain Count de Favancourt, the secretary of the French 
 embassy ; and as I mentioned his name, she said, some- 
 what abruptly, — 
 
 " I half suspect you don't like tlie Count ? " 
 
 " Who could ? " replied T, cagoily ; " is he not a 'Fat .?' "
 
 10 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 — usiug that precious monosyllable by -wliich his country- 
 men designate a certain class of pretenders. 
 
 She laughed, and I -went on, not sorry to have an oppor- 
 tunity of severity on one for whom I had conceived an 
 especial hatred — indeed, not altogether without cause, 
 since he had, on more than one occasion, marlvcd the 
 difference of our official rank in a manner sufficiently 
 pointed to be offensive ; and yet, the rigid etiquette ob- 
 servable to another embassy forbade all notice of whatever 
 could be passed over. 
 
 Like a very young man, I did not bound my criticism 
 on the Count by what I saw and observed in his manner, 
 but extended it to every possible deduction I could draw 
 from his air and bearing ; winding up all by a very bi'oadly- 
 hinted doubt that those ferocious whiskers and that deep 
 baritone were anything but a lion's skin over a very 
 craven heart. 
 
 The last words were scarcely uttered, when a servant 
 announced the Count de Favancourt. There is something, 
 to a young person at least — I fancy I should not mind it 
 now — so overwhelming on the sudden appearance of any 
 one on whom the conversation has taken a turn of severity, 
 that I arose confused and uneasy — I believe I blushed ; at 
 all events, I perceived that Lady Blanche remai-ked my 
 discomfiture, and her eyes glanced on me with an expres- 
 sion I never observed before. As for the Count, he 
 advanced and made his deep revereuce without ever notic- 
 ing me, nor, even while taking his seat, once showed any 
 consciousness of my presence. 
 
 Burning with indignation that I could scarce repress, I 
 turned towards a table, and affected to occupy myself 
 tossing over the prints and drawings that lay about — my 
 maddened thoughts rendered still more insufferable from 
 fancying that Lady Blanche and the Count seemed on far 
 hotter and more intimate footing than I had ever known 
 them before. 
 
 Some other visitors being announced, I took the occasion 
 to retire unobserved, and had just reached the lauding of 
 the stairs when I heard a foot behind me. I turned — it 
 was Favancourt. For the first time in my life, I perceived
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 11 
 
 a smile upon his countenance— an expression, I own, that 
 became it even less than liis habitual stern scowl. 
 
 " You have done me the honour, sir," said he, "to make 
 some observations on ray manner, which, I regret to learn, 
 has not acquired your favourable opinion. Now, I have 
 a strong sense of the inconvenance of anything like a 
 rupture of amicable relations between the embassy I have 
 the honour to serve and that to which you belong. It is, 
 then, exceedingly un^^leasant for me to notice your remarks 
 — it is impossible for me to let them pass unnoticed." 
 
 He made a pause at these words, and so long that I felt 
 bound to speak, and, in a voice that passion had rendered 
 slightly tremulous, said — 
 
 " Am I to receive this, sir, in the light of a rebuke ? 
 because, as yet, I only perceive it conveys the expression 
 of your own regret that you cannot demand an explanation 
 I am most ready to afford you." 
 
 " My demand is somewhat dififei-ent, sir, but, I trust, 
 will be as readily accorded. It is this : that you resign 
 your position as attache to this embassy, and leave Vienna 
 at once. There is no necessity that any unfavourable 
 notice of this affair should follow you to another mission, 
 or to England." 
 
 " Stop, sir, I beg of you ; I cannot be answerable for 
 my temper, if you persist to outrage it. While you may 
 press me to acknowledge that, while half an hour ago 
 I only deemed you a ' Fat,' I now account you an ' im- 
 becile.'" 
 
 " Enough ! " said the Count, passing down the stairs 
 before me. 
 
 When I reached my lodgings, I found a " friend " from 
 him, who arranged a speedy meeting. We fought that 
 same evening, behind the Prater, and I received his ball 
 in my shoulder — mine pierced his hat. I was I'ecalled 
 before my wound permitted me to leave my bed. The day 
 I left Vienna, Lady Blanche was married to Count Favan- 
 court ! 
 
 Some fourteen years had elapsed since that event and 
 the time in which I now lay sleeping on the sofa ; and 
 yet, after a.11 that long interval — with all its scenes of
 
 12 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 varied interests, its stormy passions, its hopes, its failures, 
 its successes — the image of Blanche was before my mind's 
 cje, as brightly, joyously fair, as on the evening I first 
 beheld her. I had forgotten all that time and worldly 
 knowledge had taught me, that, of all her attractions, her 
 beauty only was real — that the graceful elegance of her 
 bearing was only manner — that her gentleness was manner 
 — her winning softness and delicacy mere manner — that 
 all the fair endowments that seemed the rich promise of 
 a gifted mind, united to a nature so bounteously endowed, 
 were mere manner. She was spirituelle, lively, animated, 
 and brilliant — all, from nothing but manner. To this 
 knowledge I did not come without many a severe lesson. 
 The teaching has been perfect, however, and made me 
 what I am ! Alas ! how is it that mere gilding can look 
 so like solid gold — nay, be made to cover more graceful 
 tracery, and forms more purely elegant, than the real 
 metal ? 
 
 I have said that I slept ! and, as I lay, dreams came 
 over me— dreams of that long-past time, when the few 
 shadows that fell over my path in life were rather spots 
 where, like the traveller on a sunny road, one halts to 
 breathe awhile, and taste in the cool shade the balmy in- 
 fluence of repose. I thought of Blanche, too, as first I 
 had seen her, and when first she taught my heart to feel 
 the ecstasy of loving, breathing into my nature high hopes 
 and longings, and making of life itself an ideal of delight 
 and happiness. And, as I dreamed, there stole over my 
 senses a faint, thrilling memory of that young joy my 
 heart had known, and a feeling like that of health and 
 ardent buoyancy, which for years long I had not ex- 
 perienced. Her voice, tremulous with feeling, vibrating 
 in all the passionate expression of an Italian song, was 
 in my ears — I could hear the words — my very heart 
 throbbed to their soft syllables as she sung the lines of 
 Metastasio, — 
 
 "E tu. qui sa si te 
 Ti sovrerai di me." 
 
 I started — there she was before me, bending over the
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 13 
 
 harp, whose cords still trembled with the dying sounds ; 
 the same Blanche I had known and loved, but slightly- 
 changed indeed ; more beautiful perhaps in womanhood 
 than as a girl. Her long and silky hair fell over her white 
 wrist and taper hand in loose and careless tresses, for she 
 had taken off her bonnet, which lay on the floor beside 
 her; her attitude was that of weariness — nay, there was a 
 sigh ! Good heavens ! is she weeping ? My book fell to 
 the ground ; she started up, and, in a voice not louder 
 than a whisper, exclaimed, "Mr. Templeton ! " 
 
 " Blanche ! — Lady Blanche ! " cried I, as my head swam 
 round in a strange confusion, and a dim and misty vapour 
 danced before my eyes. 
 
 "Is this a visit, Mr. Templeton ? " said she, with that 
 soft smile I had loved so well ; " am I to take this sur- 
 prise for a visit? " 
 
 " I really — I cannot understand — I thought — I was 
 certain that I was in my own apartment. I believed I was 
 in Paris, in the Hotel des Princes." 
 
 " Yes, and most correct were all your imaginings ; only 
 that at this moment you are chez moi — this is our apart- 
 ment, No. 12." 
 
 " Oh, forgive me, I beg. Lady Blanche ! — the similarity 
 of the rooms, the inattentive habit of an invalid, has led 
 to this mistake." 
 
 " I heard you had been ill," said she, in an accent full 
 of melting tenderness ; while taking a seat on a sofa, by 
 a look rather than an actual gesture she motioned me to 
 sit beside her : " you are much paler than you used 
 to be." 
 
 " T have been ill," said I, struggling to repress emotion 
 and a fit of coughing together, 
 
 " It is that dreadful life of England, depend upon it," 
 said she, eagerly ; " that fearful career of high excitement 
 and dissipation combined — the fatigues of pai-liaraeut — 
 the cares and anxieties of party — the ti'emendous exer- 
 tions for success — the torturing dread of failure. Why 
 didn't you remain in diplomacy?" 
 
 " It looked so very like idling," said I laughingly, and 
 endeavouring to assume something of her own easy tone.
 
 14 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " So it is. But wliat better can one have, aftei' all ?" 
 said she, with a faint sigh. 
 
 " AVhen they are happy," added I, stealing a glance at 
 her beneath my eyelids. She turned away, however, 
 before I had succeeded, and I could merely mark that her 
 breathing was quick and huri^ied. 
 
 "I hope you have no grudge towards Favancourt ? " 
 said she hastily, and with a manner that showed how 
 difficult it was to disguise agitation. " He would be de- 
 lighted to see you again ! He is always talking of your 
 success in the House, and often prophesies the most 
 brilliant advancement for you." 
 
 " I have outlived resentment," said I, in a low whisper : 
 " would that I could add, other feelings were as easily 
 forgotten." 
 
 Not at once catching my meaning, she turned her full 
 and lustrous eyes upon me, and then suddenly aware of 
 my words, or reading the explanation in my own looks, she 
 blushed deeply, and after a pause said — 
 
 "And what are your plans now? do you remain here 
 some time ? " 
 
 " ISTo, I am trying to reach Italy. It has become as 
 classic to die there nowadays, as once it was to live in that 
 fair land." 
 
 " Italy ! " interrupted she, blushing still deeper. 
 " Favancourt is now asking for a mission there — Naples 
 is vacant." 
 
 This time I succeeded in catching her eyes, but she 
 hastily withdrew them, and we were both silent. 
 
 " Have you been to the Opera yet ?" said she, with a 
 voice full of all its habitual softness. 
 
 "You forget," said I, smiling, " that I am an invalid: 
 besides, I only arrived here last night." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure that much will not fatigue you. The 
 Due de Blancard has given us his box while we stay here, 
 and we shall always have a place for you ; and I pray you 
 to come ; if not for the music, for my sake," she added, 
 hastily : " for I own nothing can be possibly more stupid 
 than our nightly visitors. I hear of nothing but minis- 
 terial intrigue, the tactics of the centre droit and the op-
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 15 
 
 position, with a little very tiresome gossip of the 
 Tuileries ; and Favancourt thinks himself political, when 
 he is only prosy. Now, I long for a little real chit-chat 
 about London and our own people. Apropos, what be- 
 came of Lady Frances Gunnington ? did she I'eally marry 
 the young cornet of dragoons and sail for India ? " 
 
 " The saddest is to be told : he was killed in the Pun- 
 jaub, and she is now coming home a widow." 
 
 " How very sad ! — was she as pi'etty as they said ? — 
 handsomer than Lucy Fox, I have heard ! " 
 
 " I almost think so." 
 
 " That is great praise from you, if there be any truth 
 in on difs. Had not you a kind of tenderness in that 
 quarter ? " 
 
 "Me!" 
 
 " Nay, don't affect surprise ; we heard the story at 
 Florence, and a very funny story it was : that Lucy 
 insisted upon it, if you didn't propose for her, that she 
 would for you, since she was determined to be mistress of 
 a certain black Arabian that you had ; and that you, 
 fearing consequences, sent her the horse, and so com- 
 promised the affiiir." 
 
 " How very absurd ! " 
 
 "But is it not true? Can you deny having made a 
 present of the steed ?" 
 
 " She did me the honour to accept of a pony, but the 
 attenuating circumstances are all purely imaginary." 
 
 " Si nan e vero e hen trovafo. It was exactly what she 
 would do ! " 
 
 "An unfair inference, which I feel bound to enter a 
 protest against. If we were only to charge our acquaint- 
 ances with what we deem them capable of " 
 
 " Well, finish, I pray you." 
 
 " I was only about to add, what would become of 
 ourselves ?" 
 
 " Meaning you and me, for instance ? " 
 
 I bowed an assent. 
 
 ^^' Qui s'eivcuse, s'accuse,' sajs the adage," rejoined she, 
 gail}^ : "/ neither do one nor the other. At the same 
 time, let me confess to one thing of which I am capable,
 
 16 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 which is, of detesting any one who in this age of the 
 world affects to give a tone of morah'zing to a conversa- 
 tion. Now I presume you don't wish this. I will even 
 take it for granted, that you would rather we were good 
 friends, as we used to be long ago. — Oh, dear, don't sigh 
 that way ! " 
 
 " It was you that sighed." 
 
 " Well, I am very sorry for it. It was wrong of me, 
 and very wrong of you to tell me of it. But dear me ! is 
 it so late ? can it really be three o'clock ? " 
 
 " I am a quarter past ; but I think we must both be 
 fast. You are going out ?" 
 
 "A mere drive in the Champs Elysees, where I shall 
 pay a few visits and be back to dinner. Will you dine 
 with us?" 
 
 " I pray you to excuse me — don't forget I am a sick 
 man." 
 
 "Well, then, we shall see you at the Opera?" 
 
 " I fear not. If I might ask a favour, it would be to 
 take the volume of Balzac away with me." 
 
 " Oh, to be sure ! But we have some others, much 
 newer. Tou know ' Le Recherche de I'Absolu ' already ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I like ' Eugenie' still better. It was an old 
 taste of mine, and as you quoted a proverb a few moments 
 ago, let me give you another as trite and as true, — 
 
 ' Od revient toujours.' " 
 " ' A ses premiers amours,' " 
 
 said she, finishing; while with a smile, half playful, half 
 sad, she turned toward the window, and I retired noise- 
 lessly, and without an adieu. 
 
 Heigho ! how nervous and irritable I feel ! The very 
 sight of that handsome barouche that has driven from the 
 hotel, with its beautiful occupant lying listlessly back 
 among the cushions, has set my heart a-beating far, far too 
 hurriedly. How is it that the laws that govern material 
 nature are so inoperative in ours, and that a heart that 
 never felt can make another feel? Heaven knows ! It is
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 17 
 
 rot love ; even ray first passion, peihaps, little merited 
 the name : but now, reading her as worhiliness has taught 
 me to do — seeing how little relation exists between at- 
 tractions and fascinations of the veiy highest order and 
 any real sentiment, any true feeling — knowing how 
 "Life" is her idol, how in that one idea is comprised 
 all that vanity, self-love, false pride, and passion can form 
 — how is it that she, whom I recognize thus, that she can 
 move me? There is-nothiug so like a battle as a sham 
 fi"ht in a review. 
 
 o 
 

 
 18 HOBACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I MUST leave Paris at once. The weather is intolerably 
 hot ; the leaves that were green ten clays ago already are 
 showing symptoms of the sear and yellow. Is it in com- 
 pliment to the august inhabitant of the palace that the 
 garden is so empresse to turn its coat? Shame on my 
 ingratitude to say so, for I find that his Majesty has sent 
 me a cai'd of invitation to dine on Friday next. Another 
 reason for a hurried departure ! Of all moderate endur- 
 ances, I know of none to compare with a dinner at the 
 Tuileries. " Stay !— halt ! " cries Memory ; " I'll tell you 
 of one worse again — a dinner at Neuilly ! " 
 
 The former is sure to include a certain number of dis- 
 tinguished and remarkable men, who, even under the chill 
 and I'estraint of a royal entertainment, venture now and 
 then on some few words that su|)ply the void where con- 
 versation should be. At Neuilly it is strictly a family 
 party, where, whatever ease may be felt by the illustrious 
 hosts, the guests have none of it. Juvenal quaintly asks, 
 If that can be a battle where you strike and I am beaten ? 
 so one is tempted to inquire if that can be called society 
 where a royal personage talks I'apidly for hours, and the 
 listener must not even look dissent ? The King of the 
 French is unquestionably a great man, but not greater in 
 any thing than in the complete mystification in which he 
 has succeeded in enveloping his real character, mingling up 
 together elements so strange, so incongruous and .seem- 
 ingly inconsistent, that the actual direction or object of 
 any political move he has ever made will always bear a 
 double appreciation. The haughty monarch is the citizen 
 king; the wily and secret politician, the most free-spoken 
 'jind candid of men : the most cautious in an intrigue, the
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. - 19 
 
 very rashest in action. How is it possible to divine the 
 meaning, or guess the wishes, of one whose nature seems 
 so Protean? 
 
 His foreign policy is, however, the master-stroke of his 
 genius, — the cunning game by which he has conciliated 
 the party of popular institutions and beguiled the friends 
 of absolutism, delighting Tom Duncombe and winning- 
 praise from Nicholas. Like all clever men who are vain 
 of their cleverness, he has always been fond of employing 
 agents of inferior capacity but of unquestionable devotion 
 to his interests. What small intelligences — to use a phrase 
 more French than English — were the greater number of 
 the French ministers and seci'etaries I have met accredited 
 to foreign courts! I remember Talleyrand's observation, 
 on the remark being made, was, " His Majesty always 
 keeps the trumps in his own hand." Though, to be sure, 
 he himself was an evidence to the contrary — a " trump " 
 led boldly out, the first card played ! 
 
 So well did that subtle politician comprehend the futur*- 
 turn events must take, that on hearing, at two o'clock in 
 the morning, that his Royal Highness the Due d'Orleans 
 had consented to assume the crown, he exclaimed, " And 
 lam now ambassador at St. James's!" It must have 
 been what the Londoners call " good fun " to have lived 
 in the days of the Empire, when all manner of rapid eleva- 
 tions occurred on every hand. The commis of yesterday, 
 the special envoy to-day ; a week ago a corporal, and now 
 gazetted an officer, with the cross of the Legion — on the 
 grande route to become a general. A General ! why not 
 a Llarshal of France — ay, or a King ? 
 
 We have seen somethiuf; of this kind in Belerium within 
 a few years back — on a small scale, it is true. What 
 strange ingredients did the Revolution throw up to the 
 surface ! what a mass of noisy, turbulent, self-opinionated 
 incapables, who, because they had led a rabble at the 
 Porte de Flandre, thought they could conduct the march 
 of an army! And the statesmen ! — good lack ! the miser- 
 able penny-a-liners of the Independant and the Lion Beige, 
 that admJrable symbol of the laud, who carries his tail 
 between his legs. The really able, and, I believe, honest 
 
 c 2
 
 20 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 men -were soon overwhelmed by the influence of the priest 
 party— the vultures who watched the fight from afar, and 
 at last descended to take all the spoils of the victory. 
 
 Wandeweycr and Nothomb are both men of ability, the 
 latter akind of Brummagen Thiers, with the same taste 
 for intrigue, the same subtle subserviency to the head of 
 the state, and, in his heart, the same cordial antipathy to 
 England. But v/hy dwell on these people? they will 
 scarce occupy a foot-note in the old "Almanach." 
 
 The diplomatic history of our day, if it ever be written, 
 will present no very striking displays of high-reaching 
 intellect or devoted patriotism; the men who were even 
 greatest before the world were really smallest behind " the 
 fact." We deemed that Lord Aberdeen and Lord Palmer- 
 ston, and Messrs. Guizot and Thiers, and a few more, 
 were either hui^rying us on to war or maintaining an 
 admirable peace. But the whole thing resolves itself into 
 the work of one man and one mind ; neither very conspi- 
 cuous, but so intently occupied, so devotedly perseverino-, 
 that persistence has actually elevated itself to genius ; and 
 falling happily upon times when mediocrity is sublime, 
 he has contrived to make his influence felt in every state 
 of Europe. I speak not of Louis Philippe, but of his son- 
 in-law, King Leopold. 
 
 "Let me make the ballads of a nation, and I care not 
 who makes its laws," said the great statesman ; and in 
 something of the same spirit his Majesty of Belgium may 
 have said, "Let me make the royal marriages of Europe, 
 and any one who pleases may choose the ministry." 
 
 Apropos of the Roi Leopold, is it not difficult to under- 
 stand a Princess Charlotte falling in love with his good 
 looks P There is no disputing on this point. The must 
 eminently successful man I ever knew in ladies' society 
 was Jack Beauclerc— " Caucasian Jack " we used to call 
 him at Brookcs's. Everybody knows Jack was no beauty. 
 Heavy beetling brows, a dark, saturnine, ill-omened 
 expression, was ever on his features. Nor did his face 
 light up at times, as one occasionally sees with such men ; 
 he was always the same sad misanthropic-looking fellow. 
 Neither could one call him agreeable — at least I, Meeting
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 21 
 
 him very often, never found him so. But he vras of a 
 determined, resolute nature ; one of those men that appear 
 never to turn from any object on which they have set a 
 strong wilL This may have gone very far with ladies, 
 who very often conceive a kind of esteem for whatever 
 they fear. He said himself that his secret was, " always 
 using them ill ; " and certainly, if facts could bear out 
 ^uch a theory, one might believe him. Probably no man 
 ever cultivated these tastes with such assiduity — these, I 
 say, for play and duelling were also passions with him. 
 
 He was attnclie to our mission at Naples before he was 
 t^ixteen, and had the honour of wounding the old Marquis 
 d'Espagua with the small sword at the same precocious 
 era. The duel originated after a truly Italian manner ; 
 and as there are at Naples maiiy incorrect reports of it, I 
 will take the trouble to give the real one. The Marquis 
 was an old man, married to one of the most beautiful 
 women in Italy. She was a Venetian, and if ray memory 
 serves me right, a Guillardini by birth. She married him 
 at eighteen to escape a convent, he being the richest noble 
 under the rank of the blood royal at Naples. Very unlike 
 the majority of Italian husbands, the Marquis was exces- 
 sively jealous, would not permit the most innocent 
 freedoms of his young and lovely wife, and eventually 
 secluded himself and — worse still — her from all society, 
 and never appeared except at a court ball, or some such 
 festivity that thei^e were no means of avoiding. It was 
 at one of these festivities that the King, who liked to see 
 his ball-room put forth its fairest aspect, bantered the 
 Marquis on the rumour that had even reached the ears of 
 royalty, as to his inordinate jealousy. The IMarquis, \vho?e 
 old spirit of courtiership predominated even as strongly 
 as his jealousy, assured his Majesty that the worthy people 
 of Naples did him great injustice, and that, although 
 conscious of the Marchesa's great beauty and attractive- 
 ness, he had yet too high a sense of the distinguished place 
 he and his family had always held in the esteem of his 
 sovereign to feel jealous of any man's pretension ; adding, 
 " If I have not admitted the conventional addition of a 
 cavaliere servante to my household, I would beg your
 
 22 HORAClii TEMPLETON. 
 
 Majesty to believe it is simply because I have seen no one 
 as yet worthy to hand la Marchesa to her carriage or fold 
 her shawl." 
 
 " Admirably spoken, Marquis ! " said the King; "the 
 sentiment is quite worthy of one who has the best blood 
 of Sicily in his veins. But remember what an artificial 
 state of society we live in ; think of our conventional 
 usages, and what a shock it gives to public opinion when 
 one placed in so exalted a position as you. are so palpably 
 affronts universal and admitted custom ; recollect that 
 your reserve involves a censure on others, less suspicious, 
 and, we would hope, not less rigidly honourable men, than 
 yourself." 
 
 "But what would your Majesty counsel ? " 
 
 " Select a cavaliere yourself, as little likely to excite 
 your jealousy as you please ; as little agreeable as possible 
 if you prefer it : but, comply at least so far with the 
 world's prescription, and do not shock our worthy Nea- 
 politans by appearing to reflect upon them. There, what 
 say you to that boy yonder ? he is only a boy — he has 
 just joined the English mission here. I'm sure he has 
 formed no tender engagements to jirevent your adopting 
 him, and you will at least seem to conform with the 
 usages of 3'our neighbours." 
 
 " If your Majesty commands " 
 
 " Nay, Marquis, I but advise." 
 
 " Your Majesty's wish is always a command. I feci 
 proud to obey." 
 
 "Then, I am very happy to say I wish it," said the 
 King, who turned away, dying to tell the court-party how 
 miserable he had made the old marquis. 
 
 Such are dehauche kings; the glorious prerogative of 
 power becomes the mere agent of perverted ingenuity to 
 work mischief and do wrong ! 
 
 The poor Marquis lost no time to follow out the royal 
 commands, and at once made acquaintance with Beau- 
 clerc — only too happy to be noticed in such a quarter. I 
 know not whether the lady was much gratified by the 
 result of this kingly interposition in her favour : soma 
 said, Yes, and that the youth was really gifted and
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 23 
 
 spirifuel, with a vein of quiet, caustic Imrnoui", most 
 amusing ; others, and I half incline to this notion — pro- 
 nounced him dull and uninteresting. At all events, the 
 Marchesa enjoyed the liberty of appearing often in public, 
 and seeing more of the world than heretofore. She 
 usually visited the San Carlos, too, twice a week ; a 
 great improvement in her daily life, as previously the 
 Opera was denied her. 
 
 Imraediately over the Marchesa's box was the large 
 box, or rather salon, belonging to tlie club of the Italian 
 nohili, who frequented the theatre far less for the plea- 
 sures of the opera and the ballet than for the more ex- 
 citing delights olfaro and ecarte ; and hei-e, nightly, wei"e 
 assembled all the most dissipated and spendtlarift youth 
 of a capital, whose very gravest and most exemplary 
 citizens would be reckoned "light company" anywhere 
 else. 
 
 High play, with all its consequences of passionate out- 
 breaks, ruin, and duelling, were the pastimes of this ill- 
 fated loge; and, notwithstanding the attractions the box 
 underneath contained, Jack Beauclei'c was far oftener in the 
 second tier than the first. He was, indeed, a most inve- 
 terate gambler ; and the few moments which he devoted 
 to attending the Marchesa to her box or her carriage 
 were so many instants of pregnant impatience till he was 
 back at the play-table. 
 
 It Avas on one evening, when, having lost a very heavy 
 sum, that his turn came to deal ; and, with the super- 
 stitious feeling that only a play-man can understand, he 
 resolved to stake a very large amount upon the game. 
 The attention of the bystanders — never very deeply en- 
 gaged by the scene — was now entirely engrossed by the 
 play-table, where Beauclerc and his adversary were seated 
 at ecarte. It was that critical moment when the cards 
 were dealt, but the trump not yet turned, and Beauclerc 
 sat enjoying, with a gambler's ''malign" delight, the 
 eager anxiety in the other player's countenance, when 
 suddenly a voice said : 
 
 "Ha, Beauclerc! the Marchesa is rising — she is about 
 to leave the theatre."
 
 24 nOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " Impossible ! " said he; "it is only the second act.** 
 
 " It is quite true, though," rejoined another ; " she 13 
 putting on her mantle." 
 
 " N^ever mind our party, then," oried Beauclerc's antago- 
 nist ; " I will hold myself ready to play the match out 
 whenever you please." 
 
 "1 please it now, then!" said he, with a degree of 
 energy that heavy losses had, in spite of him, rendered 
 uncontrollable. 
 
 " II Signer Beauclerc ! " said a servant, approaching, 
 "the Marquis d'Espagna desires to see you.." 
 
 " Tell him I am engaged — I can't come," said Beau- 
 clerc, turning up the trump-card, which he held out 
 triumphantly before his adversary, saying, " The king ! " 
 
 At the same instant the old Marquis entered, and, 
 approaching the table, whispered a few words in his ear. 
 ]f an adder had pierced him with its sting, Beauclerc 
 could not have started with a more agonised expression ; 
 and he sprang from the chair and rushed out of the 
 theatre, not by the door, however, where the Marchesa's 
 carriage was yet standing, but by a private passage, which 
 led more easily towards his lodgings. 
 
 "What is this piece of news, that all are so amused 
 by ?" said the King, the next morning, as he was rising. 
 
 " Your majesty alludes to the Marquis d'Espagna, no 
 doubt," said Count Villafranca. "He challenged the 
 young English attache last night, at the theatre, and 
 they have been out this morning ; and, strange to say, 
 that the Marquis, the very best swordsman we have ever 
 had here, was disarmed and run through the side by his 
 antagonist." 
 
 " Is the wound dangerous ? " said the King, coolly. 
 
 " I believe not, your Majesty. Beauclerc has behaved 
 very well since it happened ; he has not left the Marquis for 
 a moment, and has, they say, asked pardon most humbly 
 for his oflTencc, which was, indeed, a very gross neglect of 
 the Marchesa no husband could pardon." 
 
 " So I heard," said the King, yawning. " The Mar- 
 quis is very tiresome, and a great bore : but, for all that, 
 he is a maa of spirit ; and I am glad he has shown this
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 25 
 
 young foreigner that Italian honour cannot be outraged 
 with impunity !" 
 
 Such is the true version ; and, let people smile as they 
 like at the theory, I can assure them it is no laughing 
 matter. It is, doubtless, somewhat strange to our 
 northern ideas of domestic happiness that a husband 
 should feel called on to punish a want of sufficient atten- 
 tion to his wife, from the man whom tho world regards 
 as her lover. AVe. have our own ideas on the subject; 
 and, however sensitive we may feel on this subject, I 
 sincerely hope we shall never push punctilio so far as the 
 Neapolitans. 
 
 Such, without the slightest exaggeration, are the pic- 
 tures Italy presents, fir more impressive on the minds of 
 our travelling youtli than all that Correggio has touched 
 or Raphael rendered immortal. Will their contempla- 
 tion injure us ? Shall we become by habit more lenient 
 to vice, and less averse to its shame? or shall we, as some 
 say, be only more charitable to others, and less hypo- 
 critical ourselves ? I sadly fear that, in losing what many 
 call "our affected prudery," we lose the best safeguard of 
 virtue. It was, at the least, the "livery of honour," and 
 wc showed ourselves not ashamed to wear it. And yet 
 there are those who will talk to you — ay, and talk cou- 
 rageously of the DOMRSTIC LIFE OF ITALY ! 
 
 The remark has been so often made, that by the mere 
 force of repetition it has become like an acknowledged 
 truth, that, although strangers are rarely admitted within 
 its precincts, there exists in Italy and in Italian cities a 
 state of domestic enjoyment to which our boasted home- 
 life in England must yield the palm. Never w'as there 
 any more absurd assertion less propped by fact — never 
 was the '■'' ignotmn" so easily taken '''fro heatijico.''^ 
 
 The domestic life of England has no parallel in any 
 part of Europe, save, perhaps, in some of the French pro- 
 vinces, where the old " vie du cludeau''^ presents something 
 similar ; but, even there, it rather lingers like the spirit 
 of a departed time, the relic of bygone associations, than 
 in the full reign of a strong national taste. In Germany, 
 notwithstanding the general impression to the contrary
 
 26 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 there is still less of it : the passion for liousebold duties 
 by the woman, the irresistible charms of beer and tobacco 
 to the men, suggest different paths ; and while she in- 
 dulges her native fondness for cookery and counting 
 napkins at home, he, in some wine-garden, dreams away 
 life in smoke-inspired visions of German regenei'ation and 
 German unity. In Italy, however, the points of contact 
 between the members of a family are still fewer again: 
 the mealtimes, that summon around the board the various 
 individuals of a house, are here unknown ; each rises when 
 he pleases, and takes his cup of coffee or chocolate in soli- 
 tary independence — unseen, unknown, and, worse still, 
 unwashed ! 
 
 The drawing-room, that paradise of English home-exist- 
 ence, has no place in the life of Italy. The lady of the 
 house is never seen of a morning ; not that the cares of 
 family, the duties of a household, engross her — not that 
 she is busied with advancing the education of her children, 
 or improving her own. No : she is simply en deshahille. 
 That is, to be sure, a courteous expression for a toilet 
 that has cost scarce five minutes to accomplish, and would 
 require more than the indulgence one concedes to the 
 enervation of climate to forgive. 
 
 The master of the family repairs to the cafe: his whole 
 existence revolves around cei-tain little tables, with lemon- 
 ade, sorbets, and dominoes ; his physical wants are, in- 
 deed, few, but his intellectual ones even fewer; he cares 
 little for politics — less for literature ; his thoughts have 
 but one theme — intrigue"; and his whole conversation is a 
 sort oi chronique scandaleuse on the city he lives in. 
 
 There is a tone of seeming good-nature — an easy mock 
 charity, in the way he treats his neighbours' backslidings 
 — that have often suggested to strangers favourable im- 
 pi-essions as to the kindliness of the people ; but this is 
 as great an error as can be : the real explanation of tho 
 fact is the levity of national feeling, and the little impres- 
 sion that breaches of morality make upon a society dead 
 to all the higher and better dictates of virtue — such 
 offences being not capital crimes, but mere misdemeanours. 
 
 The dinner-hour occasionally, but not always, assembles
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 27 
 
 the family to a meal that in no respect resembles that in 
 more civilized communities. The periodical return of a 
 certain set of forms — those convenances which insjaire, at 
 the same time, regard for others and self-respect — the ad- 
 mixture of courtesy with cordial enjoyment — have no 
 repi'esentatives around a board where the party assemble, 
 some dusty and heated, others wrapped up in dressing- 
 gowns — all negligent, inattentive to each other, and weary 
 of themselves — tited of the long unbroken morning, 
 which no occupation lightens, no care beguiles, no duty 
 elevates. The Siesta follows, evening draws near, and at 
 last the life of Italy dawns — dawns when the sun is set- 
 ting ! It is the hour of the theatre — the Theatre, the sole 
 great passion of the nation, the one rallying point for 
 every grade and class, Thitber, now, all repair; and for 
 a brief interval the silent streets of the city bustle with 
 the life and movement of the inhabitants, as, on foot or 
 in carriages, they hasten past. 
 
 The " business of the scene^' is the very least among 
 the attractions of a theatre in Italy. The opera-box is the 
 drawing-room, the only one of an Italian lady ; it is the 
 club-room of the men. Whist and faro, ombre and piquet, 
 dispute the interest with the prima donna or the danseuse 
 in one box ; while in another the fair occupant turns from 
 the ardent devotion of stage-passion to listen to the not 
 less impassioned, but as unreal, protestation of her admirer 
 beside lier. 
 
 That the drama, as such, is not the attraction, it is suf- 
 ficient to say that the same piece is often played forty, 
 fifty, sometimes seventy nights in succession, and yet the 
 boxes lose few, if any, of their occupants. Night after 
 night the same faces re-appear, as regularly as the actors ; 
 tlie same groupings are formed, the selfsame smiles go 
 round ; and v/ere it not that no trait of ennui is discernible, 
 you would say that levity had met its own punishment in 
 the dreariness of monotony. These boxes seldom pass out, 
 of the same family ; from generation to generation they 
 descend with the family mansion, and are as much a part 
 of the domestic property of a house as the rooms of the 
 residence. Furnished and lighted up according to the
 
 28 HORACE TEMPLETON, 
 
 taste and at the discretion of the owner, they present to 
 eyes only habituated to our theatres the strangest variety, 
 and even discordance, of aspect : some, brilliant in wax- 
 light and gorgeous in decoration, glitter with the jewelled 
 dresses of the gay company ; others, mysteriously sombre, 
 show the shadowy outlines of an almost shrouded group, 
 dimly visible in the distance. 
 
 The theatre is the very spirit and essence of life in Italy. 
 To the merchant it is the Bourse ; it is the club to the 
 gambler, the cofi! to the lounger, the drawing-room and 
 the boudoir to the lady. But where is the domestic life ?
 
 nOKACE TEMPLETON. 29 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 Akother note from Favancourt, asking me to diue and 
 meet Alfred de Vigny, whose " Cinque Mars" I praised 
 so highly. Be it so ; I am curious to see a Frenchman 
 who has preferred the high esteem of the best critics of 
 his country to the noisy popularity such men as Sue and 
 Dumas write for. 
 
 De Vigny is a French Washington Irving, with more 
 genius, higher taste, but not that heartfelt appreciation of 
 tranquil, peaceful life that the American possesses. As 
 episode, his little tale, the " Canne de Jonc," is one of the 
 most affecting I ever read. From the outset yoa feel that 
 the catastrophe must be sad, yet there is nothing harass- 
 ing or wearying in the suspense. The cloud of evil, not 
 bigger than a man's hand at first, spreads gradually till ifc 
 spans the heavens from east to west, and night falls solemn 
 and dark, but without storm or hurricane. 
 
 I scarcely anticipate that such a writer can be a bril- 
 liant converser. The best gauge I have ever found of an 
 author's agreeability is in the amount of dialogue he 
 throws into his books. Wherever narrative, pure narra- 
 tive, predominates, and the reflective tone prevails, the 
 author will be, perhaps necessarily, more disposed to 
 silence. But he who writes dialogue well, must be himself 
 a talker. Take Scott, for instance ; the very chax'acter of 
 his dialogue scenes was the type of his own social powers : 
 a strong and nervous common sense ; a high chivalry that 
 brooked nothing low or mean ; a profound veneration for 
 antiquity ; an innate sense of the humorous ran through 
 his manner in the world, as they display themselves in his 
 works. 
 
 See Sheridan, too; he talked the " School for Scandal"
 
 30 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 all his life ; whereas Goldsmith was a dull man in com- 
 pany. Taking this criterion, Alfred de Vigny will be 
 quiet, reserved, and thoughtful ; pointed, perhaps, but not 
 brilliant. Apropos of this talking talent, what has be- 
 come of it? French caitserie, of which one hears so much, 
 was no more to be compared to the racy flow of English 
 table-talk some forty years back, than a group of artificial 
 flowers is fit to compete with a bouquet of richly-scented 
 dew-spangled buds, freshly plucked from the garden. 
 Lord Brougham is our best man now, the readiest — a great 
 quality — and, strange as it may sound to those who know 
 him not, the best-natured, with anecdote enough to poiut 
 a moral, but no story-teller; using his wit as a skilful 
 cook does lemon-juice — to flavour, but not to sour the 
 plat. 
 
 Painters and anglers, I have remarked, are always silent, 
 thoughtful men. Of course I would not include under 
 this judgment such as portrait and miniature painters, 
 who are about, as a class, the most tiresome and loqua- 
 cious twaddlers that our unhappy globe suffers under. 
 Wilkie must have been a real blessing to any man sen- 
 tenced to sit for his picture : he never asked questions, 
 seldom, indeed, did he answer them ; he had nothing of 
 that vulgar trick of calling up an expression in his sitter ; 
 provided the man stayed awake, he was able always to catch 
 the traits of feature, and, when he needed it, evoke the 
 prevailing character of the individual's expression by a 
 chance word or two. Lawrence was really agreeable — so, 
 at least, I have always heard, for he v/as before my day ; 
 but I suspect it was that officious agreeability of the artist, 
 the smartness that lies in wait for a smile or the sparkle of 
 the eye, that he may transmit it to the panel. 
 
 The gi'eat miniature painter ofourday is really a speci- 
 men of a miniature intelligence — fhe most incessant little 
 driveller of worse than nothings : the small gossip that is 
 swept down the back-stairs of a palace, the flat common- 
 places of great people, are his stock-in-trade ; the only 
 value of such contributions to history is, that they must be 
 true. IS'one but kings could be so tiresome ! I remember 
 once sitting to this gentleman, when only just recovei'ing
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 31 
 
 from an illness, and when possibly I endured his forced 
 and forty-horse power of small talk with less than ordinary 
 patience. He had painted nearly every crowned head in 
 Europe — kings, kaisers, archdukes, and grand-duchesses in 
 every principality, from the boundless tracts of the Czar's 
 possessions to those states which emulate the small green 
 turf deposited in a bird's cage. Dear me ! how wearisome 
 it was to hear him recount the ordinary traits that marked 
 the life of great people, as if the greatest Tory of us all 
 ever thought kings and queens were anything but men 
 and women ! 
 
 I listened, as though in a long distressing dream, to 
 narratives of how the Prince de Joinville, so terribly eager 
 to burn our dockyards and destroy our marine, could be 
 playful as a lamb in his nursery with the children. How 
 Louis Philippe held the little Count de Paris fast in his 
 chair till his portrait was taken. (Will he be able to seat 
 him so securely on the throne of France ?) How the Em- 
 peror of Austria, with the simplicity of a great mind and a 
 very large head, always thought he could sit behind the 
 artist and watch the progress of his own picture ! I lis- 
 tened, I say, till my ears tingled and my head swam, and 
 in that moment there was not a "bounty man" from Ken- 
 tucky or Ohio that held royalty more cheaply than myself. 
 Just at this very nick, my servant came to whisper me, 
 that an agent from Messrs. Lorch, Rath et Co., the wine 
 merchants of Frankfort, had called, by my desire, to take 
 an order for some hock. Delighted at the interruption, I 
 ordered he should be admitted, and the next moment a 
 very tall, pretentious-looking German, with a tremendously 
 frogged and Brandenburged coat, and the most extensive 
 beard and moustaches, entered, and with all the cere- 
 monial of his native land saluted ns both, three times 
 over. 
 
 I received him with the most impressive and I'espectable 
 politeness, and seemed, at least, only to i^esume my seat 
 after his expressed permission. The artist, who under- 
 stood nothing of German, watched all our proceedings 
 with a " miniature eye," and at last whispered gently, 
 « Who is he ? "
 
 82 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " Heavens ! " said I, in a low toue, " don't you know ? 
 —he is the Crown Prince of Hanover ! " 
 
 The words were not uttered when my little friend let fall 
 his palette and sprang off his chair, shocked at the very 
 thought of his being seated in such presence. The 
 German turned towards him one of those profoundly 
 austere glances that only a foreign bagman or an American 
 tragedian can compass, and took no farther notice of 
 him. 
 
 The interview ovei', I accompanied him to the ante- 
 chamber, and then took my leave, to the horror of Sir 
 
 C , who asked me at least twenty times '* why I did 
 
 not go down to the door." 
 
 "Oh, we are old friends," said I; "I knew him at 
 Gottingen a dozen years ago, and we never stand on any 
 ceremony together." My fiction, miserable as it was, 
 saved me from further anecdotes of royalty, since what 
 private history of kings could astonish the man on such 
 terms of familiai"ity with the Crown Prince of Hanover ? 
 
 Talking of Hanover, and a ixropos of "humbugs," re- 
 minds me of a circumstance that amused me at the time 
 it occurred. Soon after the present king of Hanover 
 ascended the throne, the Orangemen of Ireland, who had 
 long been vain of their princely Grand Master, had suffi- 
 cient influence on the old corporation of Dublin to carry a 
 motion that a deputation should be despatched to Hanover, 
 to convey to tlie foot of the throne the sincere and respect- 
 ful gratulations of the mayor, aldermen, and livery of 
 Dublin on the auspicious advent of his Majesty to the crown 
 of that kingdom. The debate was a warm one, but the 
 majority which carried the measure large, and now 
 nothing remained but to name the happy individuals who 
 should form the deputation, and then ascertain in what 
 part of the globe Hanover lay, and how it should be 
 come at. 
 
 Nothing but the cares of state and the important consi- 
 derations of duty, could prevent the mayor himself accept- 
 ing this proud task : the sheriffs, however, were free. Their 
 office was a sinecure, and they accordingly were appointed, 
 with a sufficient suite, fully capable of representing to ad-
 
 HORACE TEltPLETON. 33 
 
 vantage abroad the wealth, splendour, and intelligence 
 of the "ancient and loyal corporation." 
 
 One of the sheriffs, and the chief member of the mission, 
 was, if I remember aright, a Mr. Timothy Brien ; the 
 name of the " lesser bear " I have forgotten. Tim was, 
 however, the spokesman, whenever speaking was available; 
 and when it was not, it was he that made the most signi- 
 ficant signs. 
 
 I was at the period a very young aflaclie of the mission 
 at Hanover; our secretary, Melmond, being cliarge d'afaires 
 in the absence of our chief. Melmond was confined to bed 
 by a feverish attack, and the duties of the mission, limited 
 to signing a passport or two once a month, or some such 
 form, were performed by me. Despatches were never sent. 
 The Foreign Office told us, if we had anything to say, to 
 wait for the Russian courier passing through, but not to 
 worry them about nothing. 1 therelore had an easy post, 
 and enjoyed all the dignities of office without its cares. 
 If I had only had the pay, I could have asked nothing 
 better. 
 
 It was, then, of a fine morning in May that Count Beul- 
 witz, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, was announced, and 
 the same moment entered my apartment. I was, I own 
 it, not a little fluttered and flattered by this mark of recog- 
 nition on the part of a minister, and resolved to play my 
 part as deputy-assistant charge d'alfaires to my very 
 utmost. 
 
 " I come, Mr. Templeton," said the minister, in a voice 
 not quite free from agitation, *' to ask your counsel on a 
 question of considerable nicety; and as Mr. Melmond is 
 still unable to attend to duty, you must excuse me if I 
 ask you to bestow the very gravest attention upon the 
 point." 
 
 I assumed the most Talleyrand of looks, and he went on. 
 
 " This morning there has arrived here in four carriages, 
 with great pomp and state, a special mission, sent from 
 Ireland to convey the congratulations of the Government 
 on his Majesty's accession to the throne. Now we have 
 always believed and uuderbtood that Ireland was a part of 
 the British empire, living under the same monarchy and
 
 34 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 the same laws. If so, liow can this mission be accredited ? 
 It would be a very sei^ous thing for us to recognise the 
 partition of the British empire, or the separation of an 
 integral portion, without due thought and consideration. 
 It would be also a very bold step to refuse the advances of 
 a State that deputes such a mission as this appears to be. 
 Do your despatches fi*om England give any clue by which 
 we may guicU our steps in this difficulty ? have you heard 
 latterly w^hat are the exact relations existing between 
 England and Ireland ? Ton are aware that his Majesty is 
 at Bei-lin, and Barring and Von der Decken, who know 
 England so well, are both with him ? " 
 
 I nodded assent, and, after a second's silence, a strong 
 temptation to quiz the Minister crossed my mind ; and 
 without even a guess at what this mysterious deputation 
 might mean, I gravely hinted that our last accounts from 
 Ireland were of the most serious nature. It was certainly 
 true that kingdom had been conquered by the English and 
 subjected to the crown of Eugland, but there were the 
 most well-founded reasons to fear that the arrangement 
 had not the element of a permanence. The descendant 
 of the ancient sovereigns of the land was a man of bold 
 and energetic and adventurous character ; he was a 
 prince of the house of O'Connell, of which, doubtless, 
 his Excellency had heard. There was no saying what 
 events might have occurred to favour his ambitious views, 
 and whether England might not have found the advantage 
 of restoring a troublesome land to its ancient dynasty. 
 
 " How does the present mission present itself — how 
 accredited ?" 
 
 " From the court of Dublin, with the great seal, so far 
 r,s T can understand the representation, for none of the 
 embassy speak French." 
 
 " That sounds very formal and regular," said I with 
 deep gravity. 
 
 " So I think it, too," said his Excellenc}-, who really 
 was imprepscd by the state-coach of Sherilf Timothy and 
 three footmen, in bag-wigs. "At any rate," said he, 
 " we must decide at once, and there can be no hesitation 
 about the matter. I suppose we must give them an
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 35 
 
 audience of the Crown Prince, and then let all rest till 
 Lis Majesty returns, which he will do on Friday next." 
 
 __Without compromising myself by any assent, I looked 
 as if he had spoken very wisely, and his Excellency 
 departed. 
 
 That same afternoon two state-carriages of the court, 
 with servants in dress livery, drew up at the Hof von 
 London, the hotel where the deputation had taken up 
 their quarters, and a mareclial de cour alighted to inform 
 the " Irish ambassador " that his Royal Highness the 
 Crown Pinnce would receive their homage in the absence 
 of the Kiag. The intimation, more conveyed by 
 pantomime than oral intelligence, was replied to by an 
 equivalent telegraph ; but the sheriffs, in all their gala, 
 soon took their places in the carriage and set out for the 
 palace. 
 
 Their reception was most flattering ; enough to say, 
 they had the honour to address and be I'eplied to by one 
 of the most courteous princes of Europe. An invitation 
 to dinner, the usual civility to a newly arrived mission, 
 ensued, and the Irish embassy, overwhelmed with the 
 brilliant success of their journey, returned to the hotel iu 
 a state of exaltation that bordered on ecstasy. 
 
 Their corporation address, formidable by its portentous 
 parchment and official seal, had puzzled the Foreign 
 Office in no ordinary waj^ and was actually under their 
 weighty consideration the following day, when the King 
 most unexpectedly made his entree into the capital. King 
 Ernest heard with some amazement, not uumingled by 
 disbelief, that an Irish diplomatic body had actually 
 arrived at his court, and immediately demanded to see 
 their credentials. There is no need to recount the terrible 
 outbreak of temper which his Majesty displayed on dis- 
 covering the mistake of his ministers. The chances are, 
 indeed, that, had he called himself Pacha instead of King, 
 he would have sentenced the Irish ambassador and his 
 whole followiiio- to be hansfed like onions on the one 
 string. As it was, he could scarcely control his passion ; 
 and whatever the triumphant pleasures of the day before, 
 when a dinner-card for the palace was conveyed by an 
 
 D -1
 
 36 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 , ^ , , gc .__.. ._ 
 
 •unmolested, and betook themselves to their homeward 
 journey, the chief of the mission by no means so well 
 satisfied of his success in the part of the "Irish Am- 
 bassador." 
 
 Now to dress for dinner. I wish I had said " No " to 
 this same invitation. 
 
 Nothing is pleasanter vi^hen one is in health and spirits 
 than a ■peiif diner ; nothing is more distressing when one 
 is weak, low, and dejected. At a large party there is 
 iilwnys a means of lying perdu, and neither taking any 
 share in the cookery or the conversation. At a small table 
 one must eat, drink, and be merry, though ihep^athe your 
 doom and the talk be your destruction. There is no help 
 for it ; there is no playing " supernumerary " in fai'ce with 
 four characters. 
 
 Is it yet too late to send an apology ? — it still wants a 
 quarter of six, and six is the hour. I really cannot 
 endure the fatigue and the exhaustion. Holland, besides, 
 told me that any excitement would be prejudicial. Hei'e 
 goes, then, for my excuse. ... So! I'm glad I've done it. 
 I feel myself once more free to lie at ease on this ottoman 
 and dieam awav the hours undisturbed. 
 
 "Holloa ! what's this, Legielle ?" 
 
 " De la part de !Madame la Comtesse, sir." 
 
 How provoking! — how monstrously provoking! She 
 writes me, "You really must come. I will not order 
 
 dinner till I see you. — Yours, &c., B. de F ." What 
 
 a bore! and what an absurd way to incur an attack of 
 illness ! There's nothing for it, however, but submission ; 
 and to-morrow, if I'm able, I'll leave Paris. 
 
 " Legrelle, don't forget to order horses for to-morrow at 
 twelve." 
 
 " What route does monsieur take?" 
 
 "Avignon- — no, Strasbourg — Couill}^, I think, is tlio 
 first post. I should like to sec Munich once more, or, at
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON, 37 
 
 least, its gallery. The city is a poor thing, woi'thy of its 
 
 people, and, I Nvas going to say — no matter \Yhat ! 
 
 Germany, in any case, for the summer, as I am sentenced 
 
 to die in Italy. I feel I am taking what the Irish call ' a 
 
 long day ' in not crossing the Alps till late in autumn ! " 
 
 How many places there are which one has been near 
 
 enough to have visited, and somehow always neglected to 
 
 see ! and what a longing, craving wish to behold them 
 
 comes over the heart, at such a time as this! What, then, 
 
 is " this time," that I speak it thus? 
 
 ****** 
 
 How late it is ! De Vigny was very agreeable, com- 
 bining in his manner a great deal of the refinement of a 
 highly cultivated mind, with the shrewd perception of a 
 keen observer of the world. He is a Legit imistc^ I take it, 
 without any hope of his party. This, after all, is the sad 
 political creed of all who adhere to the " elder branch." 
 Their devotion is indeed great, for it wai'S against convic- 
 tion. But where can an honest man find footing in 
 France nowadays? Has not Louis Philippe violated in 
 succession every pledge by which he had bound himself? 
 Can such an example of falsehood so highly placed be 
 without its influence on the nation ? Can men cry 
 "Shame!" on the Minister, when they witness the 
 turpitude of the Monarch ? 
 
 But what hope does any other party offer ? — None. 
 Henri Cinq, a Bourbon of the vieille roclie, gentle, soft- 
 hearted, sensual, and selfish, who, if he returned to France 
 to-morrow, would never believe that the long interval 
 since the Three Days had been anything but an accident; 
 and would not bring himself to credit the possibility that 
 the succession had been ever endangered. 
 
 I believe, after all, one should be as lenient in their 
 judgment of men's change of fealty in France as they are 
 indulgent to the capricious fancies of a spoiled beaut}-. 
 The nation, like a coquette, had everything its own way. 
 The cold austerities of principle had yielded to the 
 changeful fortunes of success for so many 3-ears, that men 
 very naturally began to feel that instability and uncer- 
 tainty were the normal state of things, and that to hold 
 
 132289
 
 S8 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 fast oue set of opinions was like casting anclior in a stream 
 when we desired to be carried along by the current. Who 
 are they who have risen in France since the time of the 
 Great Revolution ? Are they the consistent politicians, 
 the men of one unvarying, unaltered faith ? or are they 
 the expediency makers, the men of emergencies and 
 crises, yielding, as they would phrase it, to " the en- 
 lightened temper of the times " — the Talleyrands, the 
 Soults, the Guizots of the day — not to speak of one 
 higher than them all, but not more conspicuous for his 
 elevation than for the subserviency that has placed him 
 there ? 
 
 Poor Chateaubriand ! the man who never varied, the 
 man that was humblest before his rightful sovereign, and 
 prouder than the proudest Marshal in presence of the 
 Emperor, how completely forgotten is he — standing like 
 some ruined sign-post to point the way over a road no 
 longer travelled ! A more complete revolution was never 
 worked in the social condition of a great kingdom than 
 has taken place in France since the time of the Emperor. 
 The glorious career of conquering armies had invested the 
 soldiei-'s life with a species of chivalry that brought back 
 the old days of feudalism again. Now, it is the hour- 
 geoisie are uppermost. Trade and money-getting, rail- 
 roads and mines, have seized hold of the nation's heart ; 
 and where the baton of a Marechal was once the most 
 coveted of all earthly distinctions, a good bargain on the 
 Bourse, or a successful transaction in scrip, are now the 
 highest triumphs. The very telegraph, whose giant 
 limbs only swayed to speak of victories, now beckons to 
 an expectant crowd the rates of exchange from London to 
 Livorno, and with a far greater certainty of stirring the 
 spirits it addresses. 
 
 I fell into all this moody reflection from thinking of an 
 incident — I might almost call it story — I remembered 
 hearing from an old cuii-assier oflBcer some years ago. I 
 was passing through the north of France, and stopped to 
 dine at Sedan, where a French cavalry regiment, three 
 thousand strong, were quartei'ed. Some repairs that 
 •were necessary to my carriage detained me till the next
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 89 
 
 day ; and as I strolled along the shady boulevards in the 
 evening I met an old soldier-like person, beside whom I 
 dined at the table-d'liote. He was the very type of a 
 chef-cV escadron of the Empire, and such he really proved 
 to be. 
 
 After a short preamble of the ordinary common-places, 
 we began to talk of the service in Avhich he lived, and I 
 confess it was with a feeling of surprise I heard him say 
 that the old soldier's of the Empire had met but little 
 favour from the new dynasty ; and I could not help ob- 
 serving that this was not the impression made upon us in 
 England, but that we inclined to think it was the especial 
 policy of the-present reign to conciliate the affections of 
 the nation by a graceful acknowledgment of those so in- 
 strumental to its glory. 
 
 "Is not Soult as high, or rather, is he not far higher, 
 in the favour of his sovereign, Louis Philippe, than ever 
 he was in that of the Emperor? Is not Moncey a man 
 nobly pensioned as Captain of the Invalides?" 
 
 " All true ! But where are the hundreds — I had almost 
 said thousands, but that death has been so busy in these 
 tranquil times with those it had spared in more eventful 
 days — where are they, the old soldiers, who served in 
 inferior gi'ades, the men whose promotions for the hard 
 fighting at Montereau and Chalons needed but a few days 
 more of prosperity to have confirmed, but who saw their 
 best hopes decline as the sun of the Emperor's glory 
 descended? What rewards were given even to many of 
 the more distinguished, but v/hose principles were known 
 to be little in accordance with the new order of things ? 
 What of Pajol, who captured a Dutch fleet with his 
 cavalry squadrons ; — ay ! charged the three-deckers as 
 they lay ice-locked in the Scheldt, dismounted half of his 
 force and boarded them, as in a sea-fight? Poor Pajol I 
 he died the other day, at eighty-three or four, followed to 
 the grave by the comrades he had fought and marched 
 beside, but with no honours to his memory from the King 
 or his government. No, sir, believe me, the present people 
 never liked the Buonapartists ; the sad contrasts presented 
 by all their attempts at military renown with those
 
 40 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 glorious spectacles of the Empire were little flattering to 
 them." 
 
 "Tlien you evidently think Soult and some others owe 
 their present favour less to the eminence of their services 
 than to the plasticity of their principles ? " 
 
 " Who ever thought Soult a great general ?" said he, 
 abruptly answering my question by this transition. "A 
 great military organizer, certainly — the best head for the 
 administration of an arm}^ or the Emperor's staff — but 
 nothing more. His capacity as a tactician was always 
 third rate." 
 
 I could not help acknowledging that such was the 
 opinion of our own great captain, who has avowed that 
 be regarded Massena as the most accomplished and 
 scientific general to whom he was ever opposed. 
 
 " And Massena's daughter," cried the veteran, indig- 
 nantly, " lives now in the humblest poverty — the wife of 
 a very poor man, who cultivates a little garden near 
 Brussels, where feimnes de cJiamhre are sent to buy 
 bouquets for their mistresses ! The daughter of a Mareclial 
 de France, a title once that kings loved to add to their 
 royalt}', as men love to ennoble station by evidences of 
 high personal desert ! " 
 
 " How little fidelity, however, did these men show to 
 him who had made them thus great ! How numerous were 
 the desertions ! — how rapid too ! " 
 
 "Yes, there was an epidemic of treason at that time in 
 France, just as you have seen at different epochs here, 
 other epidemics prevail : in the Revolution the passion 
 was for the guillotine ; then came the lust of military 
 glory — that suited us best, and lasted longest; we in- 
 dulged in it for twenty years: then succeeded that terrilih' 
 revulsion, and men hastened to prove how false-hearted 
 they could be. Then came the Restoration — and the 
 passion was to be Catholic ; and now we have another 
 order of things, whose worst feature is, that there is no 
 prevailing creed. Men live for the day and the hour. 
 The King's health — the state of Spain — a bad harvest — • 
 an awkward dispute between the commander, of our squad- 
 ron in the Pacific with some of your admirals, — anything
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 41 
 
 may overturn the balance, and our whole political and 
 social condition may have to be built up once more." 
 
 " The great remedy against this uncertainty is out 
 of your power," said I : " you abolished the claims of 
 Sovereignty on the permanent affection of the people, 
 and now you begin to feel the want of ' Loyalty.' " 
 
 " Our kings had ceased to merit the respect of the nation 
 when they lost it." 
 
 " Say, rather, you revenged upon them the faults and 
 vices of their more depraved, but bolder, ancestors. You 
 made the timid Louis XVI. pay for the hardy Louis XIV. 
 Had that unhappy monarch but been like the Emperor, 
 his Court might have displayed all the excesses of the re- 
 gency twice told, and you had never declared against 
 them." 
 
 " That may be true ; but you evidently do not — I doubt, 
 indeed, if any but a Frenchman and a soldier can — feel 
 the nature of our attachment to the Emperor. It was 
 something in which personal interest partook a large part, 
 and the hope of future advancement, throurjh liim, bore its 
 share. The army regarded him thus, and never forgave 
 him perfectly, for preferring to be an Emperor rather than 
 a General. Now, the very desertions you have lately 
 alluded to would probably never have occurred if the leader 
 had not merged into the monarch." 
 
 " There was a fascination, a spirit of infatuating ecstasy, 
 in serving one whose steps had so often led to glory, that 
 filled a man's entire heart. One learned to feel that the 
 rays of his own splendid achievements shed a lustre on 
 all around him, and each had his portion of undying fame. 
 This feeling, as it became general, grew into a kind of 
 superstition, and even to a man's own conscience it served 
 to excuse many grave errors, and some direct breaches of 
 true faith." 
 
 " Then, probably, you regard Nay's conduct in this 
 light ? " said I. 
 
 " I know it was of this nature," replied he, vehemently. 
 " Ney, like many others, meant to be faithful to tho 
 Bourbons when he took the command. He had no 
 thought of treachery in his mind ; he believed he was
 
 42 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 marching against an enemy until Le actually saw the Em- 
 peror, and then " 
 
 " I find this somewhat difficult to understand," said I, 
 dubiously. " Ney's new allegiance was no hasty step, but 
 one matui'ely and well considered. He had weighed in 
 his mind various eventualities, and doubtless among the 
 number the possibility of the Emperor's return. That the 
 mere sight of that low cocked-hat and the reclingote gris 
 could have at once served to overturn a swoi-n fealty and 
 a i^lishted word " 
 
 " Have you time to listen to a short story? " interrupted 
 the old dragoon, with a degree of emotion in his manner 
 that bespoke a deeper interest than I suspected in the 
 subject of our conversation. 
 
 " Willingly," said I. " Will you come and sup with me 
 at my hotel, and we can continue a theme in which I feel 
 much interest ?" 
 
 " Nay ; with your permission, we will sit down here 
 — on the ram.parts. I never sup: like an old campaigner, 
 I only make one meal a day, and mention the cii'curastance 
 to excuse my performance at the table d'hote : and here, 
 if you do not dislike it, we will take our places under this 
 lime-tree." 
 
 I at once acceded to this proposal, and he began 
 thu3 : —
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 43 
 
 ^ CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ToTJ are, pei-haps, aware, tliat in no part of France was 
 the cause of the exiled family sustained with more perse- 
 verance and courage than Auvergne. The nobles, who, 
 from generation to generation, had lived as seigneurs on 
 their estates, equally remote from the attractions and ad- 
 vantages of a court, still preserved their devotion to the 
 Bourbons as a part of religious faith ; nor ever did the 
 evening mass of a chateau conclude without its heartfelt 
 prayer for the repose of that "saint roi," Louis XV"!., 
 and for the blessing of heaven on him, his rightful suc- 
 cessor, now a wanderer and an exile. 
 
 In one of these antique chateaux, whose dilapidated 
 battlements and shattered walls showed that other enemies 
 than mere time had been employed against it, lived an old 
 Count de Vitry : so old was he, that he could remember 
 the time he had been a page at the court of Louis XV., 
 and could tell many strange tales of the Regency, and the 
 characters who flourished at that time. 
 
 His family consisted of two grandchildren, both of them 
 orphans of his two sons. One had fallen in La Vendee ; 
 the other, sentenced to banishment by the Directory, had 
 died on the passage out to Guadaloupe. The children 
 were nearly of the same age — the boy a few months older 
 than the girl — and regarded each other as brother and 
 sister. 
 
 It is little to be wondered at if these children imbibed 
 from the veiy cradle a horror of that system and of those 
 men which had left them fatherless and almost friendless, 
 destitute of rank, station, and fortune, and a proportionate 
 attachment to those who, if they had beau suflfei'ed to
 
 44 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 reign, would have preserved them in the enjoyment of all 
 their time-honoured privileges and possessions. 
 
 If the members of the executive government were then 
 remembered among the catalogue of persons accursed and 
 to be hated, the names of the royal family were repeated 
 among those saintly personages to whom honour and praise 
 were rendered. The venerable Pere Duclos, to whom their 
 education was confided, certainly neglected no available 
 m?ans of instilling these two opposite principles of belief; 
 and if Alfred de Vitry and Blanche were not impressed 
 with this truth, it could not be laid to the charge of this 
 single-hearted teacher ; every trait and feature that could 
 deform and disgrace humanity being attributed to one, and 
 all the graces and ennobling virtues of the race associated 
 with the name of the other. The more striking and im- 
 pressive to make the lesson, the Pere was accustomed to 
 read a comment on the various events then occurring at 
 Pans, and on the campaigns of the Republican army in 
 Italy ; dwelling, with pardonable condemnation, on the 
 insults offered to the Church and all who adhered to its 
 holy cause. 
 
 These appeals were made with peculiar force to Alfred, 
 who was destined for an ecclesiastic, that being the only 
 career Avhich the old Count and his chaplain could satisfy 
 themselves as offering any hope of safety ; and now that 
 the fixmily possessions were all confiscated, and a mere 
 remnant of the estate remaining, there was no use in hoping 
 to perpetuate a name which must sink into poverty and 
 obscurity. Blanche was also to become a member of a 
 religious order in Italy, if, happily, even in that sacred 
 land, the privileges of the Church were destined to escape. 
 
 The good Pere, whose intentions were unalloyed by one 
 thought unworthy of an angel, made the mistake that 
 great zeal not unirequently commits — he proved too much ; 
 he painted the Revolutionary party in colours so terrible 
 that no possible reality could sustain the truth of the por- 
 traiture. It is true the early daj'S of the Revolution war- 
 ranted all he did or could say ; but the party had changed 
 greatly since that, or, rather, a new and a very differently 
 minded class had succeeded. Marat, Danton, and Robes-
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 45 
 
 pierre liad no resemblance with Sieyes, Carnot, and Buona- 
 parte. The simple-minded priest, however, recognised no 
 distinction : he thought that, as the stream issued from a 
 tainted source, the current could never become purer by 
 flowing ; and be delighted, with all the enthusiasm of a 
 devot, to exaggerate the evil traits of those whose exploits 
 of heroism might have dazzled and fascinated unthinking 
 understandings. 
 
 Alfred was about sixteen, when one evening, nigh sun- 
 set, a peasant approached the chateau in eager haste to say 
 that a party of soldiers were coming up the little road 
 which led toward the house, instead of turning off, as they 
 usually did, to the village of Puy de Dome, half a league 
 further down the valley. 
 
 Pere Duclos, who assumed absolute authority over the 
 household since the old Count had fallen into a state of 
 childlike dotage, hastened to provide himself with the writ 
 of exemption from billet the Directory had conferred on 
 the chateau — an amende for the terrible misfortunes of 
 the ruined family — and advanced to meet the partj^, the 
 leading files of which were already in sight. 
 
 Nothing could less have suggested the lawless depre- 
 datoi's of the Eepublic than the little column that now 
 drew near. Four chasseurs-a-pied led the van, their clothes 
 I'agged and torn, their shoes actually in ribbons ; one had 
 his arm in a sling, and another carried his shako on his 
 back, as his head was bound up in a handkerchief, whose 
 blood-stained folds showed the marks of a severe sabre-cut. 
 Behind them came a litter, or, rather, a cart with a canvas 
 awning, in which lay the wounded body of their officer ; 
 the rear consisting of about fourteen others, under the 
 command of a sergeant. 
 
 They halted and formed as the old Pere approached 
 them, and the sergeant, stepping to the front, carried his 
 hand to his cap in military salute ; and then, without 
 waiting for the priest to speak, he began a very civil, almost 
 an humble, apology for the liberty of their intrusion. 
 
 " We are," said he, " an invalid party, en route for Paris, 
 with an officer who was severely wounded at the bridge of 
 Lodi." And here he lowered his voice to a whisper: " The
 
 46 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 poor lieutenant's case being hopeless, and his constant 
 wish — his prayer — being to see his mother before he dies, 
 we are pushing on for her chateau, which is near St. Jean 
 de Luc, I hear." 
 
 Perhaps the mention of the word chateau — the claim of 
 one whose rank was even thus vaguely hinted at — had 
 nearly an equal influence on the Pere with the duties of 
 humanity. Certain is it he laid less stress than he might 
 have done on the writ of exemption, and blandly said that 
 the out-offices of the chateau should be at their disposal for 
 the night; apologising if late events had not left its 
 inhabitants in better circumstances to succour the un- 
 fortunate. 
 
 " We ask very little, Pcre," said the sergeant, respect- 
 fully — "some straw to sleep on, some rye-bread and a little 
 water for supper ; and to-morrow, ere sunrise, you shall 
 see the last of us." 
 
 The humility of the i-equest, rendered even more humble 
 by the manner in which it was conveyed, did not fail to 
 strike the Pere Duclos, who began to wonder what reverses 
 had overtaken the " Blues " (the name the Republicans 
 were called), that they were become thus civil and respect- 
 ful ; nor could he be brought to believe the account the 
 sergeant gave of a glorious victory at the Ada, nor credit 
 a syllable of the bulletin which, in letters half-a-foot long, 
 proclaimed the splendid achievement. 
 
 A little pavilion in the garden was devoted to the recep- 
 tion of the wounded lieutenant, and the soldiers bivou- 
 acked in the farm-buildings, and some even in the open 
 air, for it was the vintage time and the weather delightful. 
 Thei-e was nothinGf of outrao'e or disturbance committed 
 by the men ; not even any unusual noise disturbed the 
 peaceful quiet of the old chateau ; and, except that a lamp 
 burned all night in the garden-pavilion, nothing denoted 
 the presence of strangers. 
 
 Before day broke the men were mustered in the court 
 of the chateau ; and the sergeant, having seen that his 
 party wei'e all regularly equipped for the march, demanded 
 to speak a few words to the Pere Duclos. The Pere, who 
 was from his window watching these signs of approaching
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 47 
 
 clepartui-e with some anxiety, hastily descended on hearing 
 the request. 
 
 " We are about to march, reverend father," said the 
 sergeant, saluting, " all of us, save one — our poor lieuten- 
 ant ; his next billet will be for another, and, we hope, a 
 better place." 
 
 " Is he dead ? " asked the Pere, eagerly. 
 
 *' Not yet, father ; but the event cannot now be far off. 
 He raved all through the night, and this morning the fever 
 has left him, but "Vithout strength, and evidently going 
 fast. To take him along with us would be inhuman, were 
 it even possible — to delay would be against my orders ; so 
 that nothing else is to be done tlVan leave him among 
 those who would be kind to his last houi-s, and minister 
 to the wants of a death-bed." 
 
 The Pere, albeit very far from gratified by his charge, 
 promised to do all in his power ; and the sergeant, having 
 commanded a " pi'esent arms" to the chateau, wheeled 
 right-about and departed. 
 
 For some days the prediction of the sei'geant seemed to 
 threaten its accomplishment at eveiy hour. The sick 
 man, reduced to the very lowest stage of debility, appeared 
 at moments as if struggling for a last breath ; but by de- 
 grees these paroxysms grew less frequent and less violent : 
 he slept, too, at intervals, and awoke seemingly refreshed ; 
 and thus between the benefits derived from tranquillity 
 and rest, a mild and genial air and his own youth, his 
 recovery became at length assured, accompanied, however, 
 by a degree of feebleness that made the least efi'ort impos- 
 sible, and even the utterance of a few words a matter of 
 great pain and difliculty. 
 
 If, during the most sad and distressing periods of the 
 sick bed, the Pere indirectly endeavoured to inspire 
 Alfred's mind with a horror of a soldier's life — depicting, 
 by the force of the terrible example before him, the 
 wretchedness of one who fell a victim to its ambition — so 
 did he take especial care, as convalescence began to dawn, 
 to forbid the youth from ever approaching the pavilion, or 
 holding any intercourse with its occupant. That jjart of 
 the garden was sti-ictly interdicted to him, and the very
 
 48 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 mention of the lieutenant at last forbidden, or only 
 alluded to when invoking a Christian blessing upon 
 enemies. 
 
 In this way matters continued till the end of autumn, 
 when the Pere, who had long been anxiously awaiting the 
 hour when the sick man should take his leave, had one 
 morning set off for the town to make arrangements for 
 his departure, and order post-horses to be ready on the 
 following day. 
 
 It was a calm and mellow day of autumn, and Alfred, 
 who had at first determined to set out on a fishing excur- 
 sion, without any reason changed his mind, and sauntered 
 into the gai-den. Loitering listlessly for some time, from 
 walk to walk, he was at length returning to the chateau, 
 when he beheld, seated under the shade of a walnut tree, 
 a young man, whose pale and languid look at once bespoke 
 the invalid, even had not the fact been proclaimed by his 
 dress, the uniform of a lander rouge. 
 
 Mindful of the Father's precept, and fully impressed 
 with an obedience never violated, the youth was turning 
 hastily away, when the wounded man slowly arose from 
 his seat, and removing his cap, made a salute of deep and 
 most respectful meaning. 
 
 Alfred returned it, and stood irresolute. The eyes of 
 the sick man, full of an expression of mild and thankful 
 beaming, were on him. What should he do ? to retire 
 without speaking would be a rudeness, even a cruelty : 
 besides, what possible harm could there be in a few words 
 of fi'iendly greeting with one so long their guest ? Ere 
 he could resolve the point, the wounded officer was slowly 
 advancing towards him, still uncovered, and in an attitude 
 betokening a most respectful gratitude. 
 
 " I pray you will permit me, Mons. le Cumte," said he, 
 " to express my heartfelt thanks for the hospitality and 
 kindness of your treatment. I feared that I should leave 
 this without the occasion of saying how grateful I feel for 
 the remnant of life your care has been the means of 
 preserving." 
 
 Alfred tried to answer: but a dread of his disobedience 
 and its consequence?, and a strange sense of admiration for
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 49 
 
 tbe stranger, whose manner and appearance had deeply 
 impressed him, made him silent. 
 
 " I see," said the lieutenant, smiling, " that you are in- 
 disposed to receive an acknowledgment for what you set 
 such small store by — a kindness to a mei'e ' soldier of tho 
 Republic ;' but when you wear a sword yoars df, Mens, le 
 Comte, as you will doubtless one of these days " 
 
 " No," said Alfred, hastily interrupting him, "never ! I 
 shall never wear one.^' 
 
 " How, never ! What can you mean ? " 
 
 " That I shall never be a soldier," said Alfred. " I am 
 to be a priest." 
 
 " A priest ! You, Mons. le Comte de Vitry, of the best 
 blood of Auvergne —you, a monk ! " 
 
 " I did not say a monk," said Alfred, proudly ; " there 
 are other ranks among churchmen. I have heard tell of 
 Prince-bishops and Cardinals." 
 
 "And if one were to begin life at the age they usually 
 take leave of it, such a career might not be held so cheaply; 
 but for a young man of good birth and blood, witli a heart 
 to feel proudly, and a hand to wield a weapon — no, no, 
 that were a shame not to be thought of" 
 
 Stung alike by the severity of the sarcasm, and animated 
 by the old spirit of the pere's teaching, Alfred hastily 
 answered, — 
 
 " And if men ot rank and station no longer carry arms 
 as their forefathers did, with whom lies the blame ? Why 
 do they now bend to adopt a path that in former days was 
 only trodden by the weak-hearted and the timid ? Be- 
 cause they would not draw the sword in a cause they 
 abhor, and for a faction they despise ; neither would they 
 shed their blood to assure the triumph of a rabble." 
 
 " Nor would I," interposed the lieutenant, while a slight 
 flush coloured his cheek. " The cause in which I perilled 
 life was that of France, my country. Tou may safely 
 trust that the nation capable of such conquests will neither 
 be disgraced by bad rulers nor dishonoured by cowardly 
 
 ones." 
 
 " I have no faith in Republicans," said Alfred, scorn. 
 fully. 
 
 E
 
 50 HOEAOE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " Because they were not born to fi title, perhaps ! But 
 do you know how many of those who now carry victory 
 into foreign lands belong to this same class that includes 
 all your sympathy r — prouder, far prouder, that they sus- 
 tain the honour of France against her enemies, than that 
 they carry the blazon of a marquis or the coronet of a 
 duke on their escutcheon ? You look incredulous ! Nay, 
 I speak no more than what I well know : for instance, the 
 humble lieutenant who now addresses you can claim rank 
 as high and ancient as your own. Tou have heard of the 
 Liancourts?" 
 
 " Le Due de Liancourt ? " 
 
 "Yes; I am, or rather I was, the Due de Liancourt," 
 said the lieutenant, with an almost imperceptible struggle : 
 " my present rank is Sous-Lieutenant of the Third Lan- 
 cers. Now listen to me calmly for a few moments, and I 
 hope to show you that in a country where a dreadful 
 social earthquake has uprooted every foundation of rank, 
 and strewed the ground with the ruins of everything like 
 prescription, it is nobler and better to show that nobility 
 could enter the lists, unaided by its prestige, and win the 
 palm, among those who vainly boasted themselves better 
 and braver. This we have done, not by assuming the 
 monk's cowl and the friar's cord, but by carrying the 
 knapsack and the musket ; not by shirking the struggle, 
 but by confronting it. Where is the taunt now against 
 the nobility of France ? Whose names figure oftenest in 
 the lists of killed and wounded ? Whose lot is it most 
 frequently to mount first to the assault or the breach ? No, 
 no, take to the alb and the surplice if your vocation prompt 
 it, but do not assume to say that no other road is open to 
 a Frenchman because his heart is warmed by noble blood." 
 If Alfred was at first shocked by hearing assertions so 
 opposed to all the precepts of his venerated tutor, he was 
 soon ashamed of ofi'ering opposition to one so far more 
 capable than himself of forming a just judgment on the 
 question ; while he felt, inwardly, the inequality of the 
 cause for which he would do battle against — that glorious 
 and triumphant one of which the young ofiicer assumed 
 the championship.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 51 
 
 Besides, De Liancourt's history was his own ; he had 
 been bred up with convictions precisely like his, and 
 might, had he followed out the path intended for him, 
 been a priest at the very hour that he led a charge at Lodi. 
 
 " I was saved by an accident," said he. "In the march 
 of Berthault's division through Chalons, a little drummor- 
 boy fell off a waggon when asleep, and was wounded by a 
 wheel passing over him : they brought him to our chateau, 
 where we nursed and tended him till he grew well. The 
 cure, wishing to sna4,ch him as a brand saved from the 
 burning, adopted him, and made him an acolyte ; and so 
 he remained till one Sunday morning when the ' Chasseurs 
 gris ' marched through the town during mass. Pierre 
 stole out to see the soldiers ; he heard a march he had 
 often listened to before ; he saw the little drummers step- 
 ping out gaily in front ; worse too, tliey saw him, and one 
 called out to his comrades, ' Regarde done le Preti'e ; ce 
 petit drole la — c'est un Pretre.' 
 
 " * Du tout,' cried he, tearing off his white robe, and 
 throwing it behind him, ' Je suis tambour comme toi,' 
 and snatching the drum, he beat his ' Ran tap-plan ' so 
 vigorously and so well, that the drum-major patted him 
 on the head and cheek, and away marched Pierre at the 
 head of the troop, leaving Chalons, and cure, and all 
 behind him, without a thought or a pang. 
 
 " I saw it all from the window of the church ; and 
 suddenly, as my eyes turned from the grand spectacle of 
 the moving column, with its bannei'S flying and bayonets 
 glistening, to the dim, half-lighted aisles of the old church, 
 with smoky tapers burning faintly, amid which an old 
 decrepit priest was moving slowly, a voice within me 
 cried, — 'Better a tambour than this!' I stole out, and 
 reached the street just as the last files were passing. I 
 mingled with the crowd that followed, my heart beating- 
 time to the quick march. I tracked them out of the town, 
 further and further, till we reached the wide open 
 country. 
 
 " ' Will you not come back, Pierre ? ' said I, pulling him 
 by the sleeve, as, at last, I reached the leading files, where 
 the little fellow marched, proud as a tambour-major. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 "'/go back, and the regiment mavching against the 
 enemy !' exclaimed he, indignantly ; and a roar of laugh- 
 ter and applause from the soldiers greeted his words. 
 
 " * Nor I either ! ' cried I. And thus I became a soldier, 
 never to regret the day I belted on the knapsack. But 
 here comes the Pere Duclos: I hope he may not be dis- 
 pleased at your having kept me company. I know well 
 he loves not such companionship for his pupil — perhaps 
 he has reason." 
 
 Alfred did not wait for the priest's arrival, but darted 
 from the spot and hastened to his room, where, bolting 
 the door, he threw himself upon his bed and wept bitterly. 
 AVho knows if these tears decided not all his path in life ? 
 
 That same evening the lieutenant left the chateau ; and 
 in about two months after came a letter, expressing his 
 gratitude for all the kindness of his host, and withal a 
 present of a gun and a chasseur's accoutrement for 
 Alfred. They were very handsome and costly, and he 
 ■was never weary of trying them on his shoulder and 
 looking how they became him ; when, in examining one 
 of the pockets for the twentieth time, he discovered a 
 folded paper. He opened it, and found it was an appoint- 
 ment for a cadet in the military school of St. Cyr. Alfred 
 de Vitry was written in pencil where the name should be 
 inscribed, but very faintly, and so that it required sharp 
 looking to detect the letters. It was enough, however, 
 for him to read the words. He packed up a little parcel 
 of clothes, and, with a few francs in his pocket, he set out 
 that night for Chalons, where he took the malle. The 
 third day, when he was tracked by the pere, he was 
 already enrolled a cadet, and not all the intei'est in 
 France could have removed him against his consent. 
 
 I will not dwell on a career which was in no respect 
 different from that of hundreds of others. Alfred joined 
 the army in the second Italian campaign — was part of 
 Dessaix's division at Marengo — was Avounded at Aspern, 
 and finally accompanied the Emperor in his terrible 
 march to Moscow. He saw more service than his -pro- 
 motion seemed to imply, however ; for, after Leipsig, 
 Dresden, Bautzen, be was carried on a litter, with some
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 53 
 
 other dying comrades, into a little village of Alsace — a 
 lieutenant of hussars, nothing more. 
 
 An hospital, hastily constructed of planks, had been 
 fitted up outside the village — there were many such on 
 the road between Strasbourg and Nancy — and here poor 
 Alfred lay, with many more, their sad fate rendered still 
 sadder by the daily tidings, which told them that the 
 cause for which they had shed their blood was hourly 
 becoming more hopeless. 
 
 The army that never knew defeat now counted nothing 
 but disasters. Before Alfred had recovered from his 
 vv'ound, the allies bivouacked in the Place du Carrousel, 
 and Napoleon was at Elba ! 
 
 When little dreaming that he could take any part in 
 that general joy by which France, in one of her least- 
 thinking moments, welcomed back the Bourbons, Alfred 
 was loitering listlessly along one of the quays of Paris, 
 wondering within himself by what process of arithmetic 
 he could multiply seven sous — they were all he had — into 
 the price of a supper and bed ; and while his eyes often 
 dwelt with lingering fondness on the windows of the 
 restaurants, they turned, too, with a dreadful instinct 
 towards the Seine, whose eddies had closed over many a 
 sorrow and crime. 
 
 As he wandered thus, a cry arose for help : an unfoi'tu- 
 nate creature — one whose woes were greater, or whose 
 courage to bear them less, than his own — had thrown 
 herself from the Pont-Neuf into the river, and her body 
 was seen to rise and sink several times in the current of 
 the rapid stream. It was from no prompting of humanity 
 — it was something like a mere instinct, and no more — 
 mayhap, too, his recklessness of life had some share in the 
 act — whatever the reason, he sprang into the river, and 
 after a long and vigorous struggle, he brought her out 
 alive ; and then, foi'cing through the crowd that welcomed 
 him, he drew his miserable and dripping hat over his eyes. 
 He continued his road — Heaven knows he had little pur- 
 pose or object to warrant the pei'sistence ! 
 
 He had not gone far when a number of voices were 
 heard behind him, calling out, —
 
 54 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " That 13 he !— 'there he is ! " and at the same instant 
 an officer rode up beside him, and, saluting him pohtely, 
 said that her royal highness the Duchess of Berri desired 
 to speak to him ; — her carriage was just by. 
 
 Alfred was in that humour when, so indifferent is 
 every object in life, that he would have turned at the 
 bidding of the humblest gamin of the streets ; and, wet 
 and weaiy, he stood beside the door of the splendid 
 equipage. 
 
 " It was tliou that saved the woman ? " said the 
 Duchess, addressing him, and using the conventional 
 " Tu," as suitable to his mean appearance. 
 
 " Madame," said Alfred, removing his tattered hat, "I 
 am a gentleman ! These rags were once — the uniform of 
 the Guard." 
 
 "My God! — my cousin!" cried a voice beside the 
 Duchess ; and, at the same instant, a young girl held out 
 her hands towards him, and exclaimed, — 
 
 '* Knowest thou not me, Alfred ? I am Alice — Alice de 
 Vitry — thy cousin and thy sister ! " 
 
 It would little interest you to dwell on the steps that 
 followed, and which, in a few weeks, made of a wretched 
 outcast — without a home or a meal — an officer of the 
 Guard du Corps, with the order of St. Louis at his breast. 
 
 Time sped on, and his promotion with it ; and at length 
 his Majesty, graciously desiring to see the old nobility 
 resume their place and grade, consented to the union of 
 Alfred with his cousin. There was no violent love on 
 either side, but thei'e was sincere esteem and devoted 
 friendship ; and if they neither of them felt that degree of 
 attachment which becomes a passion, they regarded each 
 other with true affection. 
 
 Alice was a devoted Royalist ; all that she had suffered 
 for the cause had endeared it to her ; and she could 
 forgive, but not forget, that her future husband had shed 
 his blood for the Usurper. 
 
 Alfred was what every one, and with reason, called a 
 most fortunate fellow ; a colonel at twenty-eight — a pro- 
 motion that, under the Empire, nothing but the most 
 distinguished services could have gained — and yet he was
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 55 
 
 far from happy. He remembered with higher enthusiasm 
 his first grade of "corporal," won at Aspern, and his 
 epaulettes that he gained at Wilna. His soldiering had 
 been learned in another school than in the parade-ground 
 at Versailles, or the avenue of the Champs Elysees. 
 
 "Come, tnon ami!^' said Alice, gaily, to him one 
 morning, about ten days before the time appointed for 
 their marriage ; " thou art about to have some occasion 
 for thy long-rusting ^sword : the Usurper has landed at 
 Cannes." 
 
 " The Emperor at Cannes ! '' 
 
 "The Emperor, if thou wilt — but without an Empire." 
 
 " No matter. Is he without an army ? " said Alfred. 
 
 " Alone — with some half-dozen followers, at most. Ney 
 has received orders to march against him, and thou art to 
 command a brigade." 
 
 " This is good news ! " said Alfred ; for the very 
 name of war had set his heart a-throbbing ; and as he 
 issued forth into the streets, the stirring sounds of 
 excitement and rapid motion of troops increased his 
 ardour. 
 
 Wondering groups were gathered in every street, some, 
 discussing the intelligence, others, reading the great 
 placards, which, in letters of portentous size, announced 
 that " the Monster " had once more polluted by his 
 presence the soil of France. 
 
 Whatever the enthusiasm of the old Royalists to the 
 Bourbon cause, there seemed an activity and determination 
 on the part of the Buonapartists who had taken service 
 with the King to exhibit their loyalty to the new sove- 
 reign ; and Ney rode from one quarter of Paris to the 
 other, with a cockade of most conspicuous size, followed 
 by a staff equally remarkable. 
 
 That same day Alfred left Pai'is for Lyons, where his 
 regiment lay, with orders to move to the south, by forced 
 marches, and arrest the advance of the small party which 
 formed the band of the invader. It was Alice herself 
 fastened the knot of white ribbon in his shako, and bade 
 him adieu with a fondness of affection he had never wit- 
 nessed before.
 
 56 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 From Paris to Lyons, and to Grenoble, Alfred 
 hastened with promptitude. At Lesseira, at last, he 
 halted for orders. 
 
 His position was a small village, three leagues in 
 advance of Lesscim, called Dulaure, where, at nightfall on 
 the 18th of March, Alfred arrived with two companies of 
 his regiment, his orders being to reconnoitre the valley 
 towards Lesseim, and report if the enemy should present 
 himself in that quarter. 
 
 After an anxious night on the alert, Alfred lay down to 
 sleep towards morning, when he was awoke by the sharp 
 I'eport of a musket, followed immediately after by tlio 
 roll of the di'ura and the call for the guard to "turn out." 
 He rushed out, and hastened towards the advanced picket. 
 All was in confusion ; some were in retreat ; others stood 
 at a distance from their post, looking intently towards it ; 
 and at the picket itself were others, again, with piled 
 arms, standing in a close group. What could this mean? 
 Alfred called out, but no answer was returned. The men 
 stared in stupid amazement, and each seemed waiting for 
 the other to reply. 
 
 " Where is your officer? " cried De Vitry, in an angry 
 voice. 
 
 " He is here ! " said a pale, calm-featured man, who, 
 buttoned up in a great surtout, and with a low chateau on 
 his head, advanced towards him. 
 
 " You the officer ! " replied Alfred, angrily; "you are 
 not of our regiment, sir." 
 
 " Pardon me, Colonel," rejoined the other; " I led the 
 twenty-second at Rovigo, and they were with me at 
 Wagi'am." 
 
 " Grand Dieu ! " said Alfred, trembling ; " who are you, 
 then ? " 
 
 "Your Emperor, Colonel de Vitry ! " 
 
 Alfred stepped back at the words. The order to arrest 
 and make him prisoner was almost on his lips. He turned 
 towards his men, who instinctively had resumed their 
 formation ; his he;id was maddened by the conflict wilhia 
 it ; his eyes turned again towards Napoleon — the struggle 
 was over — he knelt and presented his sword,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 57 
 
 " Take mine in exchange, General do Vitry," said the 
 Empercr ; " I know you will wear it witli honour."' 
 
 And thus, in a moment, was all forgotten — plighted love 
 and sworn faith — for who could resist the Emperor ? 
 
 The story is now soon told. Waterloo came, and once 
 more the day of defeat descended, never to dawn upon 
 another victory. Alfred, i-ejected and scorned, lived yeais 
 in poverty and obsc irity. When the fortunes of the Revo- 
 lution brouo'ht UD once more the old soldiers of the 
 Empire, he tought at the Qaai Voltaire and was wounded 
 severely. The Three Days over, he was appointed to a 
 sous-lieutenancy in the dragoons. He is now clcf-d'-esca- 
 ('ron, tie last of his race, weary of a world whose 
 vicissitudes have crushed his hopes and made him broken- 
 hearted. 
 
 The relator of this tale was Alfred de Vitry himself, 
 who, under the name of his maternal grandfather, St. 
 Amand, served in the second regiment of Garabiniers.
 
 58 EOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 12 o'clock, Tuesday night, 
 May 31st, 184—. 
 
 " Que bella cosa " to be a king ! Here am I now, re- 
 turned from Neuilly, whither I dreaded so much to venture, 
 actually enchanted with the admirable manner of his 
 Majesty Louis Philippe, adding one more to the long list 
 of those who, beginning with Madame de Genlis and John- 
 son, have delighted to extol the qualities whose pleasing 
 properties have been expended on themselves. 
 
 There is, however, something wonderfully interesting in 
 the picture of a royal family living en hourgeois — a King 
 sitting with his spectacles on his forehead and his news- 
 paper on his knee, playfully alluding to observations whose 
 fallacy he alone can demonstrate ; a Queen busily engaged 
 amid the toils of the work-table, around which Princesses 
 of every European royalty are seated, gaily chatting over 
 their embroidery, or listening while an amusing book is 
 read out by a husband or a brother : even an American 
 would be struck by such a view of monarchy. 
 
 The Due de Nemours -is the least prepossessing of the 
 princes ; his deafness, too, assists the impression of his 
 coldness and austerity ; while the too-studied courtesy of 
 the Prince de Joinville towards Englishmen is the reverse 
 of an amicable demonstration. 
 
 I could not help feeling surprised at Ihe freedom with 
 wliich his Majesty canvassed our leading political charac- 
 ters ; for his intimate acquaintance with them all, I was 
 well prepared. One remark he made worth remembei'ing, 
 — " The Duke of Wellington should always be your Min- 
 ister of Foreign Affairs, no matter what the changes of 
 party. It is not that his great opportunities of knowing
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 59 
 
 the Continent, assisted by his unquestionable ability, alone 
 distinguish him, but that his name and the weight of his 
 opinion on any disputed question exert a greater influence 
 than any other man's over the various sovereignties of 
 Europe. After the Emperor himself, he was the greatest 
 actor in the grand drama of the early part of the century ; 
 he made himself conspicuous in every council, even less 
 by the accuracy of his views than by their unerring, un- 
 swerving rectitude^. The desperate struggle in which he 
 had taken part had left no traces of ungenerous feeling or 
 animosity behind, and the pride of conquest had never 
 disturbed the equanimity of the negotiator." 
 
 What other statesman in England had dared to ratify 
 the Belgian revolution, and, by his simple acknowledg- 
 ment, place the fact beyond appeal? It is with statesmen 
 as with soldiers ; the men who have been conversant with 
 great events maintain the prestige of their ascendency over 
 all who "never smelt powder;" and Metternich wields 
 much of his great influence on such a tenure. 
 
 Apropos of Metternich ; the King told a trait of him 
 which I have not heard before. In one of those many 
 stormy interviews which took place between him and the 
 Emperor, Napoleon, irritated at the tone of freedom as 
 sumed by the Austrian envoy, endeavoured by an artifice 
 to recall him to what he deemed a recollection of their 
 relative stations, and then, as it were, inadvertently let fall 
 his hat for the Prince to take it up ; instead of which 
 Metternich moved back and bowed, leaving the Emperor 
 to lift it from the ground himself. 
 
 Napoleon, it would seem, was ever on the watch to 
 detect and punish the slightest infraction of that I'espect 
 which " doth hedge a king," even in cases when the 
 offender had nothing further from his mind than the 
 intention to transgress : a rather absurd illustration was 
 mentioned by the King. The Emperor was one day seek- 
 ing for a book in the library at Malmaison, and at last 
 discovered it on a shelf somewhat above his reach. Mar- 
 shal Moncey, one of the tallest men in the army, who was 
 present, immediately stepped forward, saying, " JPermettez, 
 Sire. Je suis plus grand que votrc Majestc! " " Vous
 
 60 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 vonlez dire plus long, Mareclial,'' said the Emperor, ■with 
 a frown that made the reproof actually a severity. 
 
 From the tone of his Majesty's observations on our 
 nobility, and the security such an order necessarily creates, 
 I thought I could mark a degree of regret at the extinc- 
 tion of the class in France. How natural such a feeling ! 
 For how, after all, can a monarchy long subsist with such 
 a long interval between the crown and the people ? The 
 gradations of rank are the best guarantees against any 
 assault on its privileges ; a House of Lords is the best float- 
 ing breakwater against the stoi'ms of a people in revolt. 
 
 With a marked condescension, his Majesty inquired 
 after my health and the object of my journey; and when 
 I mentioned Kaplcs, hastily remarked, " Ab, well ! 1 can 
 promise you a very agreeable house to pass your evenings 
 in : we are going to send Favancourt there as envoy, 
 and Madame la Comtesse is your countrywoman. This, 
 however, is a secret which even Favancourt himself is 
 ignorant of." 
 
 I am not casuist enough to say if this intimation of the 
 King is binding on me as to secrecy ; but, possibly, I need 
 not risk the point, as I shall not be likely to see Favan- 
 court or Madame de Favancourt before I start to-morrow. 
 
 I am already impatient for the hour to go ; I want to be 
 away — afar from the gorgeous glitter of this splendid 
 capital. Something nigh to misanthropy creeps over me 
 at the sight of pleasures in which I am no more to take a 
 part, and I would not that a feeling thus ungenerous 
 should be my travelling companion. I do not experience 
 the inordinate love of life which, we are told, ever accom- 
 panies my malady. If I have a wish to live, it is to frame 
 a different kind of existence from what I have hitherto 
 followed, and I believe most sick people's love of life is 
 the desire of dwelling longer amid the pursuits they have 
 followed. And now for the map, to see how I may trace 
 a route, and see — shame that I must say so ! — fewest of 
 my countrymen. Well, then, from Strasbourg to Fri- 
 bourg, and through the Hohlen-Thal. So far, so good ! 
 This is all new to me. Thence to Munich, or direct to 
 Inuspruck, as I may decide later on. This, at least, avoids
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 61 
 
 Switzerland, and all its radicalism and roguery, not to 
 
 speak of the " Perkinses," who are "out" by this time, 
 
 touring it to Lausanne and Chamouni. 
 
 What a tremendous noise a carriage makes coming 
 
 through these portes-coeJieres ! Truly, the luxury is heavily 
 
 paid for by all the inhabitants of a house. Is that a tap 
 
 at my door ? 
 
 * * * » » 
 
 A few lines before I lie down to sleep ! It is already 
 
 daybreak. What would poor Dr. S say if he knew I 
 
 had been sitting up to this hour, and at ?i 2ictit souper t^o, 
 with some half-dozen of the wealthiest people iu Paris, 
 
 not to speak of the prettiest ? Madame de F would 
 
 take no refusal, however, and averred she had made the 
 
 party expressly for me ; that V H had declined 
 
 another engagement to come ; and, in fact — no matter 
 v^hat little flatteries — I went ; and here I am, with my 
 cheek flushed and my head on fire, my brain whirling 
 •with mad excitement, laughter still ringing in my ears, 
 and all the exaltation he feels who, drinking water while 
 others sip champagne, is yet the only one whose faculties 
 are intoxicated. 
 
 What a brilliant scene in a comedy vfould that little 
 supper have been, just as it really was ; scenery, decora- 
 tions, people all unchanged ! the dimly lighted boudoir, 
 where all the luxury of modern requirement was seen 
 through a chiaroscuro, that made it seem half unreal; and 
 then, the splendid brilliancy of the supper-room beyond, 
 where, amid the gorgeous display of vaisselle and flowers, 
 shone still more brightly the blaze of beauty and the fire 
 of genius. 
 
 How often have I remarked in these little "jousts of the 
 table," where each man puts forth his sharpest weapons of 
 wit and pleasantry, that the conqueror, like an Ivanhoe, is 
 an unknown knight, and with a blank shield. 
 
 So was it, I remember once, where we bad a sprinkling 
 of every class of celebrity, from the Chamber of Deputies 
 to the Theatre Fran^ais ; and yet the heart of all was 
 taken by a young Spaniard, whom nobody seemed to know
 
 62 fiOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 whence or liow lie came, — a liandsorae, dark-ejed fellow, 
 with a short upper lip that seemed alive with energy, 
 combining in his nature the stern dignity of the Castilian 
 and the hot blood of Andalusia. It was the Marquis de 
 Braban^on brought him, presenting him to the lady of the 
 house in a half whisper. 
 
 There are men it would be utter ruin to place in 
 positions of staid and tranquil respectability, and yet who 
 make good names. They are born to be adventurers. I 
 remained the last, on purpose to hear who he was, feeling 
 no common curiosity, even though — as so often happens 
 — the name, when heard, conveys nothing to the ear, and 
 leaves as little for the memory. 
 
 I could not avoid remarking that he bore, in the mild 
 and thoughtful character of his brow, a strong resemblance 
 to the portraits of Claverhouse. 
 
 " Alike in more than looks," said the hostess: *'they 
 have many traits in common, and show that the proud 
 Dundee was no exceptional instance of humanity uniting 
 the softness of a girl with a courage even verging upon 
 ferocity." 
 
 The stranger was the Spanish General Cabrera ! 
 
 " And now that you have seen him, let me tell you a 
 short anecdote of him, only worth remembering as so 
 admirably in colouring with his appearance on entei'ing. 
 
 " Last year, at the head of a division of the army, the 
 Bishop of Grenada, accompanied by all his clergy, received 
 him in a gi'and px'ocession, and safely escorted him to the 
 episcopal palace, where a splendid collation was prepared. 
 The soldierlike air and manly beauty of the young 
 General were even less the theme of admii-ation than his 
 respectful reception of the Bishop, to whom he knelt in 
 devout reverence, and kissed the hand with deep humility, 
 walking at his side with an air of almost bashful defer- 
 ence. 
 
 " At table, too, his manner was even more marked by 
 respect. As the meal proceeded, the Bishop could not 
 fail remarking that his guest seemed deeply possessed by 
 some secret cai'e, which made him frequently sigh, in a 
 manner betokening heavy affliction. After some pressing,
 
 EOEACE TEMPLETON. 63 
 
 /fc came out ; the source of the grief was, the inabilit}^ of 
 the General to pay his troops, for the military chest was 
 quite empty, and daily desertions were occurring. The 
 sum required was a large one, 20,000 centos, and the 
 venerable Bishop hastened to assure him, with unfeigned 
 sorrow, that the poor and suffering city could not com- 
 mand one-fourth of the amount. Cabrera rose, and 
 paced the room in great excitement, ever throwing, as he 
 passed, a glance yito the courtyard, where a party of 
 grenadiers stood under arms, and then, resuming his place 
 at the table, he seemed endeavouring, but vainly, to join 
 in the festivity around him. 
 
 " ' It is evident to me, my son,' said the Bishop, * that 
 some heavier sorrow is lying at your heart ; tell it, and let 
 me, if it may be, give you comfort and support.' Cabi-era 
 hesitated ; and at last avowed that such was the case. 
 Considei'able entreaty, however, was necessary to wring 
 the mystery from him : when at last he said, in a voice 
 broken and agitated, ' You know me, Holy Father, for a 
 good and faithful son of the Church — for one who reveres 
 its ordinances, and those who dispense them. Think, 
 
 then, of my deep misery when but I cannot — I am 
 
 utterly unable to proceed.' After much pressing he 
 resumed, with sudden energy, ' Yes — I know I shall 
 never feel peace and happiness more, for although I have 
 done many a hard and cruel deed, I never, till now, 
 had the dreadful duty to order a Bishop to be shot ! 
 This is what is breaking my heart — this is my secret 
 misery.' 
 
 " It is scarcely necessary to say, that he was speedily 
 recovered from so dreadful an embarrassment, for the 
 Bishop was too good a Christian to see a devout soldier 
 reduced to such extremity. The money was paid, and the 
 Bishop ransomed." 
 
 Our celebrity of to-night was of less mark — indeed, 
 nominall}^, of none — but he has but to escape " rope and 
 gun," and he will make a name for himself. 
 
 He is a young Frenchman, one who, beginning at the 
 lowest rung of the ladder, may still climb high Strange 
 paths are open to eminence nowadays, and there is no
 
 64 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 reason why a man may not begin life as a '* Vaudevillist," 
 and end it " Paii' de France." 
 
 Jules de Russigny — whence the " de " came from we 
 must not inquire — like most of the smart men of the day, 
 is a Provencal ; he was educated at a Seminaire, and 
 destined for the priesthood. Some slight irregularity 
 caused his dismissal, and he came to Paris on foot to seek 
 his fortune. When toiling up a steep ascent of the road 
 at St. Maurice, he saw before hiin on the way a heavily 
 laden travelling cai^iage, which, with the aid of the 
 struggling post-horses, was also labouring up the hill ; an 
 elderly gentleman had descended to walk, and was 
 plodding wearily after his lumbering equipage. As Jules 
 reached the crest of the ridge, all were gone, and nothing 
 but a deep column of dust announced the course of the 
 departed carriage : at his feet, however, he discovered a 
 paper, which, closely written, and, by its numerous 
 corrections, appeared as closely studied, must have fallen 
 from the pocket of the traveller. 
 
 Jules sat down to inspect it, and found to his surprise 
 it was a species of memorandum on the subject of the 
 cducationary establishments of France, with much statis- 
 tic detail, and a great amount of information, evidently 
 the result of considerable labour and research. There 
 were many points, of course, perfectly new to him, but 
 there were others with which he was well acquainted, and 
 some on which he was so well informed as to be able to 
 detect mistakes and fallacies in the memorandum. Con- 
 ning the theme over, he reached a little wayside inn, and 
 inquiring who the traveller was that passed, he heard, 
 to his surprise, it was the Minister of Public Instruction. 
 
 When Jules reached Paris, it was about a fortnight 
 before the opening of the Chambers, and the newspapers 
 were all in full cry discussing the various systems of 
 education, and with every variety of opinion pronouncing 
 for and against the supposed views of the Government. 
 Most men, in his situation, would have sought out the 
 Minister's residence, and, I'estoring to him the lost paper, 
 retired well satisfied with a very modest recompense for a 
 service that cost so little.
 
 HOEACB TEMPLETON. 65 
 
 Not SO Jules ; he established himself in a cheap corner 
 of the Pays Latin, and spent his days conning over the 
 various journals of Paris, until, by dint of acute study and 
 penetration, he had possessed himself of every shade and 
 hue of political opinion professed by each. At last he 
 discovered that the Steele was the most decidedly ob- 
 noxious to the Government, and the Monifeur most 
 favourable to the newly projected system. To each he 
 sent an article: in one, setting forth a dim, but sugges- 
 tive idea, of what the Minister might possibly attempt, 
 with a terrific denunciation annexed to it ; in the other, a 
 half defence of the plan, supported by statistic detail, and 
 based on the information of the manuscript. 
 
 These two papers both appeared, as assertion and re- 
 joinder : and so did the polemic continue for above a week, 
 increasing each day in intei^est, and gradually swelling in 
 the number of the facts adduced, and the reasons for which 
 the opinion was entertained, Considerable interest was 
 created to know the writer, but although he was then 
 dining each day, and that his only meal, for four sous in 
 the " lie St. Louis," he preserved his incognito unbroken, 
 and never divulged to any one his secret. At last came 
 an announcement in the Siecle, at the close of one of 
 the articles, that on the next day would appear a full dis- 
 closure of the whole Government measure, with the 
 mechanism by which its views were to be strengthened, 
 and the whole plan of conception on which it w'as based. 
 That same evening a young man, pale and sickly-looking, 
 stood at the porte-cochere of a splendid mansion in the 
 Rue St. George, and asked to see the owner. The rude 
 repulse of the porter did not abash him, nor did the inso- 
 lent glance bestowed on his ragged shoes and threadbare 
 coat cost him a pang of displeasure : he felt that he could 
 bide his time, for it would come at last. 
 
 " His Excellency is at the Council ! " at last said the 
 porter, somewhat moved by a pertinacity that had nothing 
 of rudeness in it. 
 
 "With a calm resolve he sat down on a stone bench, 
 and fell a-thinking to himself. It was full three hours 
 later when the Minister's carriage rolled in, and the 
 
 V
 
 66 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Minister, hastily descending, proceeded to mount tlie 
 stairs. 
 
 " One word, your Excellency," ci-ied Jules, in a voice 
 collected and firm, but still of an almost imploring sound. 
 
 " Not now — at another time," said the Minister, as he 
 took some papers from his secretary. 
 
 " But one word, sir — I crave no more," repeated 
 Jules. 
 
 " See to that man, Delpierre," said the Minister to his 
 secretary ; but Jules, passing hastily forward, came close 
 to the Minister, and whispered in his ear, " M. le Mini- 
 stre, je suis Octave," the name under which the Steele 
 articles appeared. A few words followed, and Jules was 
 ordered to follow the Minister to his cabinet. The article 
 of the Steele did appear the next day, but miserably ineffi- 
 cient in point of ability ; and so false in fact, that the refuta- 
 tion was overwhelming. The Moniteur had a complete 
 triumph, only to be exceeded by that of the Minister's 
 own in the Chamber. The Council of Ministers was in 
 ecstasy, and Jules de Russigny, who arrived in Paris by 
 the mail fi'om Orleans — for thither he was despatched, to 
 make a more suitable entry into the great world — was in- 
 stalled as a clerk in the office of the Finance Minister, 
 with very reasonable hopes of future advancement. Such 
 was the fortune of him who was one, and, I repeat it, the 
 pleasantest of our convives. 
 
 This is the age of smart men — not of high intelligences. 
 The race is not for the thoroughbred, but the clever 
 liackney, always " ready for his work," and if seldom pre- 
 eminent, never a dead failure. 
 
 Of my own brief experience, all the first-rate men, 
 without exception, have broke down. All the moderates 
 — the "clever fellows" — have carried the day. Now I 
 could pick out from my contemporaries, at school and 
 university, some half-dozen brilliant, really great capaci- 
 ties, quite lost — some, shipwrecked on the first venture 
 in life — some, disheartened and disgusted, have retired 
 early from the contest, to live unheard of and die broken- 
 hearted. But the smart men ! What ci-owds of them 
 come before my mind in high employ — some at home,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 67 
 
 some abroad, some waxing rich by tens of tliousands, 
 some running high up the ambitioiis road of honours and 
 titles ! There is something in inordinate self-esteem that 
 buoys up this kind of man. It is the only enthusiasm he 
 is capable of feeling — but it serves as well as the " real 
 article." 
 
 For the mere adventurei', the man of ready wit and a 
 fearless temperament, politics offer the best road to for- 
 tune. The abilities that would have secured a mere 
 mediocrity of position in some profession will here win 
 their way upwards. The desultory character of reading 
 and acquirements, so fatal to men chained to a single pur- 
 suit, is eminently favourable to him who must talk about 
 everything, with, at least, the appeai'ance of knowledge ; 
 while the very scantiness of his store suggests a reckless- 
 ness that has great success in the world. 
 
 In England we have but one high road to eminence — 
 Parliament. Literature, whose rewards are so great in 
 France, with us only leads to intimacy with the " Trade " 
 and a name in "the Row." It is true, Parliamentary 
 reputation is of slow growth, and dependent on many 
 circumstances totally remote from the capacity and 
 attainments of him who seeks it. Are you the sou of a 
 great name in the Lords, the representative of an immense 
 estate, or of great commercial wealth P are you high in 
 the esteem of Corn men or Cotton men? are you a 
 magnate of Railroads, or is your word law in the City ? 
 then your way is open and 3^our path easy. Without 
 these, or some one of them, you must be a segment of 
 some leading man's j^arty. 
 
 My own little expei-ience of Parliament — about the very 
 bi'iefest any man can recall — presents little pleasurable in 
 the retrospect. Lord Collyton was one of my Christ- 
 chui'ch acquaintances, and at his invitation I spent the 
 autumn of 18 — ■ at his father, the Duke of Wrexinaton's. 
 
 The house was full of company, and, like an English 
 house in such circumstances, the most delightful iejour 
 imaginable. Every second day or so brought a relay of 
 new arrivals, either from town or some other country 
 house, full of the small-talk of the last visit — all that 
 
 F 2
 
 68 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 strange but most amusing farrago which we designate by 
 the humble title of " gossip," but which, so far as I can 
 judge, is worth ten thousand times more than the boasted 
 caiisei'ie of Fi-ance, and the perpetual effort at smartness 
 so much aimed at by our polite neighbours. 
 
 The guests were numerous, and presented specimens of 
 almost every peculiai^ity observable in Englishmen of a 
 certain class. We had great lords and high court func- 
 tionaries, deep in the mysteries of Buckingham House 
 and Windsor; a sprinkling of distinguished foreigners; 
 ministers, and secretaries of embassy ; some parliamentary 
 leaders, men great on the Treasury benches or strong on 
 the Opposition. Beauties there were too, past, present, 
 and some, coming ; a fair share of the notorieties of 
 fashion, and the last winner of the Derb}', with — let me 
 not forget him — a Quarterly Reviewer. This last gentle- 
 man came with the Marquis of Deepdene, and was, with 
 the exception of a certain pertinacity of manner, a very 
 agreeable person. 
 
 Although previously unknown to the host, he had come 
 down " special" under the protection of his friend Lord 
 Deepdene, hoping to secure his Grace's interest in the 
 borough of Collyton, at that time vacant. He was a man 
 of very high attainments, had been an ojytime at Cambridge, 
 was a distinguished essayist, and his party had conceived 
 the very greatest expectations of his success in Parliament, 
 Of the world, or at least that portion of it that moves 
 ■upon Tournay carpets, amid Vandykes and Velasquez, 
 with sideboards of gold and lamps of silver, he had not 
 seen much, and learned still less ; and it was plain to see 
 that, in the confidence of his own strong head, he was 
 proof against either the seductions of fashion or the sneers 
 of those who might attempt to criticize his breeding. 
 
 Before he was twenty-four hours in the house he had 
 corrected his Grace in an historical statement, caught up 
 
 the B of D in a blunder of prosody, detected a 
 
 sapphire in Lady Dollington's suite of yellow diamonds, 
 and exposed an error of Lord Sloperton's in his pedigree 
 of Brown Menelaus. It is needless to say he Avas almost 
 universally detested, for of those he had suffered to pass
 
 EOBACE TEMPLET014. 69 
 
 free, none knew how soon his own time might arrive. 
 His patron was miserable ; be saw nothing but faikire 
 where he looked for triumph. The very acquirements he 
 had built upon for success were become a terror to every 
 one, and " the odious Mr. Kitely " became a proverb. His 
 political opponents chuckled over the "bad tone " of such 
 men in general ; the stupid ones gloried over the fall of a 
 clever man ; and the malignant part of the household 
 threw out broad hints that he was a mere adventurer, and 
 
 they should not wonder if actually an Irishman ! 
 
 Indeed, he had been heard to say " entirely " twice upon 
 the same evening in conversation, and suspicion had 
 almost become a certainty. 
 
 It was towards the end of my first week, as I was one 
 day dressing for dinner. Lord Collyton came hastily into 
 my room, exclaiming, " By Jove, Templeton ! Mr. Kitely 
 has done the thing at last, as he would say himself, 
 entirely." 
 
 " How do you mean ? what has he done ? " 
 "You know ray father is excessively vain of his land- 
 scape-gardening, and the prodigious improvements which 
 he has made in this same demesne around us. Well, com- 
 passionating some one whom Kitely was mangling, onore 
 sico, in an argument, he took that gentleman out for a 
 walk, and, with a conscious pride in his own achievements, 
 led him towards the Swiss cottage beside the waterfall. 
 Kitely was pleased with everything ; the timber is really 
 well grown, and he praised it ; the view is fine, and he 
 said so. Even of the chalet he condescended a few words 
 of approval, as a feature in the scene. The waterfall, how- 
 evei", he would not praise ; it might foam, and splash, and 
 whirl as it would ; in vain it threw its tiny spray aloft, 
 and hissed beneath the rocks below ; he never wasted even 
 a word iipon it. 
 
 " ' You'd scarce fancy, Mr. Kitely,' said my father, whose 
 patience was sorely tried ; ' you'd scarce fancy that river 
 you see there was only a mill-stream.' 
 
 " ' I'd scarcely think of calling that mill-stream a river, 
 my lord,' v/as the I'eply. 
 
 " Hence the borough of Collyton is still open, and I
 
 70 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 have como, by his Grace's request, to say that if you desire 
 to enter Parliament it is very much at your service." 
 
 This was my introduction to the House. 
 
 My parliamentary life was, as I have said, a brief one, 
 but not without its triumphs. I was long enough a mem- 
 ber to have excited the ardent hopes of my friends, and 
 make my name a thing quoted in the lists of party. 
 
 Had I remained, I was to have spoken second to the 
 Address on the opening of the new session. There was, 1 
 own, a most intoxicating sense of pleasure in the first 
 success. The moment in which, fatigued and almost over- 
 powered, I sank into a chair at Bellamy's, with some 
 twenty around me, congratulating, praising, flattering, and 
 foretelling, was worth living for ; and yet, perhaps, in that 
 same instant of triumph were sown the seeds of my 
 malady. I was greatly heated; I had excited myself 
 beyond my strength, and spoken for two hours — to myself 
 it seemed scarce twenty minutes ; and then, with open 
 cravat and vest, I sat in the current of air between a door 
 and window, drinking in delicious draughts of iced water 
 and flattery. I Avent home with a slight cough, and 
 something strange, like an obstruction to full breathing, 
 in my chest. Brodie, who saw me next day, I suppose 
 guessed the whole mischief; for these men look far ahead, 
 and, like sailors, they see storm and hurricane in the 
 cloud not bigger than a man's hand. 
 
 I often regret — I shall continue to do, perhaps, still 
 oftener — that I did not die in the hai-uess. To quit the field 
 for the sake of life, and not secure it after all, was a paltry 
 policy. But what could I do ? a severe and contested 
 election would have killed me, and for Collyton it was 
 impossible I could continue to sit. 
 
 Irish politics would seem the rock ahead of every man 
 in the House. On these unhappy questions all are ship- 
 wrecked : the Premier loses Party — Party loses confidence 
 — members displease constituents, and proteges offend their 
 patrons. Such was my own case. The Duke who owned 
 the borough of Collyton, resolved on making a great 
 stand and show of his iulluence in both Houses. All his 
 followers, myself among the number, were summoned
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 71 
 
 to a conference, when the tactic of attack should be 
 adopted, and each assigned his fitting part. To me was 
 allotted the office of replying to the first speaker of the 
 Treasury Bench — a post of honour and of danger, and only 
 distasteful because impossible : the fact was, that my own 
 opinions were completely with the Government on the 
 subject in dispute, and consequently at open variance 
 with those of my-«wn friends. This I declared at once, 
 endeavouring to show why my judgment had so inclined, 
 and what arguments I believed to be unanswerable. 
 
 Instead of replying to my reasons, or convincing me 
 of their inefiiciency, my colleagues only appealed to the 
 "necessity of union" — the imperative call of party — • 
 and "the impossibility," as they termed it, "of betraying 
 the Duke." 
 
 I immediately resolved to resign my seat, and accept the 
 Chiltern Hundreds. To this thei-e was a unanimous cry of 
 dissent, one and all pronouncing that such a step would 
 damage them more even than my fiercest opposition. 
 The Duke sat still and said nothing. Somewhat ofi^ended 
 at this, I made a personal appeal to him, resolving by the 
 tone of his reply to guide my future conduct. He was too 
 old a politician to give me any clue to his sentiments, 
 shrouding his meaning in vague phrases of compliment to 
 ray talents, and his perfect confidence that, however my 
 judgment inclined, I should be able to show sufficient reasons 
 for my opinion. I went home baffled, worried, and ill. I sent 
 for Brodie. " You cannot speak on the coming question," 
 said he ; " there is a great threat of hemorrhage from the 
 lungs — you must have rest and quiet. Keep beyond the 
 reach of excitement for a few weeks — don't even read the 
 newspapers. Go over to Spa — there you can be quite 
 alone." 
 
 I took the advice, and without one word of adieu to 
 any one — without even leaving any clue to my hiding- 
 place — I left London. Spa was as quiet and retired as 
 Brodie desci^ibed it. A little valley shut in among the 
 hills, that a Cockney would have called mountains ; a 
 clear little trout stream, and some shady alleys to stroll 
 among, being all I wanted. Would that I could have
 
 72 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 brought there the tranquil spirit to enjoy them ! But my 
 mind was far from at ease. The conflict between a sense 
 of duty and a direct obligation, raged continually within 
 me. What I owed to my own conscience, and what I 
 owed to my patron, were at variance, and never did 
 the sturdiest Radical detest the system of nomination 
 boroughs as I did at this moment. Each day, too, I 
 reofretted that I had not done this or that — taken some 
 line different from what I adopted, and at least openly 
 braved the criticism that I felt I had fled from. 
 
 To deny me all access to newspapers was a measure 
 but ill calculated to allay the fever of my mind. Expecta- 
 tion and imagination were at work, speculating on every 
 possible turn of events, and every likely and unlikely 
 version of my own conduct. The first two days over, all 
 my impatience returned, and I would have given life itself 
 to be once again back " in my place," to assert my 
 opinions, and stand or fall by my own defence of my 
 motives. 
 
 About a week after mv arrival I was sitting under the 
 shade of some trees, at the end of the long avenue that 
 forms the approach to the town, when I became suddenly 
 aware that, at a short distance off", an Englishman was 
 reading aloud to his friend the report of the last debate 
 on the " Irish Question." My attention was fettered at 
 once; spell bound, I sat listening to the words of one of 
 the speakers on the Ministerial side, using the very argu- 
 ments I had myself di-scovered, and calling down the 
 cheers of the House as he proceeded. A sarcastic allusion 
 to my own absence, and a hackneyed quotation from 
 Horace as to my desertion, were interrupted by loud 
 laughter, and the reader laying down the newspaper, 
 said, — 
 
 " Can this be the Duke of Wrexington's Templeton 
 that is here alluded to ? " 
 
 " Yes. He wrote a paper on this subject in the last 
 Quarterh/, but the Duke would not permit of his taking 
 the same side in the House, and so he affected illness, they 
 Bay, and came abroad." 
 
 "The usual fortune o^ your protege members — they have
 
 fiORACE TEMPLETON. 73 
 
 the pleasant alternative of inconsistency or ingratitude. 
 Why didn't he resign his seat ? " 
 
 " It is mere coquetry with Peel, They told mo at 
 Brookes's that he wanted a mission abroad, and would 
 ' throw over ' the Duke at the first opportunity. Now 
 Peel gives nothing for nothing. For open apostasy lie 
 will pay, and pay liberally ; but for mere defalcation he'll 
 give nothing." " 
 
 " Templeton has outwitted himself, then ; besides that, 
 he has no standing in the House to play the game alone." 
 
 " A smart fellow, too, but no guidance. If he had 
 been deep, he must have seen that old Wrexington only 
 gave him the borough till CoUyton was of age to come in. 
 It was meant for Kitely, but he refused the conditions. 
 ' I cannot be a tenant-at-will, my lord,' said he ; and so 
 they took Templeton." 
 
 I could bear no moi-e. How I reached my inn I cannot 
 remember. A severe fit of coughing overtook me as I 
 ascended the stairs, and a small vessel gave way — a bad 
 symptom, I believed ; but the doctor of the place, whom 
 my servant soon brought to my bedside, applied leeches, 
 and I was better a few hours after. 
 
 The first use I made of strength was to write a brief 
 note to the Duke, resigning the borough. The next post 
 brought me his reply, full of compliment and assurance of 
 esteem, accepting my resignation, and acknowledging his 
 full concurrence in the reasons I had given for my step. 
 The division was against him ; and he half-jestingly 
 remarked, it might have been otherwise if I had fought 
 on his side. 
 
 The letter was civil throughout, but in that style that 
 shows a tone of careless ease had been adopted to simulate 
 frankness. I had had enough of his Grace, and of politics 
 too!
 
 74 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 So, all is settled ! — I leave Paris to-morrow. I hate 
 leave-takings, even where common acquaintanceship only 
 is concerned. I shall just write a few lines to the Favan- 
 courts, with the volume of Balzac — happily I know no 
 one else here — and then for the road ! 
 
 Why this haste to set out, I cannot even tell to myself. 
 I know, I feel, I shall never pass this way again ; I have 
 that sense of regret a last look at even indiflerent objects 
 suggests, and yet I woiild be eti route. There are places 
 and scenes I wish to see before I go hence, and I feel 
 that my hours are numbered. 
 
 And now for a moonlight stroll through Paris ! 
 Already the din and tumult is subsiding — the many- 
 voiced multitude that throngs the streets long after the 
 roll of equipage and the clattering hoofs of horses have 
 ceased. How peacefully the long shadows are sleeping 
 in the garden of the Tuileries ! and how clearly sounds 
 the measured tread of tbe sentinel beneath the deep arch 
 of the palace ! 
 
 ISTot a light twinkles along that vast fagade, save in that 
 distant pavilion, where a single star seems glistening — it 
 is the apartment of the King. " The cares of Agamem- 
 non never sleep ; " and royalty is scarce more fortunate 
 now than in the days of Homer. 
 
 Louis Philippe has a task not less arduous than had 
 Napoleon to found a dynasty. There is little prestige 
 any longer in the name of Bourbon ; and the members of 
 his family, brave and high-spirited though they be, ai'e 
 scarcely of the stuff to stand the storm that is brewing for 
 them. 
 
 As for the Emperor, the incapacity of his brothers was
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 75 
 
 a weight upon his shoulders all through life. His family 
 contributed more to his fall than is generally believed : it 
 was a never-ending struggle he had to maintain against 
 the childish vanity and extravagance of Josephine, the 
 wrongheadedness of Joseph, the simple credulity of Louis, 
 and the fatuous insufl&ciency of Jerome and Lucien. 
 All, more good _than otherwise, were manifestly unsuited 
 to the places they occupied in life, and were continually 
 mingling up the associations and habits of their small 
 identities with the great requirements of newly-acquired 
 station. 
 
 Napoleon ci'eated the Empire — the vast drama was his 
 own. However he might please to represent royalty, 
 however he might like to ally the slendours of a throne 
 with the glories of a great captain, it was all his own 
 doing. But how miserably deficient were the others in 
 that faculty of adaptation that made him de pair with 
 every dynasty of Europe ! 
 
 Into these thoughts I was led by finding myself stand- 
 ing in the Eue Taibout, opposite the house which was 
 once celebrated as the " Cafe du Roi " — a name which it 
 bore for many years under the Empire, and, in conse- 
 quence, was held in high esteem by certain worthy Legitl- 
 misies, who little knew that the "King" was only a 
 pretender, and, so far from being his sainted majesty 
 Louis Dix-huit, was merely Jerome Buonaparte, King of 
 Westphalia. 
 
 The name originated thus : — One warm evening in 
 autumn, a young man, somewhat ovei'dressed in the then 
 mode, with a very considerable border of pinkish silk 
 stocking seen above the margin of his low boots, drevers, 
 and a most inordinate amount of coat-collar, lounged 
 along the Boulevard des Italiens, occasionally ogling the 
 passers-by, but oftener still throwing an admiring glance 
 at himself, as the splendid windows of plate-glass reflected 
 back his figure. His whole air and mien exhibited the 
 careless insouciance of one with whom the world went 
 easily, asking little from him of exertion, less still of fore- 
 thought. 
 
 He had just reached the angle of the Rue Vivienne, and
 
 76 HORACE TEMPLETOlSf, 
 
 was about to turn, when two persons advanced towards 
 him, whose very different style of dress and appearance 
 bespoke very different treatment at the hands of Fortune. 
 They were both young, and, although palpably men of a 
 certain rank and condition, were equally what is called 
 out-at-elbov/s ; hats that exhibited long intimacy with 
 rain and wind, shoes of very questionable colour, coats 
 suspiciously buttoned about the throat, being all signs of 
 circumstances that were far from flourishing. 
 
 " Ah, Chopard, is't thou ? " said the fashionably dressed 
 man, advancing with open hand to each, and speaking in 
 the "/?<" of intimate friendship. "And thou, too, Bris- 
 sole, how goes it ? What an age since we have met ! 
 Art long in Paris ? " 
 
 "About two hours," said the first. "Just as I stepped 
 out of the Place des Victoires I met our old friend here ; 
 and, strange enough, now we have come upon you: three 
 old schoolfellows thus assembled at hazard!" 
 
 "A minute later, and we should have missed each 
 other," said Brissole. " I was about to take my place in 
 the malle for Nancy." 
 
 " To leave Paris ?" exclaimed both the others. 
 
 " Even so — to leave Paris ! I've had enough of it," 
 
 " Come, what do you mean by this?" said Chopard; 
 " it sounds very like discouragement to me, who have 
 come up here with all manner of notions of fortune, 
 wealth and honours." 
 
 " So much the worse for you," said Brissole, gaily ; 
 " I've tried it for five years, and will try it no longer. I 
 was vaudevillist, journalist, novelist, feuilletonist — I was 
 the glory of the Odeon, the pi^op of the Jifonifeur, the 
 hope of the Steele — and look at me " 
 
 " And thou ? " said the fashionable, addressing him 
 called Chopard. 
 
 " I have just had a little opera damned at Lyons, and 
 have come up to try what can be done here." 
 
 " Poor devil ! " exclaimed Brissole, shrugging his 
 shoulders ; then, turning abrujitly towards the other, he 
 said, " And what is thy luck ? for, so far as externals 
 go, thou seemest to have done better."
 
 HOKACE TElNn'LETON. 77 
 
 " Ay, Jerome," claimed in Chopard, " tell us, how hast 
 thou fared ? — thou wert ever a fortunate fellow." 
 
 "Pretty well," said he, laughing. "I've just come 
 from St, Cloud — they've made me King of West- 
 phalia!" 
 
 "The devil they have!" exclaimed Chopard; "and 
 dost know, ^jar hazard, where thy kingdom lies on the 
 
 "Why should he torment himself about that?" said 
 Brissole. " It's enough to know they have capital hams 
 there." 
 
 "What if we sup together," said Jerome, "and taste 
 one ? I am most anxious to baptize my new royalty in a 
 glass of wine. Here we are in the Kue Taibout — this is 
 Villaret's. Come in, gentlemen — I'm the host. Make 
 your minds easy about the future: you, Brissole, I appoint 
 to the office of my private secretary. Chopard, you shall 
 be maitre de chapellc.'" 
 
 "Agreed," cried the others gaily; and with a hearty 
 shake of hands was the contract ratified. 
 
 Supper was quickly prepared, and, in its splendour aad 
 profusion, pronounced, by both the guests, worthy of a 
 king. Villaret could do these things handsomely, and as 
 he was told expense was of no consequence, the entertain- 
 ment was really magnificent. Nor was the spirit of the 
 guests inferior to the feast. They were brilliant in wit, 
 and overflowing in candour ; concealing nothing of their 
 past lives that would amuse or interest, each vied with 
 the other in good stories and ludicrous adventures — all 
 their bygone vicissitudes so pleasantly contrasting with 
 the brilliant future they now saw opening before them. 
 They drank long life and reign to the King of Westphalia 
 in bumpers of foaming champagne. 
 
 The pleasant hours flew rapidly past — bright visions of 
 the time to come lending their charm to the happiness, 
 and making their enjoyment seem but the forerunner of 
 many days and nights of festive delight. At last came 
 day break, and, even by the flickering of reason left, they 
 saw it was time to separate. 
 
 " Bring the bill," said Jerome to the exhausted-looking
 
 78 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 waiter, who speedily appeared witli a small slip of paper 
 ominously marked "eight hundred francs." 
 
 " Diable ! " exclaimed Jerome; "that is smart, and I 
 have no money about me. Come, Brissole, this falls among 
 your duties — pay the fellow." 
 
 ^^ Parhleu! then — it comes somewhat too soon. I am 
 not yet installed, and have not got the key of our 
 treasury." 
 
 "No matter — pay it out of thine own funds." 
 
 " But I have none — save this ; " and he produced two 
 francs, and some sous in copper. 
 
 " Well, then, Chopard must do it." 
 
 "I have not as much as himself," said Chopard. 
 
 " Send the landlord here," said Jerome ; but indeed the 
 command was unnecessary, as that functionary had been 
 an anxious listener at the door to the very singular 
 debate. 
 
 " We have forgotten our purses, Villaret," said Jerome, 
 in the easy tone his last ten hours of royalty suggested ; 
 " but we will send your money when we reach home." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it, gentlemen," said the host, 
 obsequiously ; " but it would please me still better to 
 i-eceive it now — particularly as I have not the honour of 
 knowing the distinguished company." 
 
 "The distinguished company is perfectly satisfied to 
 know you : the cuisine was excellent," hiccupped Brissole. 
 
 " And the wine unexceptionable." 
 
 " The champagne mighthave been a little move fmjype," 
 said Brissole ; " the only improvement I could suggest." 
 
 " Perhaps there was a nuance, only a nuance, too much 
 citron in the o'ognons a la hroclie, but the Jilets de sole were 
 perfect." 
 
 " If I had the happiness of knowing messieurs," said 
 Villaret, " I should hope, that at another time I might be 
 more fortunate in pleasing them." 
 
 " Nothing easier," said Chopard. " I am victifre de 
 chapeUe to the King of Westphalia." 
 
 Villaret bowed low. 
 
 " And I am the Pi'ivate Secretary and Privy Purse of 
 his Majesty."
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 79 
 
 Villaret bowed again — a slight smile of very peculiar 
 omen flitting across his cunning features, while, turning 
 hastily, he whispered a word in the ear of the waiter. 
 " And this gentleman here ?" said he, looking at Jerome, 
 M'ho, with his legs resting on a chair, was coolly awaiting 
 the termination of the explanation. " And this gentle- 
 man, if I might make so bold, what office does he hold in 
 his Majesty's service ? " 
 
 " J. am the King of Westphalia ! " said Jerome. 
 
 " Just as I suspected. Fran9ois," said the landlord 
 insolently, " go fetch the gendarmes." 
 
 " No, no, parhleu ! " said Jerome, springing up in alarm ; 
 "no gendarmes, no police. Here, take my watch — that is 
 surely worth more than your bill ? When I reach home 
 I'll send the money." 
 
 The landlord, more than ever convinced that his sus- 
 picions were well grounded, took the watch, which was a. 
 very handsome one, and suffered them to depart in peace. 
 
 They had not been gone many minutes when, on 
 examining the watch, the landlord perceived that it bore 
 the emblematic " N " of the Emperor within the case, and 
 at once suspecting that it had been stolen from some 
 member of the imperial household, he hurried off in terror 
 to communicate his fears to the commissary of police. 
 This functionary no sooner saw it that he hastened to 
 Pouche, the minister, who, making himself acquainted 
 with the whole details, immediately hurried off to the 
 Tuileries and laid it all before the Emperor. The watch 
 had been a present from Napoleon to Jerome ; but this 
 was but a small pai^t of the cause of indignation. The 
 derogation from dignity, the sacrifice of the regard due 
 to his station, were crimes of a very different order ; and, 
 summoned to the imperial presence, the new-made king- 
 was made to hear, in terms of reproachful sarcasm, a 
 lesson in his craft that few could impart with such cutting 
 severity. 
 
 As for the onaiire cle cliapelle and the Secretary, an 
 agent of the police waited on each before they were well 
 awake, with strict injunctions to them to maintain a 
 perfect secrecy on the whole affair ; and while guarantee-
 
 80 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 ing them an annual pension in their new offices, assuring 
 them that the slightest indiscretion as to the mystery 
 would involve their ruin and their exile from France for 
 ever. 
 
 It was years before the landlord learned the real secret 
 of the adventure, and, in commemoration of it, called his 
 house " Le Cafe du Roi," a circumstance which the 
 Government never noticed, for the campaign of Russia 
 and the events of 1812-13 left little time to attend to 
 matters of this calibre. 
 
 The " Cafe du Roi " is now a shop whei^e artificial flowers 
 are sold ; as nearly like nature perhaps, or more so, than 
 poor Jerome's royalty resembled the real article.
 
 Horace templeton. 81 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Baden-Baden. 
 
 It is like a dream to me now to think of that long, dusty 
 road from Paris, with its rattling pavement, its noisy 
 jiostilions, shouting ostlers, bowing landlords, dirty waiters, 
 gai^lic diet, and hard beds ; and here I sit by my open 
 window, with a bright river beneath my feet, the song of 
 birds on every side, a richly wooded mountain in front, 
 and at the foot a winding road, which ever and anon gives 
 glimpses of some passing equipage, bright in all the 
 butterfly glitter of female dress, or, mayhap, resounding 
 with merry laughter and sweet-voiced mirth. How 
 brilliant is everything ! — the cloudless sky, the sparkling 
 water, the emerald grass, the foliage in every tint of 
 beauty, the orange-trees and the cactus along the terraces, 
 where lounging parties com? and go ; and then the mea- 
 sured step of princely equipages, in all the panoply of 
 tasteful wealth ! Truly, Vice wears its holiday suit in 
 Baden, and the fairness of this lovely valley seems to 
 tbrow a softened light over a scene where, as in a sea, the 
 stormy waves of every bad passion are warring. 
 
 When, in all the buoyant glow of youth and health, I 
 remembered feeling shocked as I st rolled through the pro- 
 menade at Carlsbad, at the sight of so many painful objects 
 of sickness and suffering ; the eager, almost agonising, ex- 
 pressions of hoping convalescence ; the lustreless stare of 
 those past hope; the changeful looks of accompanying- 
 friends, who seemed to read the fate of some dear one in 
 the compassionate pity of those who passed, were all sights 
 that threw a chill, like death, over the warm current of my 
 blood. Yet never did this feeling convey the same intense 
 
 a
 
 82 HOEACE TEMPLETON, 
 
 Lorror and disgust that I felt last night as I walked through 
 the Cursaal. 
 
 To pass from the mellow moonlight, dappling the path- 
 way among the trees and kissing the rippling stream, from 
 the calm, mild air of a summer's night, when every leaf 
 lay sleeping and none save the nightingale kept watch, 
 into the glare and glitter of a gilded saloon, is somewhat 
 trying to the jarred nerves of sickness. But what was it 
 to the sight of that dense crowd around the play-tables, 
 where av'arice, greed of gain, recklessness, and despair are 
 mingled, giving, even to faces of manly vigour and open- 
 ness, expressions of low cunning and vulgar meaning ? 
 There is a terrible sameness in the gambler's look, a 
 blending of slavish terror with a resolution to brave the 
 worst, almost demoniacal in its fierceness. I knew most 
 of the persons present; I need not say, not personally, but 
 from having seen them before at various other similar 
 places. Many were professed gamblers, men who starved 
 and suffered for the enjoyment of that one passion, living 
 on the smallest gain, and never venturing a stake beyond 
 what daily life demanded ; haggard, sad, wretched-looking 
 creatures they Avere, the abject poverty of their dress and 
 appearance vouching that this metier was not a prosperous 
 one. Others farmed out their talents, and played for those 
 who were novices. These men have a singular existence ; 
 they exact a mere percentage on the winning, and are in 
 great request among elderly ladies, whose passion for play 
 is modified by the fears of its vicissitudes. Then there 
 were the usual sprinkling of young men, not habitually 
 gamblers, but always glad to have the opportunity of 
 tempting Fortune, with here and there some old votary of 
 the " table " satisfied to witness the changeful temper of 
 the game without risking a stake. 
 
 Into many vices men are led by observing the apparent 
 happiness and pleasure of others who indulge in them. 
 Not so with regard to play. No man ever became a gam- 
 bler from this delusion, there being no such terrible warn- 
 ing against the passion as the very looks of its votaries. 
 
 But it is not in such a low tripot of vice I care to linger. 
 Is was a ball-night, and I turned with a sense of relief
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 83 
 
 from the aspect of sordid, vulgar iniquity to gaze on its 
 more polislied brother {qucere, sister ?) in the salle de danse. 
 
 Here there was a large — I might almost call it a brilliant 
 — company assembled: a less exclusive assemblage cannot 
 be conceived ; five francs and clean gloves being the only 
 qualification needed. The guests were as varied, too, in 
 nation as in rank. About equal numbers of German and 
 French, several Russians, and a large proportion of Eng- 
 lish, with here and there a bilious-looking American, or a 
 very dubious marquis from beyond the Alps. Many of the 
 men I knew to bo swindlers and blacklegs of the very 
 lowest stamp ; some others I recognised as persons of the 
 highest station in my own country. Of the lady part of 
 the company the disparities were even greater. 
 
 There was, it is true, a species of sifting process discern- 
 ible, by which the various individuals fell among those of 
 their own order ; but though this was practicable enough 
 where conversation and grouping were concerned, it was 
 scarcely attainable in other circumstances, and thus, the 
 mazurka and the polka assembled ingredients that should 
 never have been placed in close propinquity. 
 
 The demoralising influence of such reunions upon the 
 daughters of our own land need not be insisted upon. 
 Purity of mind and simplicit}^ of character are no safe- 
 guard against the scenes which, in all the propriety of 
 decorum, are ever occurring. And how terribly rapid are 
 the downward steps when the first bloom and blush of 
 modesty have faded ! It demands but a very indifiei'ent 
 power of observation to distinguish the English girl for 
 the first time abroad from her who has made repeated 
 visits to foreign watering-places ; while even among those 
 who have been habituated to the great world at home, and 
 passed the ordeal of London seasons, there is yet much to 
 learn in the way of cool and self-possessed efi'rontery from 
 the habits of Baden and its brethren. 
 
 I was dreadfully shocked last night by meeting one I 
 had not seen for many years before. How changed from 
 what I knew her once ! — what a terrible change ! When 
 first I saw her, it was during a visit I made to her mother's 
 house in Wales ; her brother was an Oxford friend, and 
 
 G 2
 
 84 KORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 bi'ouglat me down witli liim for the shooting season to 
 Merionethshire. Poor fellow ! he died of consumption at 
 two-and-twenty, and left all he possessed — a handsome 
 estate — to his only sister. Hence all her misery! Had 
 she remained comparatively portionless, rich only in her 
 beauty and the graces of a manner that was fascination 
 itself, she might now have been the happy wife of some 
 worthy Englishman — one, whose station is a trust held on 
 the tenure of his rectitude and honour ; for such is public 
 feeling in our country, and such is it never elsewhere. 
 
 She was then about eighteen or nineteen, and the very 
 ideal of what an English girl at that age should be. On 
 a mind highly stored and amply cultivated, no unworthy 
 or depreciating influence had yet descended ; freedom of 
 thought, freshness almost childish, had given her an ani- 
 mation and buoyancy only subdued by the chastening 
 modesty of coming womanhood. Enthusiastic in all her 
 pursuits, for they were graceful and elevating, her mind 
 had all the simplicity of the child with the refinement of 
 the highest culture ; and, like those who are brought up in 
 narrow circles, her affections for a few spread themselves 
 out in the varied forms that are often scattered and diffused 
 over the wider surface of the world. Thus her brother 
 was not merely the great object of her affection and pride, 
 but he was the companion of her rides and walks, the con- 
 fidant of all her secret feelings, the store in which she laid 
 up her newly acquired knowledge, or drew, at will, for 
 more. With him she read aud studied ; delighted by the 
 same pursuits, their natures blended into one harmonious 
 cliorde, which no variance or dissonance ever troubled. 
 
 His death, although long and gradually anticipated, 
 nearly brought her to the grave. The terrible nature of 
 the malady, so often inherent in the same family, gave 
 cause for the most anxious fears on her account, and her 
 mother, herself almost broken-hearted, took her abroad, 
 hoping by the mildness of a southern climate and change 
 of scene to arrest the progress of the fell disease. 
 
 In this she was successful ; bodily health was indeed 
 secured. But might it not have been better that she had 
 wasted slowly away, to sleep at last beneath the yews of
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 85 
 
 her own ancient cliurchyard, than live and become what 
 she has done ? 
 
 Some years after this event I was, although at the time 
 only an attaclie of the mission, acting as charge d'affaires 
 at Naples, during the absence of the minister and the 
 secretary. I was sitting one morning reading in my 
 garden, when my servant announced the visit of an Italian 
 gentleman, il Signer ^alvatori. The name was familiar to 
 me, as belonging to a man who had long been employed 
 as a spy of the Austrian government, and, indeed, was 
 formerly entrusted in a secret capacity by Lord W. Ben- 
 tinck in Sicily — a clever, designing, daring rascal, who 
 obtained his information no one knew how ; and although 
 w'e had always our suspicions that he might be " selling " 
 us, as well as the French, we never actually traced any 
 distinct act of treachery to his door. He possessed a con- 
 siderable skill in languages, was very highly informed on 
 many popular topics, and, I have been told, was a musician 
 of no mean powers of performance. These and similar 
 social qualities were, however, never displayed by him in 
 any part of his intercourse with us, although we have 
 often heard of their existence. 
 
 As I never felt any peculiar pleasure in the relations 
 which office compels with men of his stamp, I received him 
 somewhat coldly, and asked, without much circumlocution, 
 the I'eason of his visit. 
 
 He replied, with his habitual smile of self-possession, 
 that his present duty at " the Mission " was not a busi- 
 ness-call, but concerned a matter purely personal ; — in 
 fact, " with his Excellency's permission, he desired to get 
 married." 
 
 Not stopping him on the score of his investing me with 
 a title to whicla, no one knew better than himself I had no 
 pretensions, I quietly assured him that his relation with 
 " the Mission" did not, in any way, necessitate his asking 
 for such a permission — that, however secret and mysterious 
 the nature of his communications, they were still beyond 
 the pale of affairs personally private. 
 
 He suffered me to continue my explanation, somewhat 
 scornful as it was, to the end, and then calmly said,^-
 
 86 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " Your Excellency will pardon my intrusion, wlien I in- 
 form you that the marriage should take place here, at ' the 
 Mission,' as the lady is an Englishwoman." 
 
 Whether it was the fact itself, or his manner of deliver- 
 ing it, that outraged me, I cannot now remember; but I 
 do recollect giving expression to a sentiment of surprise 
 and anger not exactly suitable. 
 
 He merely smiled, and said nothing. 
 
 " Yery well, M. Salvatori," said I, corrected by the 
 quietude of his manner ; " what is your day ? " 
 
 '■Wednesday, if your Excellency pleases." 
 
 " Wednesday be it, and at eight o'clock." 
 
 "As your Excellency desires," said he, bowing and re- 
 tiring. 
 
 It had never occurred to me to ask for any information 
 about the happy fair one ; indeed, if I had given a thought 
 at all to the matter, it would have been that she was of the 
 rank of ?ifemine de chamhre, or, at least, some unhappy 
 children's governess, glad to exchange one mode of tyranny 
 for another. As he was leaving the room, however, some 
 sense of remorse, perhaps, at the brusquerie I had shown 
 towards him, suggested the question, " Who might the 
 lady be ? " 
 
 "Mademoiselle Graham." 
 
 "Ah! a very good name indeed," said I; and so, 
 with a word or two of common-place, I bade him good- 
 
 tye. 
 
 Tlie Wednesday marning arrived, and two carriages 
 drove into the court of " the Mission : " out of one sprang 
 Signer Salvatori and a very bearded gentleman, who ac- 
 companied him as his friend ; from the other alighted, first, 
 an elderly lady, whose dress was a mixture of wedding 
 finery and widow's mourning ; then came a very elegant- 
 looking girl, veiled from head to foot, followed by her 
 maid ; and, lastly, the chaplain to " the Mission." 
 
 They were some minutes too early, and I equally behind 
 my time ; but I dressed hastily, and descended to the 
 salon, where M. Salvatori received me with a very 
 gracious expression of his self-satisfaction. Passing him. 
 by, 1 advanced to address a few words to the old lady,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 87 
 
 who had risen from her seat ; when, stepping back, I ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 " Mrs. Graham — my old friend, Mrs. Graham ! Is this 
 possible ? " 
 
 ' " Oh, Caroline, it is Mr. Templeton ! " said she ; while 
 her daughter, drawing her veil still closer over her face, 
 trembled dreadfully. Meanwhile Mrs. Graham had seized 
 my hand with cordial warmth, and pressed it in all the 
 earnestness of friendship. Her joy — and it was very evi- 
 dent it was such — was little participated in by her son-in- 
 law elect, who stood, pale and conscience-stricken, in a 
 distant part of the room. 
 
 " I must entreat these gentlemen's permission to speak 
 a few words hero alone, as these ladies are very old friends 
 I have not seen for some years." 
 
 "I would humbly suggest to your Excellency that, as 
 the ceremony still waits " 
 
 " I wish it, marquis," said Mrs. Graham, in a tone half- 
 command, half-entreaty ; and, with a deep bow of sub- 
 mission, Salvatori and his friend withdrew, accompanied 
 by the chaplain. 
 
 " The title by which you have just addressed that per- 
 son, Mrs. Graham," said I, in a voice trembling from agi- 
 tation, " shows me how you have been duped and deceived 
 by him, and in what total ignorance you are as to his real 
 character." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Templeton ! " broke in her daughter, novs 
 speaking for the first time, and in accents I shall never 
 forget, such was their heai't-thrilling eaimestness, — " Oh, 
 sir, this does indeed exceed the licence of even old friend- 
 ship ! We are well aware how the Marquis of Salvatori 
 has suffered from persecution ; but we little expected to 
 have found you among the number of his enemies." 
 
 " You do me great wrong. Miss Graham," said I eagerly; 
 "in nothing greater than supposing me capable of being 
 the enemy of such a man as this. Unvv'orthy as the 
 sentiment is, it at least implies a sense of equality. Now, 
 are you certain of what this person is ? are you aware in 
 what capacity he has been employed by our government, 
 and by that of other countries ?"
 
 88 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 *' We know that the marquis has been engaged in secret 
 Biissions," said Miss Graham, proudly. 
 
 " Your reply, brief as it is, conveys two errors. Miss 
 Graham. He is not a marquis; little as the title often 
 implies in Italy, he has no right to it. He asked Lord 
 William Bentinck to let him call himself marquis, and so 
 to address him, as a means of frequenting circles where 
 important information was accessible. Lord William said, 
 ' Call yourself what you please — grand duke, if you like it 
 — I am no dispenser of such designations.' The gentle- 
 man was modest — he stopped at marquis. As to his 
 diplomatic functions, we have a short and expressive word 
 for them — he was and is, a spy !" 
 
 Not heeding the scornful reception of the daughter, I 
 turned towards Mrs. Graham, and, with all the power I 
 possessed, urged her, at least, to defer this fatal step — that 
 she was about to bestow her child upon a man of notori- 
 ously degraded character, and one whose assumption of 
 rank and position was disregarded and despised in the 
 very humblest circles. The mother wept bitterly ; at one 
 moment turning to dissuade her daughter from her rash- 
 ness, at the next appealing to me against what she called 
 my unjust pi-ejudices against the marquis. Miss Graham 
 scornfully refused to vouchsafe me even a word. 
 
 I confess more than once my temper prompted me to 
 abandon the enterprise, and suffer wilfulness to reap its 
 own bitter harvest ; but then, my better feelings prevailed, 
 and old memories of rriy poor friend Graham again en- 
 listed me in defence of his sister. 
 
 Of no avail was it that I followed these worthier 
 promptings. It seemed as if the man had thrown a spell 
 over these two unhappy women, one being perfectly 
 enthralled, the other, nearly so, by the artful fascinations 
 of his manner ; and yet he was neither young, handsome, 
 rich, nor of high lineage. On the contrary, the man was 
 at least fifty-three or four, a perfect monster of ugliness, 
 with an expression of sardonic sycophancy actually 
 demoniac. 
 
 If I were not relating "a fact" — one of which I can 
 answer, that many now living can entirely corroborate—
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 89 
 
 I would hesitate about dwelling on a case where improba- 
 bilities are so strong, and where I have nothing to offer 
 like an explanation of them. 
 
 Wilkes has long since convinced the world how litlle 
 good looks are concerned in winning a woman's heart, 
 and how, indeed, a very considerable share of ugliness can 
 be counterbalanced by captivations of manner and personal 
 agreeability. Bu^ judging from the portraits — even Ho- 
 garth's fearful sketch — Wilkes was handsome compared 
 to Salvatori ; and in point of reputation, low as it was, 
 the libeller and the satirist was still better than the 
 
 spy- 
 To go back again : I argued, I entreated, begged, 
 threatened, and denounced. I went further — I actually 
 transgressed the limits of official authority, and refused to 
 sanction the ceremony — a threat which, I soon remem- 
 bered, I dare not sustain. But, do what, say what, I 
 would, they were equally resolute and determined ; and 
 nothing was left for me but to recall M. Salvatori and his 
 friend, aiid suffer the affair to proceed, 
 
 I do not remember, among the varied incidents of ray 
 life, one whose effect weighed more heavily upon me. 
 Although acquitted by my conscience, I felt at moments 
 horror-struck at even my share in this infamy, and would 
 have given anything that it had never occurred. It may 
 be believed I was happy to hear that they all left Naples 
 the same day. 
 
 Years rolled over, and I never even heard of them, till 
 one morning, when waiting along with a diplomatic friend 
 for an interview with the French Minister for Foreign 
 Affairs, a person hastily passed through the room, saluting 
 us as he went. 
 
 " I have seen that face before," said I to my friend ; 
 " do you know him ?" 
 
 " To be sure ! " said he, smiling ; " one must be young 
 in diplomacy not to know the Mephistophiles of the craft; 
 and I guess why he is here, too. That fellow is in the 
 pay of the Prince de Capua, but has sold him to Louis 
 Philippe. The reconciliation with Naples would have 
 been long since effected but for the King of the French."
 
 90 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " And his name — this man's name— what is it ?" 
 
 " Salvatori." 
 
 " What ! the same who married an English girl at 
 Naples ? " 
 
 " And sold her to the Marquis Brandini for ten thousand 
 sequini. The very man. But here comes the messenger 
 to say his Excellency will receive us." 
 
 My friend quitted Paris the moment his interview 
 ended, and I heard no more. 
 
 Last night I saw her in the Cursaal — beautiful, perhaps 
 more beautiful than ever ! At least there was a lofty 
 elegance and a splendour about her that I never remember 
 in her girlish days ; nor was it till she smiled that I could 
 now believe that the queen-like beauty before me was the 
 timid, delicate girl I first saw tripping along the narrow 
 path of a Welsh mountain. 
 
 Even from the gossip of Baden I could learn no more 
 about her than that she was a Sicilian countess of great 
 wealth, and a widow ; that she was intimately received 
 into the very highest circles — even of royalty — and con- 
 stantly was seen driving in the carriage of the Arch- 
 duchess. It was, then, possible that I might be mistaken, 
 after all ! Great people are not accessible so easily. 
 
 I tried in various quarters to get presented to her — for 
 she showed not the slightest sign of having ever met me 
 — but failed everywhere : they who knew her did not 
 do so intimately enough to introduce me. 
 
 The reminiscences I have just jotted down have made 
 me miserably feverish and ill ; for, although I now begin to 
 doubt that I ever saw this countess before, the sad story 
 of Caroline Graham is ever present to my mind — a terrible 
 type of the fortune of many a fair English girl left to the 
 merciless caprice of a foreign husband ! 
 
 I am not bigot enough to fancy that happy, eminently 
 happy, marriages do not exist abroad as well as with us ; 
 but I am fully minded to say that the individuals should 
 be of the same nation, reared in the midst of the same 
 traditions, imbued with feelings that a common country, 
 language, and religion bestow. 
 
 I know of nothing that presents so pitiable a picture of
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 91 
 
 ■unhappy destiny, as a fair and delicately-minded English 
 girl the wife of a foreigner ! How I wish to resolve my 
 doubts in this case ! for although I began this memoran- 
 dum fully persuaded it was Caroline Graham that I had 
 seen, every line I write increases my uncertainty.
 
 92 nORACE TEMPLETON^ 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It was witTi a rare audacity that the devil pitched his 
 tent iu Badeii ! Perhaps on tlie whole conliuent another 
 spot could not be found so fully combining, iu a small 
 circuit, as many charms of picturesque scenery ; and it 
 was a bold conception to set down vice, in all its varieties, 
 in the very midst of — in open contrast, as it were, to — a 
 scene of peaceful loveliness and beauty. 
 
 I do confess myself one of those who like living figures 
 in a landscape. I like not only those groupings which 
 artists seem to stereotype, so nearly alike they all are, of 
 seated foreground figures, dark-shadowed observers of a 
 setting sun, or coolly watering cattle beneath a gushing 
 fountain. I like not me*'elv the red-kirtled peasant knee- 
 deep in the river, or the patient fisherman upon his rock ; 
 but I have a strong regard — I mean here, where the 
 scene is Nature's own, and not on canvas — a strong 
 regard for those flitting glimpses of the gayer world 
 which in the brightest tints that fashion sanctions, are 
 caught, now in some deep- dell of the Tyrol, now on some 
 fjuow-peaked eminence of a Swiss glacier, beside the fast- 
 rolling Danube or the sluggish Nile. 
 
 I have no sympathy for those who exclaim against the 
 incongruity of pink parasols and blue reticules in scenes of 
 mild and impressive grandeur. Methinks it speaks but 
 scanty store of self resources in those who thus complain, 
 not knowing anything of the feelings that have prompted 
 their presence there. No one holds cheaper than I do the 
 traveller who, under the guidance of his John Murray, 
 Bees what is set down for him through the eyes of the 
 '• Handbook " — mingling up in his addled brain crude 
 Dotions of histoi-y and antiquarianism, with the names of
 
 HORACiJ TEMPLETON. 93 
 
 inns and post-houses — counsels against damp slieets — 
 cheating landloi'ds — scraps of geology, and a verse of 
 *' Childe Harold." This is detestable : but far otherwise 
 is the meeting with those whose dress and demeanour tell 
 of the world of fasliion — the intertwined life of dissipa- 
 tion and excess in solitai'y unfrequented places. Far from 
 being struck by their inaptitude and unfitness for such 
 scenes, I willingly fall back upon the thought of how 
 such people must be impressed by objects so far beyond 
 the range of daily experience, of objects whose wondrous 
 meaning speaks to hearts the most cloyed and jaded, 
 "as never man spoke." lean luxuriate in fancying how 
 long-forgotten feelings, old memories of the past, long 
 buried beneath the load of daily cares, come back fresh 
 and bright under the influence of associations that recall 
 purer, happier hours. I can dwell in imagination on the 
 sudden spring made from the stern ordinances of a world 
 of forms and conventionalities, to that more beautiful and 
 grander world, whose incense is the odour of wild flowers 
 and whose music is the falling cataract. 
 
 I love to speculate how the statesman, the wily man of 
 forecasting thought and deep devices, must feel in presence 
 of agencies which make those of mere man's contrivance 
 seem poor and contemptible ; and how the fine lady, 
 whose foot knows no harder surface than a velvet carpet, 
 and whose artificial existence palls by its own voluptuous- 
 ness, contemplates a picture of grand and stern sublituity. 
 Disguise it how they will, feign indifierence how they 
 may, such scenes always are felt, and deeply felt ! Tlio 
 most accomplished lounger of St. James's Street does 
 not puff his cigar so coolly as he affects to do, nor is that 
 heart all unmoved that throbs beneath the graceful folds 
 of a rich Cashmere. Now and then some Brummagem 
 spirit intrudes, who sees in the falling torrent but a wasted 
 *' water-power : " but even he has his own iar-rcaching 
 thoughts imbued with a poetry of their own. He sees in 
 these solitudes new cities arise, the busy haunts of 
 acting heads and hands ; he hears in imagination the 
 heavy bang of the iron hammer, the roar of the furnace, 
 the rush of steam, the mauy-voicud multitude called by
 
 94 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 active labour to new activity of mind ; and perhaps he 
 soars away, in thought, to those far-off wilds of the new 
 woi"ld, whose people, clothed by these looms, are brought 
 thus into brotherhood with their kindred men. 
 
 I myself have few sympathies in common with these ; 
 but I respect the feelings that I do not fathom. " Nihil 
 humani a me alienum puto.^' 
 
 What has suggested these thoughts ? A little excursion 
 that I made this evening from the village of Lichtenthal 
 towards the Waterfall, a winding glen narrowing as you 
 advance ; wilder too, but not less peopled ; every sheltered 
 spot having its own dwelling-place — the picturesque chalet, 
 with its far-stretching eave, and its quaint galleries of 
 carved wood, its brightly shining windows sparkling 
 between the clustering vine leaves, and its frieze of 
 Indian corn hung up beneath the roof to dry. Leaving 
 the carriage, I followed the bank of the stream — just such 
 a river as in my boyish days I loved to linger by, and 
 fancy I was fishing. It was no more than fancy : for 
 although my rod and landing-net were in most fitting 
 perfection, my hackles and orange bodies, my green 
 drakes and may-flies, all that could be wished, I was too 
 dreamy and distrait for " the gentle craft ; " and liked 
 Walton better in his rambling discursions than in his 
 more practical teaching. What a glorious day for scenery, 
 too ! Not one of those scorching, blue-sky, cloudless 
 days, when a general hardness prevails, but a mingled 
 light of sun and cloud shadow, with misty distances, and 
 dai'k, deep foregrounds on the still water, where ever and 
 anon a heavy plash, breaking in widening circles, told of 
 the speckled trout : save that, no other sound was heard. 
 All was calm and noiseless, as in some far-ofi" valley of 
 the Mississippi, a little surging of the water on the rocky 
 shore — a faint melancholy plash — scarce heard even in 
 the stillness. 
 
 I sat thinking, not sadly, but seriously, of the past, and 
 of that present time that was so soon to add itself to the 
 past ; for the future I felt, by sensations that never deceive, 
 it must be brief! My malady gained rapidly on me; 
 symptoms, I waa told to guard against, had already
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 95 
 
 sliown tliemselves, and I knew that the battle was fought 
 and lost. 
 
 " It is sad to die at thirty," saith Balzac somewhere ; 
 and to the Frenchman of Paris, who feels that death is 
 the cessation of a round of pleasures and dissipations, 
 whose hold is hourly stronger ; who thinks that life and 
 self-indulgence ai^e synonymous ; whose ideal is the cease- 
 less round of exciting sensations that spring from every 
 form of human passion nurtured to excess; — to him, the 
 sleep of the grave is the solitude and not the repose of the 
 tomb. 
 
 To me, almost alone in the Avorld, to die suggests few 
 sorrows or regrets ; without family, without friends, save 
 those the world's complaisance calls such ; with no direct 
 object for exertion, nothing for hope or fear to cling to ; 
 no ambition that I could noui'ish, no dream of greatness 
 or distinction to elevate me above the thought of daily 
 suffering ; life is a mere monotony — and the monotony of 
 icaiting. 
 
 While watching the progress of my malady, seeing 
 day by day the advancing steps of the disease that never 
 sleeps, I I'ecognise in myself a strange adaptation in my 
 mind and feelings to the more developed condition of my 
 illness. At first, my cough irritated and fevered me. It 
 awoke me if I slept — it worried me as I read ; my fast 
 and hurried breathing, too, exciting the heart's action, 
 rendered me impatient and discontented. Now, both 
 these symptoms are in excess, and yet, by habit and 
 some acquired power of conforming to them, I am scarcely 
 aware of their existence. I have learned to look on them 
 as my normal, natural condition. My cough on awaking 
 in the morning — my hectic as night falls — only tell of the 
 day's dawn and decline. I fancy that this dreamy calm, 
 this spirit of submissive waiting that I feel, is dependent on 
 my infirmity ; for how otherwise could I, if strong in mind 
 and body, endure the thraldom of my present life ? The 
 watchful egotism of sickness demands the mind of sickness. 
 
 In the whole phenomena of malady, nothing is more 
 striking than the accommodation of the mind to the con- 
 dition of suffering. I remember once — I was then in all
 
 9G iiOKACE TEMPLETON, 
 
 the strength and conficlence of youth and health — di'sousf5-= 
 ing this point with a friend, a physician of skill and emi- 
 nence, now no more, and was greatly struck by a theory 
 which was new, at least to me. He regarded every spe- 
 cies of disease, from the most simple to the most compli- 
 cated, as a sanatory process, an effoi't — not always suc- 
 cessful, of course — on the part of Nature to restore the 
 system to its condition of health. He instanced maladies 
 the most formidable, some of them attended by symptoms 
 of terrible suffering ; but in every case he assumed to 
 show that they were efforts to oppose the march of some 
 other species of disorganization. So far from thei'e being 
 any taint of Materialism in these views, he deduced from 
 them a most devout and conscientious belief in a Supreme 
 Power ; and instead of resting upon Contrivance and 
 Design as the great attributes of the Deity, he went fur- 
 ther, and made the Forethought, the Providence of God 
 for His creatures, the great object of his wonderment and 
 praise. His argument, if I dare trust my memory, was 
 briefly this : the presence of a superintending guardian 
 spirit, ever watchful to avert evil from its charge, is the 
 essential diflerence which separates every object of God's 
 creation from the mere work of man's hand. The inge- 
 nuity that contrived the mechanism of a steam-engine or 
 a clock was yet unable to endow the machinery with latent 
 powers of reparation ; secret resources against accident 
 or decay, treasured up for the hour of necessity, and not 
 even detectable, if existent, before the emergency that 
 evoked them. Not so with the objects of creation. They 
 are each and all, according to various laws, provided with 
 such jTowers ; their operations, whether from deficient 
 energy or misdirection, constituting what we call disease. 
 What is dropsy, for instance, save the resolution of an 
 inflammatory action that would almost inevitably prove 
 fatal ? Formidable as the malady is, it yet affords time for 
 treatment; its march is comparatively slow and uniform, 
 whereas the disease that originated it would have caused 
 death, if effusion of fluid had not arrested the violence 
 of the inflammation. 
 
 Take the most simple case — a wounded blood-vessel, a
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 97 
 
 cut finger : by all the laws of hydraulics, the blood must 
 escape from this small vessel, and the individual bleed to 
 death as certainly, though not so speedily, as from the 
 largest artery. But what ensues ? after a slight loss of 
 blood, the vessel contracts — a coagulum forms — the bleed- 
 ing is arrested — the coagulum solidifies and forms a cica- 
 trix ; and the whole of these varied processes — a series of 
 strange and wondecful results — will follow, without any 
 interference of the will, far less any aid from the indi- 
 vidual himself, being powers inherent in the organization, 
 and providentally stored up for emergency. 
 
 The blood poured out upon the brain from an apoplectic 
 stroke must, and does, prove fatal, save when the vis 
 medicatrix is able to interpose in time, by encircling the 
 fluid, enclosing it with a sac, and subsequently by absorp- 
 tion removing the extraneous pressure. All these are 
 vital processes, over which the sufferer has no control — of 
 which he is not even conscious. 
 
 The approach of an abscess to the surface of the body, 
 by a law similar to that which determines the approach of 
 a plant to the surface of the earth — the reparation of a 
 fractured bone, by the creation and disposition of elements 
 not then existing in the body — and many similar cases, 
 warranted him in assuming that all these processes were 
 exactly analogous to what we call disease, being disturb- 
 ances of the animal economy accompanied by pain ; and 
 that disease of every kind was only a curative effort, occa- 
 sionally failing from insufficient energy — occasionally from 
 the presence of antagonistic agency, — and occasionally 
 from our ignorance of its tendency and object. 
 
 I feel I have been a lame expositor of my friend's theory. 
 I have omitted many of his proofs— some of them the best 
 and strongest. I have, besides, not adverted to objections 
 which he foresaw and refuted. Indeed, I fell into the digres- 
 sion without even knowing it, and I leave it here in the 
 same fashion. I fancy a kind of comfort in the notion 
 that my malady is, at least, an attempt at restoration. 
 The idea of decay — of declining slowly away, leaf by leaf, 
 branch by branch — is very sad ; and even this conceit is 
 not without its consolation.
 
 98 EOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 And now to wander homewards. How houseless the 
 roan is who calls his iun his home ! Ifc was all very well 
 for Sir John to say, " I like to take mine ease in mine 
 inn ;" and in his day the thing was practicable. The little 
 parlour, with its wainscot of walnut-wood and its bright 
 tiles, all shining in the tempered light through the dia- 
 mond-paned window ; the neatly-spread table, whei'e 
 smoked the pasty of high-seasoned venison, beside the 
 tall cup of sack or canary ; and the buxom landlady her- 
 self, redolent of health, good spirits, and broad jest ; — 
 these were all accessories to that abandonment to repose 
 and quiet so delightful to the weary-minded. But think 
 of some " Cour de Russie," some " Angelo d'Oro," or 
 some " Schwarzen Adler," all alive with dusty arrivals and 
 frogged couriers — the very hall a fair, with fifty bells, all 
 ringing ; postboys blowing — whips crac-king — champagne 
 corks flying — and a babel of every tongue in Europe, 
 making a thorough-bass din that would sour a saint's 
 temper ! 
 
 I'll leave at once — I'll find some quiet little gasthaus 
 in the Tyrol for a few weeks, till the weather moderates, 
 and it becomes cool enough to cross the Alps— and die !
 
 HORACE TEMFLETON. 99 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 These watering-place doctors liave less tact than their 
 confreres elsewhere : their theory is, "The Wells and 
 Amusement;" they never strain their faculties to compre- 
 hend any class but that of hard-worked, exhausted men of 
 the world, to whom the regularity of a Bad-ort, and the 
 simple pleasures it affords, are quite sufficient to relieve 
 the load of over-taxed minds and bodies. The " distrac- 
 tions" of these places suit such people well ; the freedom 
 of intercourse, which even among our straight-laced 
 countrymen prevails, is pleasant. My Lord refreshes in 
 the society of a clever barrister, or an amusing essayist of 
 the Quarterly. The latter puts forth all his agreeability 
 for the delectation of a grander audience than he ever had 
 at home. But to one who has seen all these ranks and 
 conditions of men — who finds nothing new in the morgue 
 of the Marquis, or the last mot of the Bench — it is some- 
 what too bad to be told that such intercourse is a part of 
 your treatment. 
 
 My worthy friend Dr. Gackhardt has mistaken me ; he 
 fancies my weariness is the result of solitude, and that my 
 exhaustion is but ennui ; and, in consequence, has he gone 
 about on the high roads and public places inquiring if any 
 one knows Horace Templeton, who is " sick and ill." And 
 here is the fruit ; a table covered with visiting cards and 
 scented notes of inquiry. My Lord ToUington — a Lord of 
 the Bedchamber, a dissolute old fop — very amusing to very 
 young men, but intolerable to all who have seen anything 
 themselves. Sir Harvey Clifford, a Yorkshire Jesuit, who 
 travels with a sochis from Oscot and a whole library of 
 tracts controversial. Reginald St. John, a "levanter" 
 from the Oaks. Colonel Morgan O'Shea, absent without 
 
 H 2
 
 100 HOEiCE TEMPLETO^f. 
 
 leave for iaaving shot his father-in-law. Such are among 
 the first I find. But whose writing is this ?....! know 
 the hand well .... Frank Burton, that I knew so well 
 at Oxford ! Poor devil! he joined the 9th Lancers when 
 he came of age, and ran through everything he had in the 
 world in three years. He married a Lady Mary some- 
 body, and lives now on her family. What is his note 
 about ? 
 
 " Dear Tempy, 
 '* I have just heard of your being here, and would have 
 gone over to see you, but have sprained my ancle in a 
 hopping-match with Kubetskoi — walked into him for two 
 hundred, nevertheless. Come and dine with us to-day at 
 the France, and we'll show you some of the folk here. 
 That old bore, Lady Bellingham Blakely, is with us, and 
 gives a pic-nic on Saturday at the Waterfall — rare fun for 
 you, who like a field-day of regular quizzes ! Don't fail — 
 sharp seven — and believe me, 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 "F. B." 
 
 This requires but brief deliberation ; and so, my dear 
 Frank, you must excuse my company, both at dinner and 
 picnic. What an ass he must be to suppose that a man 
 of thirty has got no farther insight into the world, and 
 knows no more of its inhabitants, than a boy of eighteen ! 
 These " quizzes," doubtless, had been very amusing to me 
 once — just as I used to laugh at the " School for Scandal" 
 the first fifty times I saw it; but now that I have epuise 
 les ridicules — have seen every manner of absurdity the 
 law of Chancery leaves at large — why hammer out tho 
 impression by repetition? 
 
 What is here by way of postcript ? 
 
 " Lady B. has made the acquaintance of a certain. 
 Sicilian Countess, the handsomest woman here, and has 
 engaged her for Saturday. If you be the man you used 
 to be, you'll not fail to come." 
 
 " Dear F 
 
 *' I cannot dine out. I can neither eat, drink, nor talk
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 101 
 
 nor can I support the heat or ' confuz ' of a dinner ; but, 
 if permitted, will join your party vjij ^a.ti^rday for. half an 
 hour. ' > f',* ' ^,'' \ } '*" 
 
 "Tours truly," 
 
 Now has curiositjr — I have no worthier name to bestow 
 on it — got the better of all my scruples and dislikes to 
 such an agglomeration as a picnic ? Socially I know 
 nothing so bad ; the liberty is license, and the license is 
 an intolerable freedom, where only the underbred are at 
 ease. NHmporte — I'll go ; for while I now suspect that I 
 was wrong in believing the Countess to have been my old 
 acquaintance Caroline Graham, I have a strange interest, 
 at least, in seeing how one so like her, externally, may 
 resemble her in traits of mind and manner. And then I'll 
 leave Baden. 
 
 I am really impatient to get away. I feel — I suppose 
 there is nothing unusual in the feeling — that, as I meet 
 acquaintances, I can read in their looks those expressions 
 of compassion and pity by which the sick are admonished 
 of their hopeless state ; and for the very reason that I can 
 dare to look it steadily in the face myself, I have a strong 
 repugnance to its being forcibly placed before me. My 
 greatest wish to live — if it ever deserved the name of 
 wish — is to see the upshot of certain changes that time 
 inevitably will bring out. I have watched the game iu 
 some cases so closely, I should like to know who rises the 
 winner. 
 
 What will become of France under a regency ? How 
 will the new government turn the attention of the 
 mauvaises tetes, and where will they carry their arms ? 
 "What will Austria do, when the Pope shall have given the 
 taste for free institutions, and the Italians fancy that they 
 are strong enough for self-government? What America, 
 when the government of her newly acquired territory 
 must be a militnry dictation, with a standing army of 
 great strength ? What Ireland, when the landlords, 
 depressed by an increasing poor-rate, have brought down
 
 102 HORACE TEMPLETON, 
 
 the gentry to a condition of mere subsistence, witli 
 Romanism hourly assuming a bolder, higher tone, 
 dictating ;its terms' wi\il| the Minister, and treating the 
 Governtnent de pair ? 
 
 What Prussia, v\heu democracy grows quicker, when 
 C oh sli'ttiiao'r'.al Liberty and 'Freedom of the Press get 
 a-head of the Censor? 
 
 For Belgium and Switzerland I have little interest. 
 Priest-ridden and mob-ridden, they may indulge their 
 taste for domestic quarrel so long as a general war is 
 remote ; let that come, and their small voices will be lost 
 in the louder din of far difierent elements. 
 
 As for the Peninsula, Spain and Portugal are in as 
 miserable a plight as free institutions combined with 
 Popery can make them. If Romanism is to be the 
 religion of the State, let it be allied with Absolutism. 
 The right to think, read, and speak are incompatible 
 with the dictates of a Church that forbids all three. 
 Rome is the type. It is a grand and a stupendous 
 tyranny. Gare ! to those who try to make it a popular 
 rule ! 
 
 So . . . I find that all Baden is full of our great picnic ! 
 
 Ours, I say, for here lies Lady B B 's respectful 
 
 compliments, &c., and my own replication is already 
 delivered. It seems that we have taken the true way to 
 create popular interest, by trespassing on popular enjoy- 
 ment. We have engaged M. Gougon, the chef of the 
 Cursaal ; engaged the band who usually perform before 
 the promenade ; engaged all the saddle-horses, and most 
 of the carriages — in fact, we have enlisted everything 
 save the genius loci, the hump-backed croupier of the 
 roulette-table. 
 
 Why we should travel twelve miles or so, out of our 
 way, to bring Baden with us I cannot so cleai-ly see. Why 
 we cannot be satisfied with vice without a change of 
 venne I do not understand. But with this I have nothing 
 to do. Like the Irishman, " I am but a lodger." Indeed, 
 I believe my own poor presence was less desired at this 
 fete than that of my London phaeton and my two black
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 103 
 
 ponies, whicli, I am told, are very much admired bere — a 
 certain sign that they are not in the most correct taste. 
 However, I have my revenge. As Hussars, when invited 
 to dine out at questionable places, always appear in pluin 
 clothes, so shall I come to the rendezvous in a fiacre; 
 though, I own, it is very like obtaining a dinner under 
 false pi'etences. 
 
 Already the littleJ;own is astir ; servants are hastening 
 to and fro ; ominous-looking baskets and hampers are 
 seen to pass and repass ; strange quadrupeds are led by 
 as saddle-horses, their gay head-stalls and splendid saddle- 
 cloths scarce diverting the eye from " groggy " fore-legs 
 and drawn-up quarters ; curiously dressed young gentle- 
 men, queer combinations of Jockeyism with an Arcadian 
 simplicity, stand in groups about ; and, now and then, a 
 carriage rolls by, and disappears up some steep street in 
 search of its company. 
 
 Ah! there go the Tollingtons ! and in a " conveniency," 
 too, they'd scarcely like to be seen with in Hyde Park, 
 What a droll old rattle-trap ! and what a pair of wretched 
 hacks to draw it ! After all, one cannot help avowing that 
 these people, seated thei'e in that most miserable equipage, 
 ■where poverty exhibits its most ludicrous of asjDects, even 
 there they preserve as decisive an air of class and rank 
 as — as — yes, I have found the exact equivalent — as almost 
 every foreigner seated in a handsome carriage does of the 
 opposite. Prejudice, bigotiy, narrow-mindedness, or any- 
 thing else of the same kind it may bo ; but, after a great 
 part of a life spent abroad, my testimony is, that for one 
 person of either sex, whose appearance unmistakably pro- 
 nounces condition, met, abroad — I care not where — at 
 least one hundred are to be seen in England. So much 
 for the nation of shopkeepers ! 
 
 Ah ! a tandem, by Jove ! and rather well got up. Of 
 course it could be no other than Burton — " the rulinsr 
 passion strong in ' debt ! ' " Well, he may have forgotten 
 his creditors, but he has not forgotten how to hold the 
 ribbons. 
 
 What's this heavy old coach with a cabriolet over the 
 rumble ? — the Russian minister, Kataff'sky ! Lord bless
 
 104 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 U9 ! from all the strong braces and bars of wood and iron, 
 one would say that it was built to stand a journey to 
 Siberia. "Who knows but it may travel that road yet ! 
 . . . . Pretty woman the Princess, but with all the charac- 
 teristic knavery of her race in the eyes. Paul was right 
 when he refused to license Jews in Eussia, because he 
 knew his subjects would cheat them ! 
 
 " Bon jour, marquis^ Monsieur de Tavanne, a very 
 absurd bat a chivalrous Frenchman of the old school. 
 They say that, meeting the late Due d'Orleans at Lady 
 Grenville's, he took a very abrupt leave, expressing as his 
 reason that he did not know her ladyship received des 
 gens comme cela." 
 
 A Vienna coupe, with a Vienna coachman, and a 
 Vienna countess inside, are very distinctive in their wa3^ 
 The Grafin von Lowenhaufen, one of those pretty intri- 
 guantes of modern political warfare who frequent watei-ing- 
 places and act as the tirailleurs for Metternich and Guizot. 
 Talleyrand avowed the great advantage of such assistance, 
 which he said was impossible for an English minister, for 
 " les Anglaises" always fell in love and blabbed ! 
 
 Here comes a showy affair ! — a real landau with four 
 horses, as fine as bouquets and worsted tassels can make 
 them ! No mistaking it — Erin go hragh ! Sir Roger 
 M'Causland and my lady and the four Misses and 
 Master M'Causland. They are the invincibles of modern 
 travel ; they have stormed every court in Europe, and are 
 the terror of Grand Marechals from Naples to the Pole. 
 Heaven help the English Minister in whose city they squat 
 for a winter ! He would have less trouble with a new 
 tariff or a new boundary than in arranging their squabbles 
 with court functionaries and the police. Sir Roger must 
 know the King and his Ministers, and expound to them 
 his own notions of the government, with divers hints 
 about free trade and other like matters. My lady must be 
 invited to all court balls and concerts, and a fair propor- 
 tion of dinners ; and this, de droit, because "the M'Caus- 
 land " was a King of Ballyshandera in the year 4, and my 
 lady herself being an O'Dowde, also of blood royal. People 
 may laugh at these absurd, shameless pretensions, but
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 105 
 
 "iZ rit le mieux qui rit le dernier,'' says the proverb ; and 
 if the sentiment be one the M'Causlands' dignity permit, 
 they have the right to laugh heartily. Boredom, actual 
 boredom — a perseverance that is dead to all shame — a 
 persistence that no modesty rebukes — a steady resolve to 
 push forward, wins its way socially as well as strategically ; 
 and even the folding-doors of court saloons fly open before 
 its magic sesame. " 
 
 And who are these gay equestrians with prancing hack- 
 neys, flowing plumes, and flaunting habits? — The Fother- 
 gills, four handsome, dashing, effronts girls, who, under 
 the mock protection of a small schoolboy brother, are 
 really escorted by a group of moustachioed heroes, more 
 than one of whom I already recognize as scarcely fit com- 
 pany for the daughters of an English church dignitary. 
 Mais que voulez-vous ? They would not visit the curate's 
 wife and sister in Durham, but they will ride out at Baden 
 with blacklegs and swindlers ! The Count yonder, Mon- 
 sieur de Mallenville, is a noted character in Paris, and is 
 always attended, when there, by an emissary of the police, 
 who, with what Alphouse Kai^r calls an empressemenf de 
 bonne compagnie, never leaves him for a moment. 
 
 And here we have the " dons " of the entertainment, la 
 Princesse de Rubetzki, as pretty a piece of devilry as ever 
 Poland manufactured to sow treason and disaffection, 
 accompanied by her devoted admirer the Austrian general, 
 Count Cohary. Poor fellow ! all his efforts to appear 
 young and volage are as nothing to the difficulties he 
 endures in steering between the fair Princess's politics 
 and her affection. An Austrian of the vieille roche, he is 
 shocked by the Liberalism of his lady-love ; and yet, with 
 Spielbei'g before him, he cannot tear himself away. 
 
 They who are not acquainted with the world of the 
 Continent may think it strange that society, even in a 
 watering-place, should assemble individuals so different in 
 rank and social position ; but a very little experience will 
 always show that intercourse is really as much denied 
 between such pai'ties as though they were in diff'erent 
 hemispheres. As the Rhone rolls its muddy current 
 through the blue waters of the Lake of Greneva, and never
 
 106 HORACE TEMFLETON. 
 
 mingles its turMd stream with the clear waves beside it, 
 so these people are seen pouring their flood through every 
 assemblage, and never disturbing the placid surface in 
 their course. To effect this, two requisites are indispen- 
 sable to the company — a very rigid good-breeding and a 
 very lax morality. No one can deny that both are 
 abundant. 
 
 And here, if I mistake not, comes my own cliar-a-hanc. 
 Truly, my excellent valet has followed my directions to 
 the letter. I said, " Something of the commonest," and 
 he has brousrht me a fiacre that seems as moribund and 
 creaky as myself. No matter, I am ready. And now to 
 be off !
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON, l07 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Kow has there happened to me one of the strangest 
 adventures of my sti^ange life, and before I sleep I have 
 determined to note it down, for no other reason than this: 
 that mj waking thoughts to-morrow Avill refuse to credit 
 mere memory, without some such corroboration. Nay, 
 I have another witness — this glove ! 
 
 Were it not for this, I should have chronicled our /c^ 
 which really was far more successful than such things 
 usually are. Not only was there no contretemps, but all 
 went off well and pleasantly. The men were witty and 
 good-tempered ; the women — albeit many of them hand- 
 some — were aimahle, and disposed to be pleased ; the 
 weather and the champagne were perfect. They who 
 could eat — which I couldn't — say that Gougon was 
 admirable ; and the band played some of Donizetti's 
 pieces with great precision and effect. Ainsi, the elements 
 were all favourable ; each instrument filled its part ; and 
 the ensemble was good — rather a rare event where peojDle 
 come out expressly bent on enjoyment, and determined to 
 take pleasure by storm. Premeditated happiness, like 
 marriage for love, is often too much premeditated. Here, 
 however, " the gods were propitious." Unlike most 
 picnics, there neither was rain nor rancour ; and con- 
 sidering that we had specimens of at least half-a-dozeu 
 diff'erent nationalities, and freqviently as many different 
 languages going at once, there was much amusing 
 conversation, and a gr-eat deal of pleasant gossippiug 
 anecdote : not that regular story-telling which depends 
 upon its stage-effect of voice and manner, but that far 
 more agreeable kind of narrative that claims interest from 
 being about people and places that we know beforehand,
 
 108 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 conveying traits of character and mind of well-known 
 persons, always amusing and interesting. 
 
 There was a French secretary of legation for Berne, a 
 most pleasant convive; and the Austrian general was 
 equally amusing. Some of his anecdotes of the campaign 
 of 1805 were admirable : by the way, he felt dreadfully 
 shocked at his own confession that he remembered 
 Wagram. The Countess Giordani came late. We were 
 returning from our ramble among rocks and cliffs when 
 she appeared. I did not wish to be presented ; I pre- 
 fei'red rather the part of observing her, which acquaint- 
 ance would have prevented. But old Lady B— - — did not 
 give me the choice : she took my arm, and, after a little 
 tour through the company, came directly in front of the 
 Countess, saying, with a bluntness all her own, — 
 
 " Madame la Comtesse, let me present a friend whose 
 long residence in jour country gives him almost the claim 
 of a countryman: — M. Templeton." 
 
 If I was not unmoved by the suddenness of this 
 introduction — appealing as it did, to me at least, to old 
 memories — the Countess was composure itself: a faint 
 smile in acknowledgment of the speech, a gentle expression 
 of easy satisfaction on meeting one who had visited her 
 country, were all that even my prying curiosity could 
 detect. 
 
 " What part of Sicily have you seen ? " said she 
 to me. 
 
 " My friend Lady B -," said I, "has made me a 
 
 greater traveller than I can pretend to be : I have been no 
 further south than Naples." 
 
 " Oh ! I am not Neapolitan," said she, hastily, and with 
 an air like disappointment. 
 
 I watched her closely as she spoke, and at once said to 
 myself, " No ! this is not, this cannot be, Caroline 
 Graham." 
 
 We conversed but little during dinner. She evidently 
 did not speak French willingly, and my Italian had been 
 too long in rust for fluency. Of English she showed not 
 the least knowledge. There were stories told in her hear- 
 ing, at some of which to avoid laughter would have beeu
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 109 
 
 scarcely possible, and still she never smiled once. If I 
 wanted any additional evidence that she was not of Eng- 
 lish origin, chance presented one, as she was referred to 
 by the Russian for the name of a certain Sicilian family 
 where a "vendetta" had been preserved for two entire 
 centuries ; and the Countess replied, with a slight blush, 
 " The Marquis of Bianconetti — my uncle." 
 
 I own that, whi4e it was with a sense of relief I learned 
 to believe that the Countess was not the sister of my jaoor 
 friend, I still could not help feeling something akin to 
 disappointment at the discovery. I felt as though I had 
 been heaping up a store of care and anxiety around me for 
 one I had never seen before, and for whom I could really 
 take no deep interest. One husbands their affections as 
 they grow older. The spendthrift habit of caring for 
 people without even knowing why, or asking wherefore, 
 which is one of the pastimes — and sometimes a right plea- 
 sant one, too — of youth, becomes rarer as we go further on in 
 life, till at last we grow to be as grudging of our esteem 
 as of onr gold, and lend neither, save on good interest and 
 the best security. Bad health has done for me the work 
 of time, and 1 am already oppressed and weary of the evils 
 of age. 
 
 Something, perhaps, of this kind — some chagrin, too, 
 that the Countess was not my old acquaintance, though, 
 Heaven knows, it had grieved me far more to know she 
 had been — some discontent with myself for being discon- 
 tented — or " any other reason why," — but so was it, I felt 
 what in fashionable slang is called " put out," and, in 
 consequence, resolved to leave the party and make rny 
 way homeward at the first favourable opportunity. Before 
 setting out I had determined, as the night would be moon- 
 lit, to make a slight detour and thus avoid all the fracas 
 and tumult of driving home in a mob; and, with this 
 intention, had ordered my phaeton to meet me in the 
 Mourg Thai, at a small inn, whither I should repair on 
 foot, and then make my tour back by the Castle of Eber- 
 stein. 
 
 A move of the company to take coffee on a rock beside 
 the waterfall gave me the opportunity I desired, and I
 
 110 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 sauntered along a little path which in a few moments led 
 rae into the Pine Forest, and which, from the directions I 
 had received, I well knew conducted over the mountain, 
 and descended by a series of steep zigzags into the valley 
 of the Mourg. 
 
 Although 1 had quitted the party long before sunset, 
 the moon was high and bright ere I reached the spot where 
 my carriage awaited me. Exhilarated by the unwonted 
 exertion — half-gratified, too, by the consciousness of sup- 
 porting a degree of fatigue I had been pronouncecl incapable 
 of, — I took my seat in good spirits, to drive back to Baden. 
 As I ascended the steep road towards Eberstein, I observed 
 that lights were gleaming from the windows of the large 
 salon of the castle, that looks towards the glen. T knew 
 that the Grand Ducal family were at CarLsruhe, and was 
 therefox'e somewhat surprised to see these signs of habita- 
 tion in one of the state apartments of the chateau. 
 
 Alternately catching glimpses of and again losing these 
 bright lights, I slowly toiled up the steep acclivity, which, 
 to relieve my ponies, I ascended on foot. We were near the 
 top, the carriage had preceded me some fifty yards or so, 
 and T, alone, had reached a deeply-shaded spot, over which 
 an ancient outwork of the castle threw a broad shadow, 
 when suddenly I was startled by the sound of voices, so 
 close beside me that I actually turned to see if the speakers 
 were not following me ; nor was it till they again spoke 
 that I could believe that they were standing on the terrace 
 above me. If mere surprise at the unexpected sound of 
 voices was ray first sensation, what was it to that which 
 followed, as I heard a man's voice say, — 
 
 " But how comes this M. Templeton to be of any con- 
 sequence in the matter ? It is true he was a witness, but 
 he has no intei'est in troubling himself with the affair. He 
 is an invalid besides — some say, dying." 
 
 " Would he were dead ! " interrupted a lower voice ; but 
 although the accents were uttered with an unusual force, 
 I knew them — at once I recognised them. It was the 
 Countess spoke. 
 
 " Why so, if he never recognised you ? " 
 
 '* How am I certain of this ? " said she again. " How
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. Ill 
 
 sliall I satisfy my own fears, that at every instant ai'e 
 ready to betray me? I dread bis reserve more than all." 
 
 " If he be so very inconvenient,'' interposed the man, in 
 a half-careless tone, " there may surely be found means to 
 induce him to leave this. Invalids are often superstitious. 
 Mia'ht not a civil intimation that his health was sufferiuG: 
 from his sejour incline him to depart r " 
 
 The Countess rrlade no reply ; possibly the bantering 
 tone assumed by her companion displeased her. After a 
 brief silence, he resumed, — 
 
 " Dues the man play ? does he frequent the Saal ? 
 There surely are a hundred ways to force a quai'rel on 
 him." 
 
 "Easier than terminate it with advantage," said she,, 
 bitterly. 
 
 I heard no more; for, although they still continued to 
 speak, they had descended from the terrace and entered 
 the garden. I was alone. Before me, at the turn of the 
 road, stood my servant, waiting with the horses. All was 
 still as the grave. Was this I had heard real ? were the 
 words truly spoken, or were they merely some trick of an 
 overwrought, sickly imagination ? I moved into the 
 middle of the road, so as to have a better view of the old 
 " Schloss ; " but, except a single light in a remote tower, 
 all was shrouded in darkness : the salon I believed to 
 have been lit up lay in deepest shadow. There was 
 nothing I had not given, at that instant, to be able to 
 resolve my doubts. 
 
 I v/alked hurriedly on, eager to question my servant 
 both as to the voices and the lights ; and as I went my 
 eye fell ujion an object before me in the road. I took it 
 up — it was a glove — a lady's glove ! How came it there, 
 if it had not fallen from the terrace ? 
 
 With increased speed I moved forward, my convictions 
 now strengthened by this new testimony. My servant 
 had neither seen nor heai'd anything ; indeed, his replies 
 to me were conveyed in a tone that showed in what light 
 he regarded my questioning. It was scarcely possible 
 that he could not have been struck with the bright glare 
 that illuminated a portion of the castle, yet he had not
 
 112 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 seen it : and as to voices, be stoutly averred that, although 
 he could distinctly note the clatter of the mill in the 
 valley below us, be bad heard no human sound since we left 
 the little inn. 
 
 It was to no purpose that I questioned and cross- 
 questioned. I soon saw that my eagerness was mistaken 
 by him for evidence of wandering faculties ; and I per- 
 ceived, in his anxiety that I should return, a fear that 
 my malady bad taken some new turn. So far, too, was 
 he right. My head was, indeed, troubled — strange fancies 
 and shadowy fears crossing my excited mind as I went; 
 so that, ere I reached my inn, I really was unable to 
 collect my faculties, and separate the dream-land from the 
 actual territory of fact. And now it is with painful 
 effort I write these lines, each moment doubting whether 
 I should not erase this, or insert that. Were it not for 
 this glove, that lies on my paper before me, I should 
 believe all to be mere illusion. What a painful struggle 
 this is, and how impossible to allay the fears of self- 
 deception ! At one moment I am half resolved to order 
 saddle-horse and return to Eberstein — for what ? — with 
 what hope of unravelling the mystery ? At the next I 
 am determined to repair to the Countess's villa near the 
 town, and ask if she has returned : but how shall I venture 
 on such a liberty ? If my ears bad not deceived me, she 
 is and must be Caroline Graham ; and yet would I not 
 rather believe that my weary brain had wandered, than 
 that this were so? 
 
 But what are these sounds of voices in the antechamber? 
 I hear Guckhardt's voice! 
 
 Yes : my servant had thought it prudent to fetch the 
 doctor, and he has been here and felt my pulse, and 
 ordered cold to my temples, and a calming draught. It 
 is clear, then, that I have been ill, and I must write no 
 more !
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 113 
 
 jCHAPTER XI. 
 
 Gasthaus, Zum Bar, Dallas, Tyrol, 
 
 It is exactly seven weeks this day since I last opened my 
 journal. I promised Guckliardt not to look into it for a 
 month, and so I have well kept ray woi'd ! It would 
 seem, indeed, a small privation in most circumstances to 
 abstain from chronicling the ebbing hours of a life ; but 
 EsTotism is next of kin to Sickness, and I can vent mine 
 more harmlessly here than if spent in exhausting the 
 patience of my friends. Some listener must be found to 
 the dreamy querulousness of the invalid, and why not his 
 own heart ? 
 
 Even to those nearest and dearest to our afiections, 
 there is always a sense of shame attendant on the 
 confessions of our weakness, more so than of our actual 
 vices. But what a merciful judge is Self ! how gentle to 
 rebuke ! how reluctant to punish ! how sanguine to hope 
 for reformation ! Hence is it that I find a comfort in 
 jotting down these " meras " of the past ; but from a 
 friend, what shaking of the head, what regretful sorrow- 
 ings, should I meet with ! How should I hear of faculties 
 and fortune — life itself — wasted without one object, even 
 a wish, compassed ! When I reflect upon the position in 
 life attainable by one who starts with moderate abilities, a 
 large fortune, reasonable habits of industry, and a fair 
 share of well-wishers, and then think of what I now am, 
 I might easily be discontented and dispirited ; but if I 
 had really reached the goal, can I say that I should be 
 happy ? can I say that all the success within my reach 
 could have stilled within me the tone of peaceful solitude 
 I have ever cherished as the greatest of blessings ? But 
 why speculate on this ? I never could have been highly 
 
 I
 
 114 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 successful. I have not the temper, had I the talent, that 
 climbs high. I must always have done my best at once ; 
 put forth my whole strength ou each occasion — husbanded 
 nothing, and consequently gained nothing. 
 
 Here I am at Dallas, in the Tryol, a wild and lonely 
 glen, with a deep and rushing river foaming through it. 
 The mountain in front of me is speckled with wooden 
 chalets, some of them perched on lofty cliffs, not distinct 
 from realms of never-melting snow. 
 
 All is poverty on every side ; even in the little church, 
 where Piety would deck its shrine at any sacrifico, the 
 altar is bare of ornament. The cure's house, too, is 
 humble enough for him who is working yonder in his 
 garden, an old and white-haired man, too feeble and frail 
 for such labour; and already the sun has set, and now he 
 ceases from his toil; for the " Angelus " is ringing, and 
 soon the village will be kneeling in prayer. Already the 
 bell has ceased, and through the stilly air rises the 
 murmur of many voices. 
 
 There was somewhat of compassionate pity in the look 
 of the old man who has just passed the window ; he 
 stopped a moment to gaze at me — at the only one whoso 
 unbended knee and closed lips had no brotherhood in tho 
 devotion. He seemed very poor, and old, and feeble, and 
 yet he could look with a sense of pity upon me, as aa 
 outcast from the faith. So did I feel his steady stare at 
 least ; for, at that instant, the wisli was nearest to my 
 heart that I, too, could have knelt and prayed with tho 
 rest. And why could I not ? was it that my spirit was 
 too stubborn, too proud, to mingle with the humble 
 throng ? did I feel myself better, or nobler, or greater 
 than the meanest, there, when uttering the same words of 
 thankfulness or hope? No, far from it ; a very different, 
 but not Jess powerful barrier interposed. Education, 
 habits of thought, prejudices, convictions, even party 
 spirit, had all combined to repre-ent Romanism to my 
 mind in all the glaring colours of its superstitions, its 
 cruelties, and its deceptions. Then arose before me a kind 
 of vision of its tyranny over mankind, — its inquisitions, 
 its persecutions, its mock miracles, and its real bloodshed j
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 115 
 
 and I could not turn from the horrible picture, even to the 
 sight of those humble worshippers who knelt in all tlie 
 sincerity of belief. 
 
 I actually dreaded the sway of the devotional influence 
 lest, when my heart had yielded to it, some chance inter- 
 ruption of ceremonial, some of those flmtastic forms of the 
 Church, should turn my feelings of trust and worship to 
 one of infidelity and* scorn. 
 
 There, all is over now, and the villagers are returning 
 homeward — some to the little hamlet — others are wend- 
 ing their way upwards, to homes high amid the moun- 
 tains — and hepe I sit alone, in my little whitewashed 
 room, watching the shadows as they deepen over the glen, 
 and gazing on that mountain peak that glows like a car- 
 buncle in the setting sun. 
 
 It is like a dream to me how I have come to sojourn iu 
 this peaceful valley. The last entry I made was in Baden, 
 the night of that party at the Waterfall. The next day 
 I awoke ill — fevered from a restless night. Guckhardt 
 came early, and thinking I was asleep, retired without 
 speaking to me. He laid his hand on my temples, and 
 seemed to feel that I required rest and quiet, for he 
 cautioned my servant not to sufier the least disturbance 
 near me. 
 
 I conclude I must have been sleeping, for the sudden 
 noise of voices and the tramp of many feet aroused me. 
 There was evidently something strange and unexpected 
 going forward in the town. What could it mean ? My 
 servant seemed most unwilling to tell me, and only 
 yielded to my positive commands to speak. Even now I 
 tremble to recall the tidings — a murder had been com- 
 mitted ! One of the guests at our late jete^ a young 
 Englishman named Lockwood, had been discovered dead 
 on the side of the road about two miles from the Water- 
 fall ; his watch, and purse with several gold pieces, were 
 found on his person, so that no robbery had been the i^ea- 
 son of the crime. I remember his having come on foot, 
 and hearing that I should not require my cliar-a-hanc to 
 return, he engaged it. The driver's story is, that the 
 stranger always got out to walk at the" hills, usually 
 
 I 2
 
 116 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 lingering slowly in his ascent of them ; and that at last, 
 at the top of the highest, he had waited for a considerable 
 time without his appearing, and growing weary of expec- 
 tancy he returned, and at the foot of the hill discovered 
 something dark, lying motionless beside the pathway ; he 
 came closer, and saw it was the stranger quite dead. 
 Three wounds, which from their depth and direction 
 seemed to have been given by a dagger, were found in 
 the chest ; one entered from the back between the 
 shoulders ; the fingers of the right hand were also cut 
 nearly through, as though he had grasped a sharp weapon 
 in his struggle. Death must have been immediate, as the 
 heart was twice wounded ; probably he expired almost at 
 once. The direction and the position of the wounds re- 
 futed every idea of a suicide — and yet how account for 
 the crime of murder r* The stranger was scarcely a week 
 in Baden, not known to any one before his arrival here, 
 and since had merely formed those chance acquaintance- 
 ships of watering-places. There was not, so far as one 
 could see, the slightest ground to suspect any malice or 
 hatred towards him. The iew particulars I have here set 
 down were all that my servant could tell me. But what 
 from the terrible nature of the tidings themselves, my own 
 excitable state when hearing them, but, more than either, 
 the remembrance of the dialogue I had overheard the nigbt 
 before — all combined and increased my fever to that 
 degree that ere noon. I became half wild with delirium. 
 What I said, or how my wandering faculties turned, I 
 cannot — nor would I willingly — remember. There was 
 enough of illness in my ravings, and of method in them 
 too, to bring Guckhardt again to my bedside, accompanied 
 by a high agent of the police. The attempt to examine a 
 man in such a state relative to the circumstances of a 
 dreadful crime could only have entered the head of a 
 irrefet de police or a juge, d' instruction. What my re- 
 velations were I know not ; but it is clear they assumed 
 a character of independent fancy that balked the scrutiny 
 of the official, for he left me to the unmixed cares of my 
 doctor. 
 
 By his counsel I was speedily removed from Baden,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 117 
 
 under the impression that the scene would be prejudicial 
 to my recovei'y. I was indifFerant where, or in what way, 
 they disposed of me ; and when I was told I was to try 
 the air of the Lake of Constance, I heard it with the 
 apathy of one sunk in a trance. ISTor do I yet know by 
 what means the police, so indefatigable in tormenting the 
 innocent, abandoned their persecution of me. They must 
 have had their own sufficient reasons for it ; so much is 
 certain. 
 
 And now, once more, I ask myself, is all that I have 
 here set down the mere wanderings of a broken and dis- 
 jointed brain ? have these incidents no other foundation 
 than a morbid fancy ? I would most willingly accept even 
 this sad alternative, and have it so ; but here is evidence too 
 strong to disbelieve. Here before me lies an English 
 newspaper, with a paragraph alluding to the mysterious 
 murder of an English gentleman at Baden. The dates, 
 circumstances, all tally in the minutest particulars. Shall 
 I discredit these proofs ? 
 
 The Countess is married to the Marquis de Courcelles ; 
 a distant relative of the Archduchess, it is said. Let me 
 dismiss the theme for ever'— that is, if I can. And now 
 for one whose interest to me is scarcely less sad, but of a 
 very different shade of sadness. 
 
 This is my birthday, the 31st August. " Why had the 
 month more than thirty days?" is a question I have beeu 
 tempted to hazard more than once. Nor is it from in- 
 gratitude that I say this. I have long enjoyed the easy 
 patli in life ; I have tasted far more of the bright, and 
 seen less of the shady side of this world's high road thau 
 falls to the share of most men. With fortune more than 
 sufficient to supply all that I could care for, I have had, 
 without any pretension to high talent, that kind of readi- 
 ness that is often mistaken for ability ; and, what is pro- 
 bably even more successful with the world, I have had a 
 keen appreciation of talent in other men — a thorough 
 value for their superior attainments ; and this — no great 
 gift, to be sure — has always procured me acceptance in 
 circles where my own pretensions would have proved 
 feeble supporters. And then, this delicacy of health — •
 
 118 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 ■what many would have called my heaviest calamity — has 
 often carried me triumphantly through difficulties Avhere 
 I must "have succumbed. Even in "the House " have I 
 heard the pi^ognostications of what I might have been, "if 
 my health permitted ; " so that my weak point ministered 
 to me what strength had denied me. 
 
 Then, I have the most intense relish for the life of idle- 
 ness I have been leading: : the lounOTntr " do-nothin<?ism " 
 that would kill most men with ennui is to me inexpres- 
 sibly delightful. All those castle-buildings which, in the 
 real world, are failures, succeed admirably in imagination. 
 I overcome competitors, I convince opponents, I con- 
 ciliate enemies at will, so long as they are all of my own 
 making ; and so far from falling back disappointed from 
 the vision to the fact, I revel in the conviction that I can go 
 to work again at new fancies ; and that, in such struggles, 
 there is neither weariness nor defeat. A small world 
 for ambition to range in ! but I value it as Touchstone 
 did his mistress — " a poor thing, but it was mine own." 
 
 It would be a strange record if a man were to chronicle 
 his birthdays, keeping faithful note of his changed and 
 changing nature as years stole on. For myself I have 
 always regarded them somewhat like post-stations in a 
 journey, ever expecting to find better horses and smoother 
 roads next stage, and constantly promising myself to be 
 more equable in temperament and more disposed to enjoy 
 my tour. But the journey of life, like all other journeys, 
 puts to flight the most matured philosophy, and the ac- 
 cidents of the way are always ready to divert the mind 
 from its firmest resolves. 
 
 Tuesday morning. 
 
 When I had written so far last night, the arrival of a 
 travelling carriage and four, with a comner preceding, 
 caused such a commotion in the little inn that, notwith- 
 standing all my assumed indifference, I could noi entirely 
 escape the contagion, and, at last, was fain to open my 
 window and stare at the new arrival with all the hardi- 
 hood that becomes him already in possession of an apart- 
 ment. " I took little by my motion." All I saw was a
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 119 
 
 portly travelling carriage, heavily laden with its appurte- 
 nances and imperials, well-corded springs, rope- lashed 
 pole, and double drag-chains — evidences of caution and 
 signs of long-projected travel. 
 
 I might have readily forgotten the new comer — indeed, 
 I had almost done so ere I closed the window — had not 
 his memory been preserved for me by a process peculiar to 
 small and unfrequented inns — a species of absorption by 
 which the traveller of higher pretensions invariably draws 
 in all the stray articles of comfort scattered through the 
 establishment. Fii'stmy table took flight, and in its place 
 a small and ricketty thing of white deal had arrived ; next 
 followed a dressing-glass ; then waddled forth a fat, un- 
 wieldy old arm-chair, that seemed by its difficulty of 
 removal to have strong objections to locomotion ; and 
 lastly, a chest of drawers set out on its travels, but so 
 stoutly did it resist, that it was not captured without the 
 loss of two legs, while every drawer was thrown out upon 
 the floor, to the manifest detriment of the waiter's shins 
 and ankles. These "distraints" I bore well and equably, 
 and it was only a summary demand to surrender a little 
 sofa on which I lay that at length roused me from my 
 apathy, and I positively demurred, asking, I suppose, 
 querulously enough, who it was that required the whole 
 accommodation of the inn, and could spare nothing for 
 another traveller? An "English Prince" was the 
 answer; at which I could not help laughing, well knowing 
 that the title is tolerably indiscriminate in its application. 
 Indeed, I once heard Colonel Sibthorp called such. 
 
 It is all very well to affect indifl'erence and apathy, to 
 pretend that you care nothing who or what your neigh- 
 bour in an inn may be. This is very practicable where his 
 identity takes no more corporeal shape than No. 42 or 53 
 in some great overgrown hotel. Bat imagine yourself in 
 some small secluded spot, some little nook, of which you 
 had half fancied you were the first discoverer — conceiving 
 yourself a kind of new Perouse ; fancy, then, when in the 
 very ecstasy of your adventure, the arrival of a travelling 
 carriage and four, with a belted courier and a bearded 
 valet; not only are your visions routed, but your own
 
 120 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 identity begins to dissolve away with them. You are 
 neither a hero to yourself nor to " mine host." His best 
 smiles, his deepest reverence, are now for the last comer, 
 for whose accommodation a general tribute is levied. Do 
 what you will, say what you will, there is no remaining 
 deaf to the incessant turmoil that bespeaks the great man's 
 wants. There is a perpetual hurry-scurry to seek this 
 and fetch that ; soda-water — tea — champagne — a fire — hot 
 water — are continually echoing along the corridor, and 
 " the Prince " seems like some vast " maelstiom " that all 
 the larder and the cellar contain can never satiate. Such, 
 certainly, the least exacting of men appear when under 
 the auspices of a courier and the host of a small inn. 
 
 The poverty of the establishment makes the commonest 
 requirements seem the demand of a Sybarite indulgence, 
 and every-day wants are luxuries where cleanliness is the 
 highest of virtues. 
 
 I was — I own it — worried and vexed by the clamour 
 and movement, that not even coming night calmed down. 
 The repose and quiet I had been so fully enjoying were 
 gone, and, in their place, the vulgar noises and tumult of 
 a little inn. All these interruptions, intimately associated 
 in my mind with the traveller, invested him, to me, with 
 a character perfectly detestable, so that there was 
 somewhat of open defiance in my refusal to yield up my 
 sofa. 
 
 A pause followed. What was to come next ? I listened 
 and waited in half anxiety, wondering what new aggres- 
 sion might ensue ; but all was still : nay, there was a 
 clattering of knives and forks, and then went the pop of a 
 cork — " the Prince " was eating. " Well," thought I, 
 " there is some vengeance here, for the cuisine is detest- 
 able." " His Highness " thought so too, for more than 
 one plat was dismissed, accompanied by a running com- 
 mentary of abuse on the part of the courier. 
 
 At last came a really tranquil moment. The cheese 
 had been sent away as uneatable, and the courier had 
 followed it, cursing manfully, if I might pronounce from 
 the odour wafted to my own chamber, not unreasonably. 
 "Mi Lor le Prince " was probably composing himself to a
 
 fiORA.CE TEMPLETON. 121 
 
 siesta ; there "was a stealthy quietude in the step of his 
 servant along the corridor that said so much. I had 
 scarcely made the reflection when a tap came to my door. 
 "The prince " wished for an English newspaper, and the 
 host had seen two on my table. The Post and the 
 Chronicle were both before me, and I sent them, half 
 wondering which best might suit his Highness's politics. 
 
 Another tap at'^the door ! Really this is intolerable. 
 Has he not had my table, my arm-chair, my newspapers — 
 what will he ask for next? Come in," said I, now trying 
 English, after in vain shouting " JE'^^'re^ " and "■Herein''^ 
 three times over. 
 
 An English servant entered, and in that peculiarly 
 low, demure tone so distinctive of his caste, said — 
 
 " Sir Robert Chawuth presents his compliments, and 
 begs to know if he may pay his respects to Mr. Tem- 
 pleton?" 
 
 "Is Sir Robert hei'e ? is that his carriage ? " said I, 
 hastily. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he came about an hour ago." 
 
 " Oh, very well. Say I shall feel great pleasure in 
 seeing him. Is he disengaged at present?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, he is quite alone." 
 
 " Show me his apartment, then." 
 
 " So," thought I, as I arose to seek the chamber, " this 
 time they were nearer right than usual ; for, if not an 
 ' English prince,' he has wielded more substantial power, 
 and exerted a much wider sway over the destinies of the 
 world than ever a ' foreign Prince ' from the Baltic to 
 the Bosphorus." 
 
 Strange enough, our last meeting was at Downing 
 
 Street ; he was then Minister. I waited upon him by 
 
 appointment, as I was leaving England for the Prussian 
 
 mission, and lie desired to give me his own instructions 
 
 before I sailed ; and now, I visit him in a little Tyrol 
 
 " Gasthaus," he destitute of power, and myself 
 
 ***** 
 
 It would be presumptuous in one so humbly placed to 
 hazard an opinion on the subject ; but if I were to dare it, 
 I should say that the statesmen of England possess a
 
 122 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 range of knowledge and a wider intimacy with the actual 
 condition of the world as it is than any other class, in any 
 country. I was greatly struck with this last evening. 
 The topics wandered far a-field, varying from the Poor 
 Laws to Hong-Kong, from the Health of Towns to the 
 state of the Peninsula : Austria, Ireland, Switzerland, 
 the N"avigation Laws, the policy of Louis Philippe, and 
 the rot in the potatoes ; and on each of these themes he not 
 only spoke well, but he spoke with a degree of knowledge 
 that smacked of a special study. " How comes it," I 
 asked myself, " that this man, with the weighty cares of a 
 mighty empii-e on his brain, has time to hear and memory 
 to retain little traits of various people in remote quartei-s 
 of the world ? How, for instance, did he heai', or why 
 remember, these anecdotes of the present Landamraan of 
 Switzerland, Ochsenbein ? " And yet there were good 
 reasons, perhaps, to remember them. The man wdio has 
 personally shown the white feather will scarcely be 
 courageous as the head of a government, though there is 
 great reason to suspect that he may exhibit all the rash- 
 ness of cowardice — its worst, because its most dangerous, 
 quality. 
 
 I had often suspected, but I never knew before, how 
 completely this Minister had usurped every department 
 of the Cabinet, and concentrated in himself the Home, 
 the Foreign, and the Colonial Governments. The very 
 patronage, too, he had assumed ; so that, in fact, his col- 
 leagues were comparatively without influence or occupa- 
 tion. I confess that, on hearing him talk so unconcernedly 
 of mighty events and portentous changes, of great interests 
 and powerful states, my heart beat strongly with an 
 ambitious ardour, and a feverish throbbing of my temples 
 suggested to me that the longing for rank, and station, 
 and power had not yet died away within me. Was it with 
 serious intention that he spoke to me of again entering 
 Parliament and taking office in some future arrangement, 
 or was it merely from a sense of compassion that he minis- 
 tered this meed of encouragement to the hopes of a sick 
 man ? Whatever the motive, the result has been an 
 increased buoyancy, more of vitality about me, than I
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 123 
 
 have known for some time — a secret wishing for life and 
 strength to '* do something " ere I die. 
 
 He rather appeared pleased with a suggestion I threw out 
 for augmenting the elective franchise in Ireland, by making 
 the qualification " an intellectual one," and extending the 
 right of voting to all who should take a certain degree or 
 diploma in either the University of Dublin or any of the 
 provincial colleges, all admitted as members of learned 
 bodies, and all licentiates of law and physic. This would 
 particularly suit the condition of Ireland, where property 
 is a most inadequate and limited test, and at the same 
 time, by an infusion of educated and thinking men into 
 the mass, serve to counterbalance and even guide the 
 opinions of those less capable of forming judgments. We 
 are becoming more democratic every day. Let our trust 
 be in well-informed, clear-sighted democracy, and let the 
 transition be from the aristocracy to the cultivated middle 
 classes, and not to the rule of Pcargus O'Connor and his 
 Chartists. 
 
 And now to wander down this lonely glen, and forget, 
 if I may, these jarring questions, where men's passions 
 and ambitions have more at stake than human happiness. 
 Do what I will, think of what I will, the image of — Caro- 
 line Graham — yes, I must call her so — rises before me at 
 every step. It is a sad condition of the nervous system 
 when slight impressions cut deep. Like the diseased state of 
 the raucuous membrane, when tastes and odours cling and 
 adhere to it for days long, I suppose that the prevalence 
 of such images in the brain would at last lead to insanity, 
 or, at least, that form of it called monomania. Let no man 
 suppose that this is so veiy rare a malady. Let us rather 
 ask, " Who is quite free from some feature of the affec- 
 tion ?" The mild cases are the passionate ardour we see 
 exhibited by men in the various and peculiar pursuits in 
 life ; the bad ones, only greater in degree, are shut up in 
 asylums. 
 
 The most singular instance that ever occurred within 
 my own knowledge was one I met several years back in
 
 124 HORACE TEMPLETON. ' 
 
 Gei'many ; and as '' thereby hangs a tale," I will set it 
 down in the words of the relator. This is his own recital 
 —in his own handwi"iting too ! 
 
 There are moments in the life of almost every man 
 which seem like years. The mind, suddenly calling up 
 the memory of bygone days, lives over the early hours of 
 childhood — the bright visions of youth, when all was 
 promise and anticipation — and traverses with a bound the 
 ripe years of manhood, with all their struggles, and cares, 
 and disappointments ; and even throws a glance into the 
 dark vista of the future, computing the " to come " from 
 the past ; and, at such times as these, one feels that he is 
 already old, and that years have gone over him. 
 
 Such were to me the few brief moments in which I stood 
 upon the Meissner hill that overhangs my native city. Dres- 
 den, the home of my childhood, of my earliest and my dearest 
 friends, lay bathed in the soft moonlight of a summer's eve. 
 There rose the ample dome of the cathedral in all the 
 majesty of its splendid arch, the golden tracery glittering 
 with the night dew ; here wound the placid Elbe, its 
 thousand eddies through purple and blushing vineyards, 
 its fair surface flashing into momentary brilliancy, as the 
 ripples broke upon the butti'esses of that graceful bridge, 
 long accounted the most beautiful in Europe ; while fi'ora 
 the boat that lay sleeping upon its shadow came the rich 
 tones of some manly voices, bearing to my ear the evening 
 hymn of my fatherland ! " Oh, how strong within the heart 
 of the wanderer in distant lands is the love of country ! — 
 how deeply rooted amid all the feelings which the cares 
 and trials of after life scatter to the wind ! It lives on, 
 bringing to our old age the only touch and trace of the 
 bright and verdant feelings of our youth. And oh, how 
 doubly strong this love, when it comes teeming with a flood 
 of long-forgotten scenes — the memory of our first, best 
 friends — the haunts of our boyhood — the feats of youthful 
 daring — and, far more than all, the recollection of that 
 happy home around whose hearth we met with but looks 
 of kindness and affection, where our sorrows were soothed, 
 our joys shared in ! For me, 'tis true, there remained
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 125 
 
 nought of this. The parents who loved me had gone to 
 their dark homes — the friends of my childhood had doubt- 
 less forgotten me. Years of absence had left me but the 
 scenes of past happiness — the actors were gone. And 
 thus it was as I looked down upon the city of my native 
 land. The hour which in solitude and lowness of heart I 
 had longed and prayed for had at length arrived — that 
 hour which I believed in my heart would repay me for all 
 the struggles, the cares, the miseries of fourteen yeai-s of 
 exile ; and now I stood upon that self-same spot where I 
 had turned to take a farewell look of my native city, which 
 I was leaving poor, unfriended, and unknown, to seek in 
 Italy those opportunities my forlorn condition had denied 
 to me at home. Years of toil and anxiety had followed ; 
 the evils of poverty had fallen on me ; one by one the 
 cheerful thoughts and bright fancies of youth deserted me ; 
 yet still I struggled on, unshaken in courage. The thought 
 of one day returning to my loved Saxon land, rich in repu- 
 tation, crowned with success, had sustained and upheld 
 me. And now that hour was come — my earliest hopes 
 more than realized — my fondest aspirations accomplished. 
 Triumphant over all the difficulties of my hard lot, I 
 returned, bearing with me the well-won spoils of labour 
 and exertion. But, alas ! where were they who should 
 rejoice with me, and share my happiness ? The very 
 home of my infancy was tenanted by strangers ; they 
 knew me not in my poverty, they could not sympathize in 
 my elevation. My heart sickened within me as I thought 
 of my lone and desolate condition ; and as the tears 
 coursed faster and faster down my cheeks, how gladly 
 would I have given all the proud triumph of success for 
 one short and sunny hour of boyhood's bright anticipa- 
 tion, shared in by those who loved me! 
 
 Oh ! how well were it for us if the bright visions of 
 happiness our imaginations picture forth should ever 
 recede as we advance, and, mii'age-like, evade us as we 
 follow ! and that we might go down to the grave, still 
 thinking that the " morrow " would accomplish the hopes 
 of to-day — as the Indian follows the phantom-bark, ever 
 pursuing, never reaching. The misery of hope deferred
 
 126 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 never equalled the anguish of expectation gratified, only 
 to ascertain how vain was our prospect of happiness froni 
 the long-cherished desii-e, and how far short reality ever 
 falls of the bright colouring hope lends to our imaginings. 
 In such a frame of deep despondency I re-entei'ed my 
 native city — no friend to greet, no voice to welcome me. 
 
 Happily, however, I was not long left to the indulgence 
 of such regrets ; for no sooner was my arrival made known 
 in the city than my brother artists waited on me with con- 
 gi-atulations ; and I learned, for the first time, that the 
 I'eputation of my successes had reached Saxony, and that 
 my very best picture was at that moment being exhibited 
 in the Dresden Gallery. I was now invited to the houses 
 of the great, and even distinguished by marks of my 
 sovereign's favour. If I walked the streets, I heard my 
 name whispered as I passed ; if I appeared in public, some 
 burst of approbation greeted me. In a word, and that ere 
 many days had elapsed, I became the reigning favourite of 
 a city in which the love of " art " is an inheritance : for, 
 possessed of a gallery second to none in Europe, the Dres- 
 deners have long enjoyed and profited by the opportunity 
 of contemplating all that is excellent in painting ; and, in 
 their enthusiastic admiration of the fine arts, thought no 
 praise too exalted to bestow on one who had asserted the 
 claim of a Saxon painter anaong the schools of Italy. 
 
 To the full and unmeasured intoxication of the flattery 
 that beset me on every side, I now abandoned myself. At 
 first, indeed, I did so as a relief from the sorrowful and 
 depressing feelings my unfriended solitude suggested ; and 
 at last, as the passion crept in upon and grasped my very 
 heart-strings, the love of praise took entire possession of 
 ray being, and in a short time the desire for admiration 
 had so completely supplanted every other emotion, that I 
 only lived with enjoyment when surrounded by flattery ; 
 and those praises which before I heard with diffidence and 
 distrust; I now looked for as my desert, and claimed as my 
 right. The " spoiled child of fortune," my life was one 
 round of gaiety and excitement. For me and for my 
 amusement fetes were given, parties contrived, and enter- 
 tainments planned, and the charmed circle of royalty was
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 127 
 
 even deserted to frequent the places at wlaicli I was ex- 
 pected. 
 
 From these circumstances it may i^eadily be believed 
 Low completely I was beset by the temptations of flattery, 
 and how recklessly I hurried along that career of good 
 foi'tune which, in my mad infatuation, I deemed would last 
 for ever. I saw my name enrolled among the great ones 
 of my art — mysel£»the friend of the exalted in rank and 
 great in wealth — my very praise, patronage. Little knew 
 I that such sudden popularity is often as fleeting as it is 
 captivating, that the mass of those who admire and are 
 ever loudest in their praises are alike indifferent to and 
 ignorant of art. Led along by fashion alone, they seemed 
 delighted, because it Avas the rage to appear so. They 
 visited, because my society was courted by others ; and if 
 their knowledge was less their plaudits were louder than 
 those of the discriminating few, whose caution and re- 
 serve seemed to me the offspring of jealousy and envy. 
 
 It is well known to almost all, how, in the society of 
 large cities, some new source of interest or excitement is 
 eagerly sought after to enliven the dull routine of nightly 
 dissipation, and awaken the palled and jaded appetite of 
 pleasure to some new thrill of amusement !■ — how one suc- 
 ceeds another, and how short-lived are all ! The idol of 
 to-day is forgotten to-morrow ; and whether the object of 
 momentary attraction be a benefactor of mankind, or some 
 monster of moral deformity, it matters but little, so that 
 for the hour he furnish an article for the fashionable 
 journalist, and a subject of conversation to the coterie ; 
 the end and aim of his being seems to be perfectly ac- 
 complished, and all interest for him as readily transferred 
 to his successor, who or whatever he may be, as though 
 his existence had been as unreal as the spectre of a magic 
 lantern. 
 
 Little did I suppose when, in the full blaze of my popu- 
 larity, that to such an ordinance of fashion alone I was in- 
 debted for the proud eminence I occupied. I was not long 
 destined to enjoy the deception. 
 
 It chanced that about three months after my arrival in 
 Dresden , circumstances required my absence from the city for
 
 128 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 a few days. The occasion which called me detained me 
 beyond the time I had calculated on, and it was not till 
 after a fortnight I reached my home. I had travelled that 
 day from sunrise till late in the evening, being anxious, if 
 possible, to redeem a promise I had made to my friend 
 and patron. Count Lowenstein, to be present at a fete iii 
 honour of his sister's birthday. The weather had been 
 unusually hot and sultry, even for the season ; and although 
 I felt much fatigued and jaded, I lost not a moment on my 
 arrival to dress for WxQfete, over which, calculating on my 
 late career, I deemed my absence would throw a gloom. 
 Besides that, I longed once moi^e to drink of that Circean 
 cup of flattery, for which my short absence from the city 
 had given me new zest ; and it was with a high-beating 
 heart and fevered brain I hung upon my breast the many 
 crosses and decorations I had been gifted with in my hours 
 of brilliant success. 
 
 Lights gleamed brightly from the ample windows of the 
 Lowenstein palace. Numerous equipages stood at the por- 
 tico. I followed the chasseur up the spacious marble 
 steps which led to the ante-chamber. I stopped one mo- 
 ment before a large mirror, and almost startled at the 
 brilliancy of my dress, which, a present from my sovereign, 
 I now wore for the first time. With a his-h-swellino- heart 
 and bounding step — for all fatigue was long since for- 
 gotten — I approached the door ; and oh ! the throb with 
 Avhich I heard my name now, for the first time, announced 
 with the title of " Baron," which his Majesty had conferi-ed 
 upon me the day of my departure ! That name, which 
 alone had, talisman like, opened for me the doors of all 
 who were illustrious and exalted in rank — that name, which 
 heard, silenced the hum of voices, to break forth the 
 moment after in accents of praise and welcome ! Again 
 it rang through the crowded salon, and I stood within the 
 door. Formerly, when appearing in society, the moment 
 I made my entree I found myself the centime of a grcup of 
 friends and admirei's, all eagerly pressing forward to pay 
 their homage to the star of fashion. Now, what was my 
 amazement to mark no thrill of pleasure, as of old, ani- 
 mate that vast assembly ! — not even sui-prise ! group after
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 129 
 
 group passed by me, as though I were unknown, aud had 
 no claim to their attention. It is true, I heard some 
 friendly voices and kind inquiries ; but I could neither 
 distinguish the words nor the speaker. My brain was in 
 a whirl ; for, alas ! long since had I learned to care less for 
 the language of affection than the voice of the flatterer. 
 I stood thunderstruck and amazed ; and it was some 
 minutes before I couTcl, with any appearance of composure, 
 reply to the salutations I met with. Something must have 
 occurred in my absence to weaken the interest my appear- 
 ance ever excited ; — but what could that be ? And the 
 assembly, too ! had my own baffled hopes lent their gloomy 
 colouring to all around ? I certainly thought it far less 
 brilliant than usual ; a sad and depressing intlaence seemed 
 to pervade all the guests, which they appeared vainly to 
 struggle against. Tortured with doubt and disappoint- 
 ment, I hastened through the crowd to where the Count 
 was standing, surrounded by his suite. His quick eye in- 
 stantly perceived me, and, familiarly kissing his hand to 
 me, he continued to converse with those about him. Up 
 to this moment I had borne all the chilling indifference 
 of manner I met with, from the secret satisfaction that 
 told me in my heart that he, my protector, my friend, would 
 soon vindicate my claim to notice and distinction, and that, 
 in the sunshine of his favour, I should soon receive the 
 attention my heart thirsted for. But now that hope de- 
 serted me, the cold distance of his manner chilled me to 
 the very heart's core. Kot one word of kind inquiry, no 
 friendly chiding for protracted absence, no warm welcome 
 for my coming ! I looked around on every side for some 
 clue to this strange mystery; I felt as if all eyes were 
 upon me, and thought for a moment I could perceive the 
 sneer of gratified malice at my downfall. But no : I was 
 unnoticed and unobserved ; and even this hurt me still 
 more. Alas ! alas ! the few moments of heart-cutting 
 humbling misery I then endured, too dearly paid for all 
 the selfish gratification I reaped from being the idol of 
 fashion. While I remained thus the Count approached 
 me, and, with something like bis usual tone of familiarity, 
 said,—
 
 130 JaOBACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 "Ah, Carl! — you here? You have, of course, heard 
 of our sad disappointment ? " 
 
 *' No, my lord," I replied, with some bitterness of tone, 
 " I have scarcely had time, for I have not been yet an 
 hour in Dresden." 
 
 Without noticing' either the manner of my answer or 
 the allusion to my absence, the Count continued, — 
 
 " This evening we were to have had the happiness to 
 have amongst us one who seems to be gifted with some 
 magic power of diffusing delight and ecstasy on every 
 side where slie appears. Those whose hearts were cold to 
 beauty in all others, have yielded to the fascination of 
 hers ; and the soul that never before was touched by 
 melody has thrilled with ti-ansport at her heavenly voice. 
 Divine La Mercia ! the paragon of beauty and the soul of 
 song ! There, there stands her harp, and here you see her 
 music ; but she is absent. Alas ! we have only the wand 
 of the magician — the spell is not there." 
 
 In an instant the veil was lifted from my eyes ; the 
 whole truth burst on me like a lightning flash — the course 
 of my popularity was run, the sun of my favour had set 
 for ever. 
 
 The fatigue of my journey, the heat of the salon, the 
 confusion of my mind, and the bitter conflict of my feel- 
 ings, all conspired to unman me, and I sank upon a sofa. 
 As I sat thus unnoticed (for the tone of the Count's 
 manner had divested the few who were previously atten- 
 tive of all interest to me), I overheard the conversation of 
 those around me. But one name was mentioned, but one 
 person seemed to engross every tongue or heart — that was 
 La Mercia. From what I could collect it appeared that 
 she, a most beautiful and interesting girl, had appeared 
 at the opei'a a few evenings since, and by the charms of 
 her surpassing beauty, as well as the surprising richness 
 and clearness of her voice, had captivated the whole city, 
 from the palace to the cottage. The enthusiastic repeti- 
 tion of her praises gradually led to regrets for her absence, 
 and surmises as to the cause, while a young nobleman, 
 who had just joined the circle said, — 
 
 " Trust me, La Mercia would have come if she alone
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 131 
 
 were consulted ; but I fear that ill-tempered looking old 
 fellow, wlaom she calls her ' Dottore,' has had much to 
 say to this refusal." 
 
 " Yes," said another ; " so late as yesterday evening, at 
 the palace, when she was surrounded by several members 
 of the royal family, eagerly pressing her to repeat a song 
 she had just sung — ji^st as she consented, a look from the 
 'Dottore' shot across the room and met her eyes; she 
 immediately hesitated, begged to be permitted not to sing, 
 and immediately afterwards withdrew." 
 
 " How strange ! " said the nobleman who spoke before, 
 *' how very strange ! It was but a few nights since, at 
 the opera, I witnessed the deference and submission with 
 which she addressed him, and the cold indifference with 
 which he met looks and heard tones that would have 
 made another's heart beat beyond his bosom. It must, 
 indeed, be a strange mystery that unites two beings so 
 every way unlike ; one all beauty and loveliness, and the 
 other the most sarcastic, treacherous-looking wretch, ever 
 my eyes beheld." 
 
 The deep interest with which I listened to those par- 
 ticulars of my rival — for such I now felt her to be — 
 gradually yielded to a sense of my own sunken and 
 degraded condition; and envy, the most baleful and per- 
 nicious passion that can agitate the bosom, took entire 
 possession of me : envy of one whose very existence one 
 hour before I was ignorant of. I felt that slie — she had 
 injured me — robbed me of all for which life and existence 
 was dear. But for lier, I should still be the centre of this 
 gay and brilliant assembly, by whom I am already for- 
 gotten and neglected : and, with a fiendish malignity, I 
 thought how soon this new idol of a fickle and ungrateful 
 people would fall from the pinnacle from which she had 
 displaced me, and suffer in her own heart the cruel pangs 
 I was then enduring-. 
 
 I arose from Avhere I had been sitting, my brain mad- 
 dened with my sudden reverse of fortune, and fled from 
 the salon to my home. In an agony of grief I threw 
 myself upon my bed, and that night was to me like years 
 of sorrowing and afiliction. When mornino- broke, my 
 
 K 2
 
 132 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 first resolve was to leave Dresden for ever ; my next to 
 remain, until, by applying all my energies to the task, I 
 had accomplislicd sonietliing beyond all my former ciforts; 
 and then, spurning the praise and flattery my success would 
 inspire, take a proud farewell of my fickle and ungrateful 
 countrymen. The longer I thought upon, the more was I 
 pleased with, this latter resolution, and panted _ with 
 eagerness for the moment of contemptuous disdain, in 
 which, flinging off" the caresses of false friends, I should 
 carry to other lands those talents which my own was 
 unworthy to possess. It was but a few days before this 
 the Prior of the Augustine monastery had called upon 
 me to beg I would paint an altar-piece for their chapel : 
 they wished to have a kneeling figure of Mary, to whom 
 the'shrine was dedicated ; but the subject, being a favourito 
 one of Titian's, had at that time deterred me. Its diffi- 
 culty was now its charm ; and as I pondered over in my 
 mind the features I wished to transfer to my canvas, I 
 suddenly remembered a painting which I had had for 
 some years in my possession, and which, from the surpass- 
 ing loveliness of the countenance it represented, as well 
 as the beauty of its execution, had long fascinated me. I 
 now reverted to it at once, and opening a secret drawer 
 in my cabinet, took out the picture and placed it before 
 me. It was a small and most beautifully painted enamel, 
 representing two figures— one that of an old and stern- 
 visaged man, upon whose harsh and severe features there 
 played a scowl of deadly hate and scorn : he stood, drawn 
 up to his full height, his hands and arms widely extended 
 before him, as if "in tlie act of performing some mystic or 
 sacred rite over the lovely being who knelt at his feet in 
 an attitude of the deepest and most reverential supplica- 
 tion. This was a lovely girl, her age scarcely eighteen 
 years ; her furehead, fair as alabaster, was shaded by two 
 braids of dark brown hair, whicli hung back in heavy 
 locks upon her neck and shoulders. Her eyes, of the 
 deepest blue, were upraised and tearful, and the parted 
 lips seemed almost to utter a murmured prayer, as her 
 heaving bosom told some inward anguish ; her hands were 
 firmly clasped, but the arms hung powerless Viefcre her,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 133 
 
 and the whole figure conveyed the most perfect abandon- 
 ment to grief it was possible to conceive. Here were the 
 features, here the very attitude, I desired. Could I only 
 succeed in imparting to my Madonna the lovely and 
 sorrow-struck countenance before me, my triumph were 
 certain. I had walked every gallery of Europe from one 
 end to the other ; I had visited every private collection 
 where a good picture was to be found, yet never had I 
 beheld the same magic power of conveying, in one single 
 scene, so much of storied interest as this small picture 
 displayed. The features of that beautiful girl, too, had 
 tlie semblance of being copied from the life. There are 
 certain slight and indescribable traits by which a painter 
 will, in almost every case, distinguish when nature, and 
 when only fancy, have lent the subject; and here, every- 
 thing tended to make me believe it to be a portrait. The 
 manner in which I became possessed of it also con- 
 tributed to invest it with a more than common interest in 
 my eyes. The circumstances were these: — When a very 
 young man, and only a short time settled at Home, 
 whither I had gone to prosecute my studies as a painter, 
 the slender state of my purse had compelled me to take 
 up my residence in one of the less known suburbs of the 
 city. In the same humble dwelling in which I took 
 up my abode there lived an old and paralytic man, 
 whom age and infirmity had rendered bed-ridden for 
 years. 
 
 At first, my occupation being entirely without doors, 
 left me but little opportunity to see or know much of 
 him ; but when winter closed in, and confined me whole 
 days to the house, my acquaintance with him gradually 
 increased, and, to my great surprise, I discovered in this 
 poverty-struck and decrepit old man one who possessed 
 the most intimate and critical knowledge of art ; every 
 gallery was familiar to him— he knew the history of each 
 celebrated picture, and distinguished originals from their 
 copies by such traits of discernment as evinced the most 
 consummate intimacy with the deepest secrets of colour- 
 ing, and, in a word, showed himself to be, what I after- 
 wards learned he was, a most accomplished artibt : but
 
 134 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 the circumstances which threw him into his present mean 
 and wretched condition ever remained a mystery. Various 
 little acts of kindness and attention, which I had in my 
 power to bestow, seemed to make a great impression on 
 him, while my own friendless and solitary situation drew 
 me into closer intimacy with one who seemed to have 
 fewer of this world's comforts than myself. To him, 
 therefore, I confided all the circumstances which led me 
 to Rome — my ardent desire for distinction — my longing 
 for eminence in art: while he, b}^ his advice and counsel, 
 which he was well qualiBed to afford, directed my studies 
 and encouraged my efforts. 
 
 Our acquaintance thus formed, rapidly ripened into 
 friendship, and it was with pleasure I hurried from my 
 gayer and more volatile companions to the poor and 
 humble abode, where my old and feeble friend awaited 
 me v/ith impatience. 
 
 As the winter advanced, the infirmities of the old painter 
 rapidly gained ground ; he became daily weaker, and, by 
 degrees, the calm serenity of his mind, which was his 
 most remarkable trait, yielded to fits of impatience, in 
 which, sometimes, his very reason seemed to struggle for 
 empire : and at such times as these he would drop hints, 
 and give vent to thoughts, that were awful and appalling 
 to listen to. It appeared to me that he regarded his pre- 
 sent afflicted state as the dreadful retribution of some real 
 or imaginary crime ; for, in addition to the unceasing 
 depression which seized him, his fears of death were inces- 
 sant, and great be3-ond measure. Sometimes, the thought 
 that thei'e was no future state would shoot across his 
 mind, and a species of reckless gaiety would follow ; but 
 in a moment after, the strong and full conviction of his 
 self-deception would visit him — and then his agony was 
 frightful to witness. In the sad alternation of these states 
 of hope and fear, in which the former was, if possible, 
 more affecting to witness, weeks rolled on. One night, 
 when recovering from a nervous attack, which, by its 
 duration and severity seemed to threaten more fatally 
 than usual, he called me to him, and desired me to 
 bring, from a concealed drawer in his trunk, a small
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 135 
 
 ebony box clasped with silver. I did so. He took it with 
 trembling hands, and placed it beside hira on the pillow, 
 while, with a voice scarcely audible from agitation, he 
 whispered, — ■ 
 
 "Leave me, Carl — leave me to myself! There is in 
 this box what may meet no other eye than mine. And, 
 oh ! would to Heaven that its bright lightnings had struck 
 and blighted me, rather than I should ever have looked 
 upon it." 
 
 The energy with which these words were spoken seemed 
 to weary and overcome hira, and he was barely able to 
 say,— 
 
 " Leave me now, my friend. But stay : ere you go, 
 promise me — swear to me, as you hope — ay, as you hope 
 your deathbed may be not like mine — swear, when all is 
 at rest within this torn and afflicted heart, that you will, 
 with your own hands, place this box within my coffin — 
 swear to place it there unopened : better far you had not 
 enjoyed the blessed gift of sight, than look upon what it 
 contains. I grow weaker — promise me this." 
 
 " I do," I replied hurriedly. " I promise." 
 
 " Swear it," he said ; while the large drops of sweat 
 stood upon his brow, and his bloodshot eyes glared upon 
 me like a maniac. 
 
 " I swear," said I, anxious to relieve the terrific con- 
 vulsion which his eagerness brought on; "I swear." 
 And as he lay back slowly upon the bed, I left the room. 
 
 When again, after a considerable time, I entered the 
 chamber, he had turned his face towards the wall — his 
 head buried between both his hands ; while sobs, which 
 he appeared struggling to control, burst from him at inter- 
 vals. The casket lay locked beside him. I took it up, 
 and placed it within my portmanteau ; and, not daring to 
 interfei'e with the course of that sorrow, the cause of 
 which he had not confided to me, I stole noiselessly from 
 the room. 
 
 When next I saw him he appeared to be somewhat 
 better; but the feeble powers of life had received a severe 
 shock, and his haggard and broken look showed how much 
 a few hours had hastened the approach of death. That
 
 13S HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 evcnii:?: lie never once alluded to the sabject which had 
 an-itated him, and bade me "Good night " earlier than 
 usual, wishing to relieve his fatigue by sleep. — I never 
 saw him after. 
 
 I had scarcely composed myself to sleep, my mind full 
 of the events of the day, when an express arrived from an 
 English nobleman, who had been my most influential and 
 steadiest friend, requiring me immediately to set out for 
 Naples, to make a picture of his only daughter ere her 
 body was committed to the earth. She had died of the 
 malaria, and her funeral could not be long delayed. I 
 immediately set out, taking with me the portmanteau that 
 contained the casket, and such requisites for painting as I 
 could hurriedly collect. With all my anxiety to return to 
 my old companion, I was unable to leave Naples beTore 
 the tenth day ; I then turned my face homewards, with a 
 heart beating with anxiety, lest his death should havo 
 taken place in my absence. The diligence in which I 
 travelled was attacked near Calviby banditti. Several of 
 the passengers, being well armed, made resistance, and a 
 dreadful conflict took place. Severely wounded in the 
 side with a stiletto, I remained for dead upon the ground, 
 and lost all remembrance of everything till the moment 
 I discovered myself a patient in the public hospital of 
 Naples. 
 
 Several weeks of fever and delirium had passed over 
 me, and I lay now weak and powerless. By degrees my 
 strength was restored, and as I lay, one day, meditating a 
 speedy departure from .the hospital, the intcndant of tho 
 police came to inform me that several articles of value, 
 contained in a portmanteau bearing my initials, had been 
 discovered near the scene of the late encountei', where they 
 had probably been dropped by the robbers in their flight, 
 and that, on my identifying and claiming them as mine 
 they should be restored to me. Among other things ho 
 mentioned the ebony casket. I dared not ask if it were 
 opened, lest my agitation might occasion surprise or sus- 
 picion, and promised to inspect them the following morning 
 and identify such as were my property. 
 
 The next day I appeared at the bureau of the police.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 137 
 
 The portmanteau was produced and unlocked, and the very 
 first thing I set my eyes upon was the picture. The case 
 had been rudely torn open, and it lay there exposed to all. 
 My promise — my solemnly pledged oath, came instantly 
 to my mind, and all the awful denunciations the old man 
 had spoken of, as in store for him who should look upon 
 that picture! I was horror-struck and speechless, and 
 only remembered where I was, as the Commissaire, who 
 stood behind me and looked at it, asked. if I were the 
 painter? I replied not. 
 
 " The likeness is, indeed, wonderful," said he. 
 
 I started ; but immediately recovering myself, said, — 
 
 "You must be under some mistake. You could scarcely 
 have seen the person for whom this was intended ? " I 
 said this because, from the attentive consideration I had 
 given it, as well as the initials in the corner of the drapery, 
 I perceived it to be one of the most beautifully executed 
 enamels of Julio Romano, and must, at least, have been 
 nearly two centuries old. 
 
 " Impossible I can be mistaken !'' said he ; " that is not 
 only the Comtesse d'Alvini herself, but there, and even 
 more like, stands her uncle, ' II Dottore Albretto,' as he 
 was called. Why, I remember as well as though it were 
 but yesterday, though I was only a boy at the time, her 
 marriage — with one of your own profession, too. How 
 can I forget his name ! — ah, I have it — Antonio Gioventa ! 
 By the bye, they said, too, the union was none of the hap- 
 piest, and that they separated soon after. But of that I 
 know nothing myself, for they never appeared in Naples 
 after the morning they were married." 
 
 How I longed to make one or two inquiries! but fear 
 prevented me ; — fear lest my own ignorance concerning 
 the history of the picture might be discovered, and I con- 
 fess, too, something like dread ; for the evident age of the 
 picture tallied but ill with the account the Commissaire 
 gave of tlie characters represented; and I longed for the 
 moment I should put into execution, at least, so much of 
 my promise as was yet in my power: putting it up, there- 
 fore, with such of my effects as I recognized, I returned to 
 my hotel,
 
 138 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 The enth'e evening I could tliiuk of nothing but the 
 story of the Commissaire. The artist could have been none 
 other than my old friend Nichola Calertio — for by this 
 name I had known him, — and that lovely creature must 
 have been his "wife ! And what was her fate ? and what 
 could have been the awful mystery that wrapt their his- 
 tory? These thoughts dwelt in my mind, and, framing ten 
 thousand solutions of the secret, I at last sunk into sleep. 
 
 The following day I took my departure for Rome. On 
 my arrival, what was my horror to discover that iS^ichola 
 had died the day after my departure from Naples, and that 
 he had been buried in the strangers' burial-ground ; but 
 in what spot, no one knew — nor had he one left who 
 could point out his grave. Again my oath came to my 
 mind, and I cou^ld not divest myself of the thought, that 
 in the series of events which prevented its accomplish- 
 ment chance had nothing to do ; and that the hand of a 
 guiding Providence had worked these apparent accidents 
 for His own wise ends. 
 
 From that hour I guarded, how closely I cannot say, 
 this picture from all human eye ; but if I did so, the very 
 impulse which drove me to conceal it from all others led 
 me to look upon it myself. Like the miser who possesses 
 a hidden treasure, ten thousand times dearer that it is 
 known to him alone, I have sat, hour by hour, in the 
 silent contemplation of it in my chamber ; I have studied 
 the features one by one, till I almost thought the figure 
 lived and breathed befoi'e me ; and often have I left the 
 crowded and brilliant salon to seek, in the stillness of my 
 own home, the delicious calm and dreamy tranquillity that 
 painting ever inspired me with. 
 
 And so it had been my custom, when first I returned to 
 Dresden, to sit for days long with that picture open before 
 me. As a work of art, it possessed undoubted excellence ; 
 but I could not help feeling that its mysterious history 
 had invested it with an interest altogether deeper and 
 more powerful than the beauty of the execution could 
 alone account for. This habit had been first broken in 
 upon by the numerous and varied occupations my newly- 
 arisen popularity brought upon me ; and amid the
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 139 
 
 labours of the painting-room, and the gay hours of 
 fashionable dissipation, I had been now some weeks with- 
 out once having seen it, when the events I have just 
 detailed, and my determination to copy from it, brought it 
 again fully to my mind. 
 
 The day which followed that long night of misery 
 passed I know not how. When I awoke from the deep 
 musing my thoughts had fallen into, it was already 
 evening : the sun had set, and a soft twilight was sleep- 
 ing on all around. I opened my window, and let the cool 
 breeze of the evening blow upon my heated and fevered 
 brain ; and as I sat thus, lost in reverie, the last traces of 
 daylight gradually faded away, and a thin, crescent-like 
 moon showed itself over the hill of the Meissner. The 
 city lay in deep shadow, and almost in silence ; the 
 mournful plashing of the river being plainly heard above 
 all other sounds. There is something sad, and almost 
 awful, in the sight of a large and populous city bathed 
 in the silence and sleep of night ; its busy voice hushed, 
 its streets untrodden, or echoing to the tread of a solitary 
 passer-by. To me this was now most welcome. The 
 dreamy melancholy of my mind felt pleasure in the 
 death-like stillness about me, and I wandered forth to 
 enjoy the free air and balmy breeze upon the bank of the 
 Elbe. After some time I crossed the bridge, and con- 
 tinued my walk thi'ough the suburb, intending to return 
 by a beautiful garden which lies on that side of the river. 
 As I approached the Elbe I was struck by the bright 
 glare of light which, proceeding from some building 
 neai', illuminated the river nearly the whole way across, 
 displaying upon its glassy surface several boats, in which 
 the people sat resting on their oars, and scarcely moving 
 in the gentle tide of the stream. I remembei'ed for a 
 moment, and then it occurred to me that the brilliant 
 glare of light proceeded from the villa of Count Lowen- 
 stein, which stood upon a small promontory of land, 
 about two miles from Dresden, this being the night of a 
 private soiree, to which only his nearest and most intimate 
 friends were ever invited. Report had spoken loudly of 
 the singular beauty of the villa itself, the splendour of
 
 140 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 its decorations, the richness and taste of its furniture ; 
 and, indeed, around the whole character of the phice, 
 and the nature of the entertainments held there, the diffi- 
 culty of entree, and the secrecy observed by the initiated, 
 had thrown an air of the most romantic interest. To 
 these soirees, although honoured by marks of the greatest 
 distinction, and even admitted to the closest intimacy, 
 the Count never invited me, and in the days of my pros- 
 perity it had ever been with a sense of pique I called to 
 mind the circumstance. Thither I now inadvertently 
 bent my steps, and it was oidy when the narrowness of 
 the path which lay between the hedge of the garden and 
 the river required my caution in walking, that I remem- 
 bered I must have entered the grounds, and was then 
 actually within a few paces of the villa. While I stood 
 for a moment, uncertain whether to retreat or advance, I 
 was struck by observing that the boats had gradually and 
 noiselessly approached the bank, a short way from where 
 I was, and, by the attitudes of the figures I could per- 
 ceive that they were listening most eagerly and atten- 
 tively. I approached a few steps, till, at the sudden 
 turning of the walk, I found myself beneath the terrace 
 of a splendid salon, brilliantly lighted, and crowded by 
 numerous and full-dressed guests. The rarest plants and 
 most beautiful exotics stood in jars along the balustrade, 
 diHusing their perfume around, and the cheerful hum of 
 voices was heard in the still night air as parties walked 
 to and fro upon the balcony. Suddenly the din of voices 
 was hushed, those that- were walking stood still, as if 
 spell-bound, — a few seconds of the most perfect silence 
 followed — then two or three chords of a harp, lightly but 
 tastefully struck, — and then flowed forth a burst of 
 melody, so fall, so rich, so swelling, in the recitative of 
 Rossini, " Oh, Patria ! — oh, dolce ingrata Patria ! " — that 
 it filled my heart with transport, and my eyes with tears; 
 and to my wuunded and broken spirit there came a holy 
 and delicious calm, as if by some magic spell another had 
 divined my inward sorrow, and, in giving it expression, 
 had given it relief. 
 
 The recitative over, oh with what tiiumphant gladness
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON, 141 
 
 came the brilliant aria, diffusing joy and happiness 
 through every fibre of my frame ! and, as one delicious 
 cadence succeeded another, I felt my heart beat stronger 
 and stronger against my side. My sorrow — my deep, 
 depressing sorrow — was forgotten ; a very heaven of 
 brilliant hopes was opened before me, and peace flowed 
 in upon my soul once more. The singer paused ; then 
 came a melting cadence, followed by a thrilling shake — so 
 low, so plaintive, g^nd so clear, I felt as if the last emotion 
 of happiness fled with it. A silence of a moment followed, 
 and then a thunder of applause flowed in on every side ; 
 and the words, " Divine La Mercia !" burst from every 
 voice around. 
 
 I stood amazed and thunderstruck. The quick transi- 
 tion of my feelings had completely overpowered me, and 
 I was only aroused by hearing a voice so near me as to 
 startle me. It was the Count who spoke : he stood 
 directly above me, leaning against a pillar of the portico, 
 and supported upon his arm a lady, but, from her posi- 
 tion, I could not catch her features. From his soft, low, 
 and earnest tone of voice, it was plain the nature of his 
 suit was one of heartfelt interest ; while the few words 
 she spoke in answer, from their soft tones and foreign 
 accent, left me no doubt they came from La Mercia. I 
 crept nearer the balcony, and, concealed behind the balus- 
 trades, waited anxiously to catch a glance at her as she 
 passed. The light fell strongly from an open window 
 upon this part of the terrace; and I could perceive, as 
 she came forward, that, diseno-aijins: herself from the 
 Count s arm, she assumed a more gay and lively mannei". 
 She was now within a few feet of where I stood eagerly 
 waiting for the moment she would turn to enter the salon. 
 She curtsied deeply to some persons in the crowd ; and 
 ere I could recover from the effect of the graceful and 
 beautiful attitude she assumed, she turned. Merciful 
 Heaven! could it be true? I almost screamed aloud, 
 and, but fur the hold I took of the balcony, should have 
 fallen. The ]iicture was La ]\rercia : the same calm brow, 
 the same melting look, that beautiful outline of neck and 
 throat, and, above all, that lovely contour of head, to see
 
 142 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 which once was never to forget. She was gone ! the 
 guests disappeared one by one from the terrace, the salon 
 became again crowded, and the windows were closed 
 against the now chilling night air; and yet so suddenly 
 all seemed to happen, I could scarcely believe but that 
 still that lovely voice and beauteous form were before me ; 
 and I could not help thinking, as I left the spot, that to 
 an excited brain and fevered imagination the likeness of 
 the picture to La Mercia must have been owing, as with 
 slow steps I retraced my way homeward. 
 
 The next morning early I left Dresden for the Augustine 
 monastery at Tetchen, and ardently commenced the 
 intended altar-piece ; but, fearing lest the likeness to La 
 Mercia might have been real, I did not copy from the 
 painting as I had resolved. For three months I laboured 
 unceasingly ; and, whether from the perfect occupation of 
 my time, or that the peaceful and tranquil life of the holy 
 men with whom I lived had its influence, I know not, but 
 my mind once more regained its calmness and serenity, 
 and I felt almost happy again. 
 
 Li this frame of mind I was when, one morning, one of 
 the fathers, entering my apartment, informed me that my 
 old friend and patron. Count Lo wen stein, was about to be 
 married. I started, and hurriedly asked to whom, while 
 the deep blush which suffused my cheek told too plainly 
 the interest I took in the answer. 
 
 " I know not," said the monk; " but report speaks of 
 her as eminently beautiful." 
 
 " Would you recognize the name if you heard it?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " I have heard it but once, but think I might remember 
 it again," said he. 
 
 " Then it is La Mercia," I replied. 
 
 " The same — La Mercia was the name ; and they say a 
 more splendid wedding Dresden has never witnessed than 
 this will be." 
 
 I cannot explain why, but never did I feel, at any period 
 of my life, so completely overcome as when I listened to 
 this report. Never before had I confessed to myself how 
 I had felt towards La Mercia, nor even now could I tell :
 
 fiOKACE TEMPLETON. 143 
 
 it was not love ; I had never seen her but for a few brief 
 seconds, and yet iu my heart she lived, the guiding-star of 
 all my thoughts and aspirations ; and though my most 
 sanguine dreams never anticipated my calling her mine, 
 yet I could not bear the thought that she was to belong to 
 another. I resolved at once to set out for Dresden, and, 
 if possible, see her once before the wedding would take 
 place. I thought it would be a balm to my feelings should 
 I look npon her, before she was lost to me for ever, and I 
 longed ardently to trace, with what calmness I was able, how 
 far the likeness with the picture was real or imaginary. 
 "With these intentions I left the monastery that evening, 
 and returned to Di'esden. 
 
 When I reached home I learned that the Count had 
 been married, and found upon my table a most pressing 
 invitation from him to his soiree at the villa that evening. 
 At first I resolved not to accept it. The full measure of 
 my loneliness had never so pressed on me before ; for 
 although, in reality, La Mercia was not, nor could ever 
 have been, aught to me, yet I felt as if my fate and 
 happiness were, by some inexplicable ties, wound up with 
 hers ; and now that tie was to be broken. I had begun to 
 believe that the extraordinary impression she had made 
 upon my mind had entirely suggested the resemblance 
 with the picture, which some chance trait of likeness 
 might have contributed to, and I longed ardently to see 
 her ; — but then, to see her the bride of another ! These 
 conflicting thoughts agitated me during the entire day, 
 and I knew not what to decide on. 
 
 When evening came I embarked upon the Elbe, and, 
 after a half-hour's rowing, reached the villa of the Count. 
 Lights gleamed from every window, and delicious music 
 was borne on the night wind, that blew gently along the 
 river. Numerous servants, in gorgeous liveries, passed 
 and repassed along the spacious veranda, which ran the 
 entire length of the building, carrying fruit, wine, and 
 ices to those who preferred the balmy air and starry sky- 
 without, to the heat and glitter of the crowded salon 
 within. 
 
 With difficulty I made my way through the dense
 
 144 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 mass that filled the antechamber, and at length reached 
 one of the reception-rooms, scai'cely less crowded. On 
 every side I beheld some of the liighest persons of the 
 cit}' : groups of officers in splendid uniforms, ambassadors 
 glittering in orders and crosses, distinguished foreigners, 
 artists, authors, were all mingled together in thick pro- 
 fusion, enjoying the magnificence and splendour whicli 
 unbounded wealth, guided and directed by the most 
 cultivated taste, could create. vStandingin mute admiration 
 of a beautiful figure of Psyche, which seemed fresh from 
 the chisel of Canova, I was roused by a voice addressing 
 nie, while at the same moment my shoulder was gently 
 tapped. I turned; — it was the Count himself. 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur le Baron," said he, " ' Enfin apres un 
 an! ' ns Racine has it. Where have you buried yourself 
 and all your agreeability these ages past ? But come, I 
 shall not tax your invention for excuses and apologies; 
 follow me — the Countess has heard me frequently speak 
 of you, and longs to make your acquaintance. This way 
 — after me as well as you can." 
 
 The friendly tone of the Count, as well as its being 
 almost the first time of my being addressed by my new 
 title, brought a deep blush to my cheek, which fortunately 
 was unobserved as I followed him in the crowd. He 
 jinssed through this room to one still larger, filled with 
 parties playing at several small tables, and thence into an 
 oval srilon, where waltzing was going on. With great 
 difficulty we got through this, and arrived at a curtain of 
 white cloth, fringed at the bottom with deep and massive 
 silver lace; this lie drew gently aside, and we entered the 
 boudoir. Upon a small ottoman, over which was thrown 
 a rich Persian shawl, sat the Countess. 
 
 " Isadora," said the Count, as he approached — " Isadora, 
 carissima niia, this is my friend, Carl Stelling." 
 
 She lifted her head from the picture she was showing to 
 a lady beside her, and as her eye beamed fully upon me 
 and her lips pai-ted to address mc, I fell fainting to the 
 ground. 
 
 "It is! — it is!" I muttered, as the last ray of con- 
 sciousness was leaving ray whirling brain.
 
 
 " ' It is ! — it is ! ' I muttered, as the last ray of consciousness was leaving 
 my whirlini,' brain."
 
 nOIlACE TEMPLETON. 145 
 
 When I recovered, the Count was standing over me 
 1 athiiig my temples. I looked wildly around. I saw we 
 were still in the boudoir, although all but one or two had 
 departed ; and from the window, now opened, there came 
 a cool and refreshing breeze. I looked anxiously around 
 for the Countess : she stood at a table, her cheek deadly 
 pale, and I thought her appearance evinced great agita- 
 tion. I heard her, in a low whisper, ask, — - 
 
 " What can this mean ? " 
 
 I immediately recovered myself sufficiently to say, that, 
 overcome by the heat of the salon, in my then weak state, 
 that I felt completely overpowered. But I saw my 
 explanation seemed incomplete, and that some words must 
 have fallen from me which I did not remember. 
 
 The Count, at the same instant, putting his lips to my 
 ear, said,— 
 
 " Carl, this must be explained at another and more fit- 
 ting moment." 
 
 This increased my agitation, for I now perceived that 
 my merely being suddenly taken ill could never have given 
 rise to such a feeling as all around seemed to labour under. 
 Before, then, I could at all determine how to act, the 
 Countess approached me, and in her softest and kindest 
 manner, asked if I were better. 
 
 In a moment all my agitation was forgotten ; and, 
 indeed, every one of the party seemed to participate, as if 
 by magic, in the balmy influence her few words shed 
 around. Conversation soon resumed its course. For some 
 time the Count's manner was constrained and uncertain, 
 but that soon wore away as the joyous tone and sparkling 
 gaiety of his lovely bride seemed to have their effect upon 
 every one about her ; and even I— torn, as I was, by feel- 
 ings I could neither trace nor divine — felt under the 
 mystic spell that so much beauty and gi^ace diffused on 
 every side. With a wonderful tact she alluded at once to 
 such subjects that compelled me, as an artist, to speak, and 
 speak warmly ; and, seemini^l}', catching the enthusiasm 
 from me that she herself had created, she spoke of Venice 
 — its thousand recollections — its treasures of art — its rich 
 historical associations — its ancient glory; and then, taking 
 
 L
 
 146 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 up her guitar, played with such tenderness and feeling one 
 of the well-known gondolier canzonette, as made the very 
 tears stand in my eyes. 
 
 The victory was complete : I forgot the past — I knew 
 no longer where I was. A bright Elysium of bliss had 
 opened before me ; and even now, after years of such 
 misery as few have known, I could say that one hour of 
 such intoxicating happiness would be almost cheaply 
 bought by even such affliction. 
 
 I started from my trance of pleasure on observing that 
 the guests Avere taking leave. I at once arose, and as she 
 extended her hand to me, I felt the blood rush to my face 
 and forehead. I barely dared to touch it with my lips, 
 and retired. I hurried from the villa, and springing into 
 my boat, Avas soon landed at the bridge of Dresden. 
 
 From that time my visits at the villa were frequent ; 
 seldom a week elapsed without my receiving one or two 
 invitations from the Count ; and, at last, to such an extent 
 did my intimacy proceed, and so superior in attraction 
 was the society there, that for it I deserted all other, and 
 only felt happy when with my kind patrons. During this, 
 by far the most delightful period of my life, I was not 
 entirely free from nnhappiness. Sometimes the likeness 
 of the Countess to the picture would appear to me so 
 striking as not to be mistaken : one day particularly, when 
 some sudden intelligence was brought to her that caused 
 momentary alarm for the Count's safety, her pale cheek 
 and quivering lip brought the portrait so perfectly before 
 me, that I was unable to speak or offer her advice when 
 she asked my opinion ; and then, vague and horrid doubts, 
 and a dread of some unknown and unforeseen calamity, 
 would flash upon my mind ; and those who have expe- 
 rienced how dee[)ly they can be impressed by a presenti- 
 ment of evil, can tell how little it is in their power to 
 rally their spirits against terrors which take every or any 
 shape. And while I reasoned with myself against what 
 might be mere groundless fear, yet 1 never could look 
 upon the picture and call to mind the deathbed sorrow of 
 the old artist, without feeling that some dreadful fate was 
 connected with its history, iu which, as its mere possessor,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 147 
 
 I miglit be involved. Sometimes to such a degree did this 
 anxiety prevail upon me, that I had fully determined to 
 show it to the Countess, and either endeavour to trace its 
 history from her, or at once rid myself of all apprehension 
 concerning it, if she disclaimed all knowledge of it; but 
 then, if she really were connected with its story — if, as it 
 was possible, a mother's fate (for the resemblance could 
 warrant such a relationship) were wound up with the 
 story, — what right had I, or how could I answer to myself, 
 for the mere satisfaction of my own doubts, to renew the 
 sorrows, and, perhaps, even be the means of publishing to 
 the world the sad detail of forgotten crime or misfortune? 
 Perhaps, however, the picture was not, as I supposed, an 
 antique ; it might be an admirable copy. But this idea 
 was relinquished at once : the moi'e I examined, the more 
 fully did it corroborate my opinion of its being the work 
 of a master. Such thoughts as these — and they grew 
 upon me daily more and more — embittered the happiest 
 moments of my intercourse with my friends ; and ofteu, 
 when the meriy laugh and the joyous glee which pervaded 
 our parties at the villa were at the highest, I thought of 
 that picture, and my heart sank at the recollection, and I 
 would hasten to my home to conceal from every eye the 
 terror and anguish these thoughts ever inspired me with. 
 
 One evening, when dressing for the Count's villa, I 
 received a hillet, written in pencil and evidently in haste ; it 
 came from himself, and informed me that the Countess, 
 who had that morning made a short excursion upon the 
 river, had returned home so ill that the entertainment was 
 defei-red. I was, however, requested to call the following 
 morning, to take some sketches of Pirna from the villa, 
 which I had long since promised to make for them. So 
 completely had I withdrawn myself from all other society 
 during my great intimacy with Count LoAvenstein, that I 
 now felt the billet I received left me unable to say where 
 or how I should pass ray evening. 
 
 In this uncertainty I wandered forth, and without think- 
 ing whither my steps led me, it was only on hearing the 
 boatman ask if I were ready that I perceived that I had 
 strolled to the steps beside the bridge, where I usually 
 
 L 2
 
 148 nOUACB TEMPLETON. 
 
 took my departure for the villa. Lost in reverie and led 
 captive by habit, I had walked to this spot unconsciously 
 to myself. 
 
 I was about to dismiss the boatmen for the night, when 
 a wliim seized me to drop on board and visit those small 
 and wooded islands that lie about a league up the river. 
 It was a calm and beautiful night ; and in the wild and 
 untrodden solitude of these romantic islands I remained 
 till near midnight. 
 
 As we passed the grounds of the Count, I ordered the 
 boatmen to land me at a spot remote from the house, 
 whence I could proceed on foot, wishing to make some 
 inquiry for the Countess before I returned home. They 
 accordingly put me on shore at a small flight of steps 
 which descended to the water's edge from a terraced path 
 that ran a considerable distance through the park, and 
 was concealed in its entire length by tall hedges of beech, 
 completely overgrown with flowering creeping shrubs, and 
 so impenetrable that, even in noonday, it was impossible 
 for those without to see persons walking within, while the 
 closely-shaven sod effectually prevented footsteps being 
 heard. The moon was up, and nearly at the full, and all 
 beneath me in the richly-ornamented flower-garden was 
 bathed in a sea of mellow light. The marble statues that 
 adorned the walks threw their lengthened shadows at their 
 bases, while their own wliiteness seemed purer and fairer 
 than ever. The villa itself, half obscured by trees, seemed, 
 in its tranquil beauty, the very emblem of jieace ; and as 
 the pillars of the portico threw a deeper shadow, gave a 
 broadness to the efl'ect which struck me as wonderfully 
 beautiful. I gazed around me with momentarily increas- 
 ing admiration. The gentle murmuring of the leaves 
 agitated by the breeze, and the plash of the river, made 
 the silence around me even more striking. I stood lost in 
 the enjoyment of the delicious repose of the whole scene, 
 when a slight noise upon the gravel walk attracted my 
 attention ; I listened, and now distinctly heard footsteps 
 approaching, and also the voices of persons whispering in 
 a low and much-suppressed tone. They came nearer, and 
 were now only concealed from my view by the tall hedge,
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 149 
 
 beneatli "wLicIi tbey walked ; and soon the sliadow of two 
 figures were cast along the broad walk in the bright moon- 
 light. For a moment tbey stopped speaking, and then I 
 heard a laugh in a low and under-tone — but such a laus^h! 
 My very blood ran chilled back upon my heart as I beard 
 it. Oh, if the fiend himself had given that dreadful and 
 heart-appalling laugh, it could not be more awful ! It 
 scarcely died away in the fnint echo, ere I heard the sobs, 
 deep and low, of ancrther and far different voice. At this 
 instant the figures emerged from the darkness, and stood 
 in the bright moonlight. They stood beside an old and 
 broken pillar, which had once supported a sun-dial, and 
 around whose shalt the clusterinof ivv had wound itself. 
 They were entirely concealed by large cloaks, which 
 enveloped their entire figures, but still I could perceive 
 that one was much larger and more robust than the other. 
 This latter taking a small lamp, which was concealed 
 beneath the folds of his cloak, placed it upon the pillar, 
 while at the same instant the other fifrure, throwing: off 
 the cloak, knelt at his feet. Oh, that reason had left me, 
 or that life itself had parted from me, ere T should look 
 upon that scene ! She — she who knelt and held her sup- 
 pliant hands was La Mercia ; and he who, now divested of 
 his mantle, stood over her, was the dark and awful-looking 
 man of the picture ! There they stood. The dresses of 
 both were copied to the life; their looks — oh, Heaven ! 
 their very looks were pictured as they stood. She spoke : 
 and as she did so her arms fell powerless before her; he 
 scowled the same horrid scowl of hate and scorn. My 
 brain was turning ; I tried to scream out, my voice failed 
 me — I was mute and powerless ; ray knees rocked and 
 smote each other ; convulsive tremor shook me to the 
 centre, and with a groan of agony I sank fainting to the 
 earth. 
 
 The day was breaking ere I came to myself ; I arose, 
 all was quiet around me. I walked to the boat — the boat- 
 men were sleeping; I awoke them, and we returned to 
 Dresden. I threw myself upon my bed — my brain seemed 
 stupefied and exhausted — I fell into a profound sleep, and 
 woke not till late the following evening. A messenger
 
 150 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Lad brought a note from the Count — *' The Countess Is 
 worse." The note detailed briefly that she had passed a 
 feverish and disturbed night, and that the medical atten- 
 dants had never left the villa. Was it then but a dream, 
 my dreadful vision of the past night ? and had my mind, 
 sorrowing for the affliction of my best friend, conjured up 
 the awful scenes I believed to have witnessed ? How could 
 it be otherwise ? The lillet I received told most distinctly 
 that she was confined to her bed, severely, dangerously 
 ill ; and of course watched with all the care and attention 
 the most sedulous anxiety could confer. I opened the 
 picture, and then conviction flashed with, lightning's 
 rapidity upon me, that it was not delusion — that no dream 
 had brought these images before my mind. "Ah," I 
 cried, " my friend, my patron, how have I betrayed thee ? 
 Why did I not earlier communicate the dreadful story of 
 the picture, and thus guard you against the machinations 
 by which the fiend himself has surrounded you ? But 
 then, what had I to tell? how embody the vague and 
 shadowy doubts that took, even in my own mind, no 
 palpable shape or form ?" 
 
 That entire day was passed in alternate resolution and 
 abandonment ; now, determined to hasten to the villa, and 
 disclose to the Count every circumstance I had seen, and 
 then thinking how little such mere suspicion would gain 
 credence, and how unfit the present moment to obtrude 
 upon his breaking and distracted heart the horrid dread 
 that haunted mine. Towards evening a messenger arrived, 
 breathless wuth haste. . He brought no note, but merely 
 bade me hasten to the villa, as the Count wished to see 
 me with all possible despatch. I mounted the servant's 
 horse, and in a few minutes reached the place. Servants 
 were running hither and thither distractedly. I asked, 
 eagerly. How was the Countess ? No one could tell, but 
 all seemed to imply that there was no hope of recovery. 
 I entered the large and spacious hall, and threw myself 
 upon a sofa ; and as I looked around upon the splendid 
 hangings, the gilded cornices, and marbled pillars, and 
 thought upon that sorrow such splendour surrounded, my 
 heart sickened. A shadow fell upon the brightly polished
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 151 
 
 floor. I looked up — a figure stood at the window of the 
 hall, and stared me steadily in the face. The eyes glared 
 wildly, and the dark, malignant features were lit up with 
 a scoi'nful scowl of more than human hate and triumph. 
 It was the incarnation of the Evil One exulting over a 
 fallen and lost spirit. A loud shriek rent the air behind 
 me. I dared not turn my eyes from the horrid sight 
 before me. " Oh, Heavens ! it is true! — he is, he is the 
 Tutore ! " I cried, g^ the features, convulsed for an instant 
 with fiendish triumph, resumed their cold and even more 
 ai^paliing aspect. A threatening gesture from his hand 
 arrested me, as I was about to call aloud. My voice came 
 not, though my lips moved. I could not rise from the 
 seat — a dreadful scream rang through the building — 
 another, and another followed — the figure was gone. At 
 the same moment the Count rushed forward — his dress 
 disordered, his hair falling loosely upon his shoulders — 
 madness, wild insanity, in his look. He turned and saw 
 me; and bursting into a torrent of hysterical laughter, 
 cried out, — 
 
 " Ha, ha, Carl ! — welcome to our abode of pleasure ; 
 here, all is gaiety and happiness. What sorrow ever 
 crosses this threshold ? " and then, with a sudden revul- 
 sion, he stared me fixedly, and said in a low sepulchral 
 voice, " She is dead — dead ! But the time is passing — a 
 few minutes more, and 'twill be too late. This, Carl, will 
 explain all. Take this, and this — these papers must be 
 your care — promise me to obsei've them to the letter; 
 they were her — her last wishes, and you knew her. Oh, 
 is this a dream ? it is too, too horrible to be real. Ah ! " 
 said he, after a moment's pause ; " I am ready ! " and 
 springing from me wildly, rushed through the door towards 
 the inner apartments. 
 
 I started up and followed him — I knew not whicli way 
 he took in the corridor; and as I stood uncertain, a loud 
 report of firearms crashed on my ear. I flew to the sick 
 chamber — servants stood gasping and trembling without. 
 I tore open the door ; there, lay the Count upon the floor, 
 his head rent asunder by the bullets from the pistol his 
 hand still grasped. He had endeavoured to reach the bed,
 
 152 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 and fell half upon a chair. In the bed lay the still warm 
 corpse of the Countess, beautiful as in life. I looked from 
 one to the other ; my seared and stony heart, turned to 
 apathy by the horrors I had witnessed, gave no relief to its 
 feeling in teai^s, and I spoke not as I slowly left the room. 
 
 For two days I spoke not to any one. A dreamy un- 
 consciousness seemed to wrap my faculties, and I felt not 
 the time passing. On the third day I rallied sufficiently 
 lo open the papers the Count had entrusted to me. One 
 contained an affectionate farewell to myself, from the 
 Count, with a dying bequest; the other, was in a lady's 
 hand — it bore the Countess's signature ; and here I dis- 
 covered with surprise and horror, that to the performance 
 of the rash act, by which the Count had terminated his 
 existence, he was bound by a solemn oath. I read, and 
 re-read, to assure myself of the fact. It was true ! Such 
 was the terrible promise she extorted from the wretched 
 lover, under the delusive hope of their meeting in another 
 and happier life. Then followed the directions for the 
 funeral, which were minute to a degree. The bodies of 
 botli, when coffined, were to be placed in a small temple 
 in the garden, near the river; the key of which was to be 
 sent to a Dominican monk, who lived in an obscure part 
 of the city. By him were the coffins to be closed, which 
 it was strictly enjoined should be done by him, alone and 
 unaccompanied, the night before the burial. 
 
 All was done as the wish of the deceased enjoined, and 
 the key despatched by a trusty servant of my own to the 
 friar, v/ho appeared to be in expectation of it, and knew 
 its import. 
 
 I sat in a lonely and desolate room, which had formerly 
 been mine, in the villa of the Count : that long and dreary 
 night the wind poured its mournful wailing through the 
 pine-trees in dirgeful memory of him who was no more. 
 From the window of the temple a bright light gleamed till 
 near morning, when it gradually faded away. Thither I 
 repaired at daybreak, with the household. All was still 
 — the door lay open — the coffins were closed and screwed 
 down. The friar was gone. We afterwards found that he 
 had not returned to his lodgings in the city, nor was he
 
 HORACE Tk.aipletoN. 153 
 
 evci' after seen in Dresden. The bodies wove committed to 
 the earth, and I returned to my home alone in the world. 
 
 It was several years after this — the awful death of my 
 earliest, best friend — that I arrived in Paris to exhibit, in 
 the gallery of the Luxembourg, an historical picture, upon 
 which I had laboured for years. I must be brief — my 
 picture was exhibited, and my most sanguine expectations 
 sui'passed by its success ; and in a few short days the 
 whole scene of my early triumph was re-enacted. Praise 
 and flattery poured in upon me ; and as in Dresden 
 before, so now in Pai'is, I became the fashion and the 
 rage. But how changed was I ! No longer exulting in my 
 success and buoyant with hopes, I received all the adula- 
 tion I met with, with cold inditference and apathy. 
 
 Among the many attentions which my popularity had. 
 conferred upon me, was an invitation to the Hotel de 
 Rohan. The duke, a most distinguished connoisseur in 
 painting, having seen and applauded my picture, waited, 
 on me. Thus bound in duty, I went ; and fatigued by 
 the round of soulless gaiety, in what I could no longer 
 feel happy, or even forgetful, I was retiring early, when 
 the duke met me, and said — 
 
 "Ah, monsieur, I have been looking for you. The 
 Comtesse de Julliart has desired me to present you to 
 her ; and when I tell you that she is the most beautiful 
 woman in Paris, I need not say how much you must prize 
 the honour among all the distinctions your talents have 
 earned. Come this way." 
 
 I followed mechanically — my heart took no interest in 
 the scene — and I only longed to be once more alone and 
 unobserved. As I walked after the duke, he gave me a 
 short account of the beautiful countess, whom he men- 
 tioned as the last descendant of an old and honoured 
 family, supposed to have been long since extinct, when 
 she, a few months before, appeared in Paris, and laid 
 claim to the title. As she possessed unbounded wealth, 
 and had no great favours to ask anywhere, the Court 
 were charmed with her beauty, and readily admitted her 
 claims, which some were ill-natured enough to say were, 
 perhaps, merely assumed without foundation.
 
 154 HOBACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 I took little interest in the story. My thoughts were 
 far away, as they ever were for many years, from every- 
 thing of the pi'esent ; and 'twas only as I heard the duke 
 announce my name, among a group who stood near a sofa, 
 that I remembered why I was there. 
 
 The countess sat with her back to us, but rose imme- 
 diately on hearing my name. I bowed deeply as she 
 stood up ; and recovering myself from my obeisance, 
 looked up. Oh, merciful Heaven, with what horror I 
 looked ! — It was no other than La Mei'cia ! With one 
 loud cry of " 'Tis she ! 'tis she !" I fell fainting to the floor. 
 
 Weeks of wild raving and delirium followed. I left 
 Paris — I returned to Dresden. There, all reminded me of 
 the past. I fled from my home ; and now, after years of 
 wandering in solitary and distant lands, I feel deep in my 
 heart the heavy curse that has followed npon my broken 
 oath, and which has made me an outcast and a broken- 
 hearted wanderer in the world for ever. 
 
 THE PASS OF THE ARLBERa. 
 
 Before leaving the Vorarlberg, and while now on its very 
 frontier, I would wish to keep some record of two very 
 diff'erent but yet very characteristic actions, of which this 
 place was the scene. As you begin the ascent of the Arl- 
 berg from the westward, the road makes two very abrupt 
 zigzags, being carred along the edge of a deep precipice. 
 On looking down over the low battlements that guard the 
 side of the way, you discover, immediately under you, the 
 spire and roofs of a small village several hundred feet 
 below. The churchyard, the little gardens, the narrow 
 streets, and the open " Platz," where stands a fountain, 
 are all mapped out distinctly. This is the village of 
 Steuben. A strange spot you would deem it for any to 
 have chosen as a dwelling-place, hemmed in between lofty 
 mountains, on whose bleak sides the snow is seen in the 
 very midsummer ; surrounded by wild crags and yawning 
 clefts, without even pasturage for anything save a goat : 
 but your surprise will increase on learning that twice
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 155 
 
 within the last century has this village boen swejit away 
 by falling- avalanches. The first time, the snow meeting 
 in its descent from the mountains on either side, actually 
 formed a bridge over a portion of the village ; and the 
 houses thus saved were long I'egarded as under the special 
 favour of the Virgin, with wbose image they were most 
 bounteously decorated. The nest calamity, however, 
 destroyed the prestige, for they were mingled in the 
 common destruction. 
 
 It would be difficult for " gentlemen of England, who 
 live at home in ease," to fancy any reason for this unac- 
 countable selection of a residence which adds the his^hest 
 amount of peril to all the woes of poverty. But every 
 traveller has seen many such instances. In every moun- 
 tain land they are to be met with, and in each of the 
 Alpine passes little groups of houses — they can scarcely 
 be called villages — can be detected in spots where access 
 is most difficult, where no feature around indicates any 
 means of supporting life, and where the precautions — 
 simple and ineffectual enough — against avalanches, show 
 that danger to be among their calculations. How explain 
 this ? By what associations have these dreary spots 
 become hallowed into homes ? Possibly the isolated lives 
 of these little families of men give them the same distaste 
 to mixing with their brethren of the great woi-ld, that 
 is felt by a solitary recluse to entering into society. May- 
 hap, too, the sense of peril itself has its share in the at- 
 traction. There is no saying how far this feeling may go, so 
 strange and wayward are the caprices of human nature. 
 
 If you enter any of these villages, the narratives of 
 snow storms, of falling precipices, and " Lavines," as 
 avalanches are called, meet you at every step. They are 
 the gi'eat topics of these communities, as the movements 
 of politics or the vacillations of the Bourse are elsewhere. 
 Scarcely one who has reached the middle term of life has 
 not been, at least once, in the most imminent peril ; and 
 these things are talked of as the common accidents of 
 existence, the natural risks of humanity ! Very strange 
 does it sound to us who discuss so eagerly the perils of a 
 wooden pavement in our thoroughfares!
 
 156 soUace templetoN. 
 
 It is curious, too, to hear, as one may, most authentic- 
 ally, the length of time life can be preserved benea*:h the 
 snow. Individuals have been buried so long as three 
 entire days, and yet taken out alive. The cold, of 
 which it would be supposed they had suffered dreadfully, 
 seems scarcely very great ; and the porous nature of the 
 snow, and possibly the chinks and crevices left between 
 falling masses, have usually left air sufficient for respira- 
 tion. That individuals in such circumstances of peril 
 are not, always at least, devoid of their exercise of the 
 faculties, I remember one instance which is sufficiently 
 convincing. It was in the Via Mala, about five miles 
 from the village of Spliigen, where, in the year 1829, the 
 little cabriolet that conveyed the mail was swept away by 
 an avalanche. The calamity was not known for full seven 
 or eight hours afterwards, when some travellers from 
 Andeer reaching the spot, found the road blocked up by 
 snow, and perceived a portion of the wooden rail of the 
 road, and a fragment of a horse-harness adhering to it, 
 half-way down the precipice. The guides of the party, 
 well accustomed to I'cason from such sad premises, at 
 once saw what had happened. Conceiving, however, that 
 the driver had been carried down over the cliff, and con- 
 sequently to certain death, they directed their sole care to 
 cleai'ing a passage for the travellers. In so doing, they 
 proceeded with long poles to sound the snow, and ascer- 
 tain to what depth it lay unhardened. It was in one of 
 these " explorations," and when the pole had sunk above 
 ten feet deep into a mass of soft unfrozen snow, that the 
 man who held it found himself unable to withdraw the 
 staff, and called his comrades to aid him. 
 
 They soon perceived, however, that the resistance gradu- 
 ally yielded, and from the instinct peculiar to the " hand " 
 — another illustration for Sir Charles Bell — they recog- 
 nized that it must be the grip of human fingers which 
 held the other end of the pole. They immediately began 
 to excavate on the spot, and in half an hour liberated the 
 poor postilion of the mail car, who, although hearing the 
 shouts and cries of the party for nearly an hour over his 
 head, could not succeed in making his own voice heard,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 157 
 
 and but for the fortunate accident of the pole must Kavo 
 perished. 
 
 Many curious escapes were told to me, but this appeared 
 most singular of all ; and now I come back to Steuben, or 
 rather to the wild mountain above it, over which, by a 
 succession of windings, the road leads which joins the 
 Vorarlberg to the Tyrol. About one-third of the ascent 
 accomplished, you come upon an abrupt turning of the 
 way, in rounding which a wide carriage can scarcely 
 esc:\pe grating on the rock on one side, while from the 
 window on the opposite, the traveller looks down upon a 
 gorge actually yawning at his feet ; the low barrier of 
 wall, which does not rise above the nave of the wheel, is 
 a very frail and insignificant protection on such a spot, 
 but when hid from view, as it is to those seated in a 
 carriage, the effect of the gulf is really enough to shake 
 common nerves. A little inscription upon a stone in this 
 wall records the name of the engineer — Donegani, if I 
 remember aright — who, deeming this spot the triumph of 
 his skill, has selected it whereon to inscribe his achieve- 
 ment. There is another meaning connected with the 
 place, but unrecorded ; it could not, indeed, have beea 
 transmitted like that of the engineer, for when the event 
 of which it treats occurred, there was neither wall nor 
 railing, and the road passed some twelve feet higher up, 
 over a ledge of rock, and actually seemed to jut oat above 
 the precipice. There is, indeed, a memorial of the trans- 
 action to which I allude, but it stands about twelve hun- 
 dred feet down in the gorge below — a small wooden cross 
 of rudest workmanship, with the equally rudely inscribed 
 words, " Der Vorspann's Grab." 
 
 Now for the story, which happily is short. 
 
 It was late on a severe evening of winter, as a caJeclie 
 drawn by two horses drew up to the door of the post-house 
 at Steuben ; for then, as now, Steuben was the last post- 
 station before commencin<; the ascent of the Arlbere:. The 
 travellers, two in number, wore military cloaks and forag- 
 ing caps ; but what the precise rank, or to what arm of 
 the service they belonged, not even the prying observa- 
 tions of the host could fathom. Their orders were for
 
 158 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 fresh horses immediately to cross the mountain, and 
 although the 8now-drift was falling fast, and the night 
 dark as pitch, they peremptorily insisted on proceeding. 
 The post regulations of those days were not very stringent 
 and arbitrary ; as a post-master may seem nowadays, he 
 was nothing to the autocrat that once ruled the comings 
 and goings of unhappy travellers. 
 
 When he averred that his horses had done enough — 
 that it was a saint's-day — that the weather was too bad or 
 his postilions too weary, the case was hopeless, and the 
 traveller was consigned, without appeal, to the consola- 
 tions of his own philosophy. 
 
 It chanced that on this occasion the whole disposable 
 cavalry of the post consisted of two blind mares, which 
 were both too old and weak to tempt the cravings of the 
 commissary, who a few days before had seized on all the 
 draught-cattle to convey stores to reldkirch, at that time 
 menaced by a Fi-ench force under Massena. 
 
 The officers, however, were urgent in their demand — it 
 was of the last importance that they should reach Innspruck 
 by the following evening. At last, half by menace, half 
 by entreaty, it was arranged that the two old mares should, 
 be harnessed to the carriage, the host remonstrating "all 
 the while on the inability of the expedient, and averring 
 that, without a Vorspann, a relay of horses, to lead at the 
 steepest parts of the mountain, the attempt would be fruit- 
 less. "Nay," added he, "if you doubt me, ask the boy 
 who is sleeping yonder, and has been driving the Vor- 
 spann for years over the Arlberg." The travellers turned 
 and beheld on a heap of straw, in the corner of the kitchen, 
 a poor little boy, whose ragged uniform of postilion had 
 evidently reached him at third or fourth hand, so large 
 and loosely did it hang around his slender figure. He was 
 sleeping soundly, as well he might, for he had twice 
 crossed the mountain to St. Cristoph on that same day. 
 
 " And this book," said one of the travellers, taking a 
 very tattered and well-thumbed volume which had dropped 
 from the sleeper's fingers, " has this poor little fellow time 
 to read ? " 
 
 *' He contrives to do it somehow," said the host, laugh-
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 159 
 
 ing ; " nay, more, as you may see tliere, he has begun to 
 teach himself French. Since he heard that the French 
 army was about to invade us, he has never ceased his 
 studies, sitting up half the night working at that old 
 grammar there, for which he gave all his month's earn- 
 ings." 
 
 " And what may be his reason for this ? " said the elder 
 traveller, evidently interested in the recital. 
 
 " He has got thei, notion that if the French succeed in 
 forcing the pass of Feldkirch and enter the Tyrol, that, 
 as he will be constantly engaged as Vorspann on the 
 mountain, his knowledge of French would enable him to 
 discover many secrets of the enemy, as no one would ever 
 suspect a poor creature like him of having learned a 
 foreign language." 
 
 " And his motive was then purely a patriotic one ? " 
 
 " Purely ; he is poor as you see, and an orphan, but his 
 Tyrol blood runs warm and thick in his veins." 
 
 " And what progress has he made ? " 
 
 " That I cannot answer you, mein lierr ; for no one 
 hereabout knows anything of French — nor, I suppose, had 
 he ever the opportunity of testing the acquirement himself. 
 They are driven back, I am told." 
 
 "For the present," said the elder stranger, gravely; 
 " but we shall need all the reserves at Inuspruck to hold 
 our ground whenever they renew the attack." 
 
 The sleeper was now aroused to take the saddle ; for in 
 the absence of the regular postilion the Vorspann was 
 obliged to take his place. 
 
 Still but half awake, the little fellow stood up, and me- 
 chanically buttoning up his worn jacket, he took down his 
 whip and prepared for the road. The travellers were soon 
 ready, and ere many minutes elapsed the caleche had left 
 the village, and, with the best pace the old mares could 
 accomplish, was breasting the snow-drift and the first rise 
 of the mountain. After about an hour's driving, during 
 which Joseph had exhibited his utmost skill in taking 
 advantage of every available bit of trotting ground, they 
 came at length to the conimeucement of the steep ascent; 
 and there, hanging his whip on the saddle-peak, the little
 
 IGO HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 fellow got down, to relieve his cattle as they toiled up the 
 precipitous ascent. He had not gone far, when, happening 
 to drop behind beside the caJecJie, what did he hear but the 
 sounds of that very language upon which all his day and 
 night dreams were set ? All that he had remarked of the 
 two travellers was, that they wore cloaks of military cut 
 and foraging caps, and now he heard them conversing in 
 French. The whole train of events on which his mind so 
 long had been dwelling came now forcibly before him. 
 " Feldkirch had been forced, the French were already 
 masters of the pass ; in a few days they would be over the 
 Arlbei'g and in possession of all Tyrol! " Such was the 
 terrible series of events a few words of French revealed to 
 his excited imagination. With this conviction he drew 
 nearer and nearer the door, till he could hear the very 
 words they spoke. ISTow the truth was that the travellers, 
 by way of amusing themselves with the poor boy's eccen- 
 tric devotion, had no sooner seen him within ear-shot of 
 the carriage than they began speaking French together. 
 And when they perceived that they had gained his atten- 
 tion, the younger one, in a tone of assumed warmth, 
 exclaimed, "If wo do but reach lunspruck in time, the 
 whole country is our own." 
 
 Tlien suddenly changing to German, he cried out, — 
 
 " Holloa, Vorsi)ann, we are pressed for time. Spring 
 into the saddle, my lad, and use your spurs well, and ye 
 shall have a Baierisch ducat for your stage." 
 
 As if obedient to the command, Joseph mounted at 
 once ; and steep as the road was, by dint of spurs, whip, 
 and voice, he struck out into a half-shuffling canter, the 
 vei'y utmost speed his beasts could accomplish. "With 
 many a shock and bound the caleclie sprang from side to 
 side of the narrow road, while the same who last spoke 
 called out — 
 
 " So much for patriotism ! The promise of a ducat 
 would open the Tyrol from Bregeuz to Trent." 
 
 The words were not well uttered when a loud cry rent 
 the ail" ; the horses sprang abruptly to one side, and the 
 caleclie, with a tremendous jerk, upset, and had not the 
 wheel become entangled in a stunted oak-tree, must have
 
 ..*^
 
 " The horses hutisr as if suspended, and then, as the strained tackle gave 
 way, fell with a thundering crash into the dark abyss."
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 161 
 
 fallen over the cliff, where, for a second or two, the 
 horses hung as if suspended, and then, as the strained 
 tackle gave way, fell with a thundering crash into the 
 dark abyss — the last cry of the boy being the war-cry of 
 his Yaterland, " Frey tis Tyrol ! " 
 
 Such was the devotion of this poor child — he was 
 scarcely more — that he dashed the blind horses over the 
 steepest precipice of the Arlberg, ready to meet death in 
 its most terrible form, if he could involve in his fate his 
 country's enemies. His mangled body was found the 
 following day beside the stream in the glen. The 
 travellci'S escaped with slight injury, to brood over their 
 own unhappy trilling with a peasant's faith and a Tyroler's 
 devotion. 
 
 There is another memory associated with this mountain 
 pass, and it is of a hei'oism nobler and more exalted than 
 that of the poorVorspann: I mean the "Hospice "for forlorn 
 travellers built and endowed by the exertions of an orphan 
 child, who, being impressed in his earlier years with the 
 sad fate of many a wayfarer, devoted a whole life to seek- 
 ing aid to build this house of refusfe. In this trlorious 
 pilgidmage he wandered over nearly the whole of Europe 
 and a great part of America, and returned to accomplish 
 the great purpose he had planned. 
 
 This " Zuflucht-Haus," or Hospice of Heinrich " Findel- 
 kind " — for he was named the " Foundling," having none 
 to claim or acknowledge him — has been superseded by a 
 more commodious and better endowed edifice under the 
 auspices of the Imperial Government, who have gracel'ull}^ 
 preserved the memory of the first founder : thus showing 
 themselves not ashamed to be reminded of their own 
 devoirs by a poor orphan. 
 
 And now from the heights of St. Christopher I look 
 down upon the winding glens and bold mountains of 
 Tj'rol ! The great cross yonder on the rock marks tlio 
 boundary. And now, adieu ! the square fur caps of the 
 Bregenzer Walderin ; the huge silver filigree leaves, 
 which look like peacock's tails of frosted silver, fastened 
 to the back of the head; the shurt-waistod dresses, gaily 
 
 M
 
 162 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 embroidered with tlie wearers' initials upon the stomacTier ; 
 and the stockings, so piously adorned with saintly emblems; 
 and last, but not least, the peaceful quietude of a primi- 
 tive people — to have lived among whom is to carry away 
 for life-long a pleasant memory of a simple-minded, kindly 
 peasantry. 
 
 On descending the Arlberg by the eastward, or the 
 Tyrol side, there is a little low ruin not far from the road. 
 It stands nestled in a small nook between the hills, and 
 shows the stunted and cattle-cropped remains of a few 
 fruit-trees around. This was an ancient shrine where 
 four monks formerly lived, devoting their lives to aiding 
 the travellers of the pass ; and some say that its founda- 
 tion dates from that of the establishment of St. Gallen in 
 Switzerland, and that both owe their origin to the same 
 pious hand — an Irish monk. So is it incontestably true 
 that the great monastery of St. Gall, and the spacious 
 convents of Mehrer-Au and Loch Au on the borders of 
 the Lake of Constance, were founded by an Irishman. 
 What a destiny, that the nation whose mission should 
 have been the spread of Christianity in the earliest 
 centuries, should present such a spectacle of crime and 
 God-forgetfulness in our own !
 
 HORACE TiiMrLliTON. 163 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I WISH my travelling couutrymen — and what land turns 
 out such myriads of wanderers ? — would betake them- 
 selves, in their summer rambles, to the Tyi-ol, rather than 
 Switzerland. If the use of German be not as frequent 
 with us as French, still very little suffices for the every- 
 day necessities of the road ; and while, in point of 
 picturesque beauty the tour is little, if anything, 
 infei'ior to Switzerland in all that regards the people, the 
 superiority of the Tyrolese is without a question. 
 
 Switzerland — save in some few remote spots of the 
 German cantons, and these not generally v^orth the 
 visiting — is a land of extortion and knavery. The wholi 
 country is laid out pretty much as St. Paul's in London 
 used to be, some years back — so much for the aisle, so 
 much for the whispering gallery, so much for the ball, 
 &c. Each mountain, each glen, every glacier and snow- 
 peak, has its corps of guides, farming out by a tariff the 
 wild regions of the roe and the chamois, and vulgarizing 
 the features of nature to the level of the Colosseum in 
 London, and its pasteboard avalanches. 
 
 This may be all very delightful for those junketing 
 parties who steam up the Rhine on a three weeks' excur- 
 sion, and want to " do Switzerland " before they reach 
 home — jogging to Chamouni in an omnibus, and riding up 
 the Rigi in an ass-pannier. But to enjoy mountains — to 
 taste really of the exquisite sense of impressive solemnity 
 a wild mountain-scene can suggest — give me the Tyrol- 
 give me the land where the crashing cataract is heard in 
 the midst of unbroken stillness- — where, in the deep valleys, 
 the tinkling bell of the herd sounds for miles afar — where, 
 better than all, the peasant is not degraded from his self- 
 
 M 2
 
 164 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 respect to become a hanger-on of eacli stranger tliat he 
 sees, bat Is still a peasant, stout of heart and limb, ready 
 to do the honours of his humble chalet if you cross his 
 threshold, but not bartering his native hospitality for 
 gold ! What a fine national character is made up of that 
 sturdy independence- — that almost American pride of 
 equality — with the devoted loyalty to their sovereign ! 
 How admirably does the sense of personal freedom blend 
 with obedience to the Kaiser ! How intimately is love of 
 country bound up with fealty to the country's king ! O 
 Austria ! if all thy subjects were like these, how little 
 need you fear revolutionary Poles or reforming Popes ! 
 The sounds of the national sign, Gott erhalfe unser 
 Kaiser ! would drown the wildest cry that ever Anarchy 
 shouted. 
 
 The gifted advocates of Progress and Enlightenment, 
 who write in Penny Magazines and People's Journals, 
 may sneer at the simple faith of a people who recognize a 
 father in their monarch — who are grateful for a system of 
 government that secures to them the peaceful enjoyment 
 of their homes and properties, with scarcely the slightest 
 burden of taxation, 
 
 Such travellers as Inglis may record conversations with 
 individuals disposed to grumble at the few opportunities 
 for social convulsion and change ; but, taking the mass of 
 the people, judging from what is palpable to every sojour- 
 ner in the land, where does one see less of poverty — where 
 so much contentment, so much of enjoyment of life, such 
 a general feeling of brotherhood in every rank and class? 
 — where are the graceful virtues of charity and kindliness 
 more conspicuous ? — and, above all, where is there so little 
 of actual crime ? 
 
 It may be said, the temptations are not so great to 
 breaches of law where a general well-being prevails, where 
 each has enough for his daily wants, and life displays no 
 inordinate ambitions. I am willing to acknowledge all 
 this ; I cavil not for the cause — I only ask acceptance for 
 the fact. If one would wish to see the boldest spirit of 
 pei'sonal freedom united to implicit obedience to a ruler, 
 the most stubboi^n independence of character with acourte-
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 165 
 
 ous submission to the will of him recognized as superior, 
 a manly self-reliance with a faithful trust that there are 
 others better, wiser, and more far-seeing than himself — 
 then let him come to the Tyrol ! 
 
 The Tyrol is, perhaps, the only part of Europe where 
 any portion of romance still dwells — where the little inci- 
 dents of daily life are tinctured with customs that derive 
 from long ago — where facts of bygone days, traditions of 
 their fathers' time, are interwoven with the passing hour 
 — and where primitive habits and tastes are believed to 
 cavry with them a blessing, as to those who honour their 
 fathers' memories. ISTational gratitude is far more closely 
 allied with individual gratitude than is usually believed. 
 Under the shade of the great tree the little plant is often 
 nurtured. It is easy to imagine well of the individual, 
 where the masses are moved by noble aspirations. 
 
 Scarcely a valley, not a single defile here, is without its 
 historic glories — many of them as of yesterday, and yet, 
 in their simple heroism, recalling a time when personal 
 valour was of greater worth than strategic skill and science. 
 I always regret that Scott, who understood mountains and 
 those who dwell thereon so thoroughly, should never have 
 made the Tyrol the scene of a romance. 
 
 Even among the " simple annals of the poor " here are 
 little incidents eminently romantic in their character, 
 while so distinctly national that they tell, in every detail, 
 the mind of the people who enacted them. 
 
 How I should like once more to be young of heart and 
 limb, and able to travel these winding glens and climb 
 these mountain steeps as once I could have done! Even 
 now, as I sit here in this little " Wirth's-Haus," how the 
 old spirit of wandering comes back again as I watch the 
 peasant, with his long staff in hand, braving the mountain 
 side, or standing for a second on some rocky peak, to gaze 
 down into the steep depth below — that narrow valley 
 filled by road and river.
 
 1G6 HOllACE TEMPLE TON. 
 
 HANZ JORGLE. 
 
 '' Gott bat sein plan 
 Fiir Jedenmann, " 
 
 What a road is that from Landeck to Meran ! — at once 
 the most beautifnl and the grandest of all the Tyrol passes. 
 The gorge is so narrow, that it seems rather like a deep 
 channel cut by the river itself; where, on either side, hun- 
 dreds of feet in height, rise the rocks — not straight, but 
 actually impending above the head, leaving, in some places, 
 the i-avine narrower above than beneath. 
 
 Escarped in this rock, the road winds on, protected by a 
 little parapet along the edge of the precipice. Beneath, 
 at a depth to make the head dizzy to gaze at, is seen the 
 river, whose waters are of a pale sky-blue, the most deli- 
 cate and beautiful colour I ever beheld. As the neces- 
 sities of the road require, you have to cross the river, more 
 than once, on wooden bridges, which in themselves are 
 curious for their ingenuity of construction, if one could 
 think of aught save the grandeur of the scene around them. 
 
 At the second of these bridges, called the Pontlatzer 
 Briicke, the ravine grows wider, and opens a distant jiros- 
 pect of the " Kaunser-Thal," backed by the tremendous 
 glacier of Gebatsch. A glorious valley is it, witli its 
 grouped cottages and village spires studded along the 
 plain, through which the Inn winds its rapid stream, its 
 surface still ruffled and eddying from the deep descent of 
 the Filnstermilnze. 
 
 Above the Pontlatzer Briicke, high upon a little table- 
 land of the mountain, stands a small village — if even that 
 humble name be not too dignified for the little group of 
 peasant-houses here assembled. This, called the " Klet- 
 scher," derives its title from a mountain torrent which, 
 leaping from cliff to cliff, actually divides the village into 
 two portions, over each of which, with pretty fair equality, 
 it disti'ibutes its spray and foam and then plunges madly 
 down till, by a succession of bounds and springs, it reaches
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 1G7 
 
 the river Inn beneath. The Kletscher, it must be owned, 
 deserves its name : it is at once the most boisterous and 
 foam-covered torrent of the whole region ; and as fre- 
 quently in its course it pierces the soft rock of the moun- 
 tain the roaring stream echoes more loudly still beneath 
 these natural bridges. These, however, are not the only 
 sounds which greet the ear on neai-ing the spot. The 
 whole air is tremulous with the thumping and crashing 
 noise of saw-mills, every second cottage having one of 
 these ingenious contrivances at work ; and thus, between 
 the roaring torrent itself and its forced labour, such a 
 tremendous upi'oar is created, that the uninitiated are 
 completely stunned. 
 
 It is indeed a curious transition from the deathlike still- 
 ness of the pine forest, the unbroken silence of the steep 
 path by which you wend your way upward, to emerge at 
 once into this land of active life and turmoil, to see here, 
 high amidst the Alps, where the roe and chamois are wild 
 and free — to see here a little colony busied in all the arts 
 of life, and carrying their industry into the regions of 
 cataract and glacier. 
 
 What animation and movement on every side does that 
 bright-flowing torrent carry with it ! The axe of the wood- 
 cutter — the rustling branches sweeping, as twenty or 
 thirty peasants tug some mighty pine-tree along — the 
 hacking clink of the bark adzes — the voices of the children 
 gathering and peeling the bark, and above and through 
 all the heavy throbbing of the mill-timbers shaking the 
 frail sheds and even the very cottages with their giant 
 strokes ! There is a character of enterprise in the selection 
 of such a wild spot irresistibly captivating. One cannot 
 look upon those hardy peasants without a sense of respect 
 and admii-ation for those who have braved climate and 
 danger — and such there is — to seek a livelihood and a home 
 rather than toil in indigence and dependence in the valley 
 beneath. 
 
 The Kletscher is not picturesque for situation only. I'.s 
 houses built of the pine-wood are covered over with r kind 
 of varnish which while it preserves the colour protects 
 the timber from the effects of weather. Each story is
 
 168 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 flanked externally by a little galleiy, whose ornamental 
 balustrades display their native skill in carpentry, and are 
 often distinguished by grotesqiie carvings, executed vpith 
 an ability that none but a Tyroler could pretend to. The 
 door and window-frames too are finished in the same taste, 
 while instead of other designation each cottage is known 
 by some animal of the owner's selection which stands 
 proudly above the door-porch : and thus some old white- 
 headed Bauer of eighty winters is called the Chamois ; a 
 tart-looking, bitter-facodFrau, his neighbour, being known 
 as the Lamb ; a merry little cheerful-eyed peasant being a 
 Buifalo ; and the schoolmastei' — I blush to write it — diffus- 
 ing "Useful Knowledo^e " under the sisrn of a braving 
 Donkey. 
 
 Animated and cheerful as the scene is by day, alive with 
 all the instincts and sounds of happy labour, I like better 
 to look upon it by night, when all is calm and still and 
 nothing but the plash of the waterfall stirs the air — to see 
 these quaint old houses with their sculptured pinnacles 
 and deep-shadowing eaves sleeping in the mellow moon- 
 light — mill and miller sunk in slumber — not a footstep nor 
 a voice to be heard save one, the village watchman, going 
 his nightly round, chanting his little verse of assuring 
 comfort to the waking ear, and making the sleeper's dream 
 a peaceful one. 
 
 See how he moves along, followed by his little dog, 
 sleepy-looking and drowsy as its master ! He stands in 
 front of that cottage — it belongs to the Vorsteher, or ruler 
 of the Dorf. Power has its pi'ivileges even here, and the 
 great man should know how the weather fares, and what 
 the hour is, if, perchance, the cares of state have kept 
 him waking, as Homer tells us that they can. Now he 
 has ended his little song, and he wends his way over the 
 bridge of a single plank that spans the torrent; he slowly 
 descends the flight of stone steps, slippery with falling 
 spray, and, guided b}^ the wooden railing, he treads the 
 narrow path along the edge of the clitF, which, nearly per- 
 pendicular, stands over the valley of the Inn. There is a 
 little hut here — a very poor and humble one, the very 
 poorest of the whole village — and yet it is before the door
 
 nOKACE TEBIPLETON. 1G9 
 
 of this lowly dwelling- that the " Nachtwachter " stands at 
 midnight each night throughout the year, and then, as he 
 calls the hour, he cries, " Hans Jorgle, good night ! — rest 
 soundly, Hans Jorgle !" 
 
 Who can be this Hans Jorgle, for whose peaceful 
 si amber authority is watchful? If you care for the 
 answer of the question, you must listen to a story — if 1 
 dare to call by so imposing a name the following little 
 narrative — which, for want of better, I shall call 
 
 "THE LAME SOLDIER." 
 
 Something short of forty years ago, there came to dwell 
 at the Kletscher a poor widow with one child, a boy of 
 about nine years old. She never told much of her history 
 to the neighbours, and merely accounted for her choice of 
 this secluded spot from the circumstance that she had 
 known it when a child, her grandfather having been many 
 years an inhabitant of the " Dorf ;" and that, from dwell- 
 ing on the pleasant days she had known thei'e once, and 
 talking over them so often with her little Hans, she at last 
 determined to gratify him and herself by revisiting the 
 cherished spot, hoping to end her days there in peace. 
 
 The grandfather of whom she spoke — long since dead — • 
 had been well known and respected in the village ; so that, 
 at first on his account, and sabsequently on her own, the 
 ■widow was welcomed kindly amongst them. Her subsis- 
 tence was derived principally from a small pension she 
 received from the Government, for her husband had been 
 a grenadier of the Austrian Imperial Guard, and fell on 
 the field of Austerlitz. This little pittance would not 
 have sufficed for wants even humble as hers, without the 
 aid of her own industry ; but she was clever at her needle, 
 and could accomplish many a triumph in millinery above 
 village skill ; and by the exertion of this art she contrived 
 to eke out a subsistence — in poverty, it is true, but in con- 
 tentment also. 
 
 If little Hans Jorgle could not contribute to the common
 
 170 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 stock by any eflorfcs of his labour, his gentle, quiet nature, 
 his guileless innocence, won for him the love of all the 
 village. Old and young wei^e pleased to see him and to 
 talk to him ; for, child as he w^as, Hans had read a great 
 many books, and could tell the most wonderful stories 
 about the Swedes in the Thirty Years' War, and also what 
 happened in the long wars between Frederic of Prussia 
 and the Austrians — stories that, if Hans were fond of tell- 
 ing, his audience were far more delighted to listen to. 
 This amusing gift, joined to the claims of infirmity — for 
 he was lame, the effect of a fall in his infancy — made him 
 a favourite with every one ; for even they — and the 
 number was a small one — who could not relish his stores 
 of narrative could feel compassion for the little fatherless 
 boy, bereft of the means of earning a livelihood, and wholly 
 dependent on one whose frail health gave little promise of 
 long life. 
 
 Hans was tall and slight, and, but for his lameness, 
 would have been as remarkable for the symmetry of his 
 form, as, even with it, he v/as for agility. His counten- 
 ance was eminently handsome ; the brow lofty, and the 
 eyes, which were of the darkest blue, were set deeply ; 
 their habitual expi'ession was one of great melancholy — 
 not the sorrow of infirm health, or the depression of a 
 heart in conflict with itself, but the sadness of a spirit too 
 finely attuned for its daily associations — above, immeasur- 
 ably above, all around in its ambitions, and yet an object 
 of actual pity and compassion ! The prevailing tone of 
 his mind, though sorrowful, did not prevent his joining 
 the vilhige children at their play ; nor was he, perhaps, 
 the less welcome amongst them for those strange fits of 
 absence which, seizing him in the midst of some rural 
 sport, would make him forget all around, and burst out 
 with some exciting anecdote of heroic daring, some bold 
 achievement of the Austrians in their memorable battles 
 with the Turks. Then, would the play cease ; gradually 
 gathering around him, the children would form a circle, 
 soon to be strengthened by their elders, who took the most 
 lively pleasure in these recitals — tales which many a set- 
 ting sun and rising moon shone upon.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 171 
 
 It may have been remarked by the reader that Hans' 
 literaiy stores were all military. Such was the case. 
 Battles and sieges, campaigns and marches, wei'e a passion 
 so exclusive, that he had no intei'est left for any other 
 form of reading. This may seem strange in one so young, 
 and in one, too, whose nature was gentleness itself; his 
 very infirmity, besides, might have tui'ned his thoughts 
 away from themes in which he never could be a partici- 
 pator ; but how little have material influences power over 
 the flight of a higlily imaginative nature .' His father's 
 stories as he sat at the fireside, his earliest lessons in read- 
 ing, implanted the impulse, which the very events of the 
 time served to strenathen and mature. 
 
 It was just the period when the Tyrol, crushed by the 
 oppression of Bavaria, insulted and outraged in every feel- 
 ing, had begun to think of vengeance. The transient 
 success of the Austrians on the Danube animated the 
 brave mountaineers, and cheered them with the hope of 
 freedom. Already the low muttering of the distant storm 
 was heard. Wherever a group of peasants gathered, their 
 low whispei'ings, their resolute looks, their clenched hands, 
 denoted some stern purpose. Secret masses were said in 
 the chapels for the " rescue of the Vaterland ;" the ancient 
 legends of the land were all remembered ; sights and 
 sounds of ominous meaning were reported to have been 
 observed ; all indicative of a speedy convulsion, all sug- 
 gesting hope and courage. Rumour had told of confer- 
 ences between the Archduke John of Austria and the 
 T\ 1 ol leaders ; not failing to exaggerate the aid proffered 
 by the Imperial Government in the event of a struggle. 
 The ancient spirit of the land was up, and only waited the 
 siL'iial for the fight. 
 
 Remote and secluded as the little village of my story 
 l.iy, the news of the coming conflict did not fail to reach 
 it. Little Hans formed the link which bound them to the 
 woi'ld of the valley beneath ; and daily did he, in despite of 
 lameness, descend the steep path that led to the Pont- 
 latzer Briicke, bringing back with him towards nightfall 
 the last rumours of the day. Vague and uncertain as 
 they were, they wxre listened to with breathless eagerness.
 
 172 
 
 HORACE TEMPLETOlSf. 
 
 feometimee. the intelligence merely announced a gathering 
 of the peasants in a mountain glen ; sometimes, the arrival 
 of a messenger with secret dispatches from Vienna. Now, 
 Hofer hud passed through Maltz the night before ; now, 
 it was a Bavarian reinforcement was seen arriving at 
 Landeck. 
 
 These simple tidings had seemed of little meaning to 
 their ears if Hans were not there to give them significance, 
 filling np all the blanks by wise surmises, and suggesting 
 reasons and causes for everything. He had his own 
 theory of the war — where the enemy should be met, and 
 how ; in what manner certain defiles should be defended, 
 and how, in case of defeat, the scattered forces might re- 
 unite ; little views of strategy and tactics, that seemed like 
 inspiration to the simple ears who heard him. 
 
 Hans' tidings grew daily more important ; and one 
 evening he returned to the Kletscher with a sealed note 
 for the Curate — a circumstance which excited the most 
 intense curiosity in the Dorf. It was not long ungrati- 
 fied, for the old priest speedily appeared in the little 
 squai'e before the Vorsteher's house, and announced that 
 each evening, at sunset, a Mass would be said in the 
 chapel, and a prayer invoked on all who loved '\Gott, der 
 Kaiser, und das Vaterland." Hans was pressed on every 
 side ; some asking what was going on in the valley, others 
 eager to hear if the Austrians had not been defeated, and 
 that the Mass was for the slain. Hans knew less than 
 usual ; he could only tell that large bodies of the peasan- 
 try were seen ascending the mountain towards Landeck, 
 armed with saws and hatchets, while kegs of blasting 
 powder were borne along between others. "We shall 
 know more soon," added Hans ; " but come ! the chapel 
 is lighted already ; the Mass has begun." 
 
 How picturesque was the effect the chapel presented ! 
 The sun was setting, and its long golden rays, mingled 
 with the red light of the tapers, tipping the rich draperies 
 of the altar and its glittering vessels with a parti-coloured 
 light ; the kneeling figures of the peasantry, clad in all 
 the varied colours of Tyrol taste ; the men bronzed by 
 sun and season, dark-bearded, stern, and handsome; the
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 173 
 
 women fairer, but not less earnest in expression ; the 
 white-haired priest, dressed in a simple robe of white, 
 with a blue scarf over it — the Bavarians had stripped the 
 chapels even of the vestments of the clergy — the banners 
 of the little volunteer battalion of the mountain waving 
 overhead, — all, made up a picture simple and unpretend- 
 ing, but still solemn and impressive. 
 
 The Mass ended, the priest addressed a few words on 
 the eventful position of the Vaterland — at first, in terms 
 of vague, uncertain^meaning ; but growing warmer as he 
 proceeded, more clearly and more earnestly, he told them 
 that the " Wolves " — none needed to be told that French- 
 men were meant — that the "Wolves" were about to 
 ravage the flocks and overrun the villages, as they had 
 already done twice before ; that the Bavarians, who should 
 be their friends, were about to join their bitterest enemies ; 
 that although the " Gute Franzerl " — for so familiarly did 
 they ever name the Emperor — wished them well, he could 
 help them but little. " The Tyroler's hand alone must 
 save Tyrol," he exclaimed. " If that cannot be, then God 
 pity us ; for there is no mei'cy to be looked for from our 
 enemies ! " 
 
 If many a bold and patriotic heart sorrowed over these 
 things, not one felt them with a more intense sense of 
 anguish than little Hans Jorgle. The French, who had 
 crushed his country, had killed his father; and now they 
 were coming to bring fire and sword among those lonely 
 glens, where his widowed mother had hoped to live her 
 last years peacefully. Oh ! if he had been a man to 
 stand beside his father in the day of battle, or if even 
 now he could hope to see the time when he should be 
 strong of limb as he Avas of heart .... a burst of teai's 
 was the ever-present interruption to utterings which, in 
 the eagerness of his devotion, he could not resist from 
 making aloud. 
 
 These thoughts now took entire possession of his mind. 
 If the clatter of horses' hoofs was heard unusually loud 
 over the wooden bridge in the valley, Hans would start 
 up and cry, " Here they are ! — the cavalry picquets are 
 upon us ! " If a Bauer-house in the plain caught, it was
 
 174 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 the Frencli were approacliing and burning the villages. 
 The rumbling of heavily-laden sledges over the hard snow 
 was surely " the drums of the advanced guard ; " and 
 never could the ring of jiiger's rifle be heard, that he 
 did not exclaim, "Here come the skirmishers! " If the 
 worthy villagers were indifferent to these vainous false 
 alarms, the epithets and terms of war employed by Hans 
 realized no small portions of its terror ; and while they 
 could afford to smile at his foolish fears, they exchanged 
 very grave looks when he spoke of cavalry squadrons, and 
 looked far from happy at the picture of a brigade of 
 artillery in position on the bridge, while the tirailleurs 
 ascended the face of the mountain in scattered pai-ties. 
 
 While the winter continued, and the snow lay deep 
 upon the roads, and many of the bridges were removed 
 for safety from the drifting ice, the difliculties to a 
 marching force were almost insurmountable; but as the 
 spring came, and the highways cleared, the rumour again 
 grew rife that the enemy was prepai-ing his blow : the 
 great doubt was, by which of the Alpine passes he would 
 advance. 
 
 Staff-officers and engineers had been despatched from 
 Vienna to visit the various defiles, and suggest the most 
 efficient modes of defence. Unhappily, however, all their 
 counsels were given with a total ignorance of the means of 
 those by whom they were to be executed. To speak of 
 fortifying Landeck, and entrenching here and stockading 
 there, sounded like an unknown tongue to these poor 
 chamois-huntex'S, whose sole idea of defence lay in the 
 cover of a crag and the certainty of a rifle bullet. 
 
 Disappointed, then, in their hope of aid, they betook 
 themselves to their own devices, and hit upon a plan the 
 most perfectly adapted to the crisis, as well as the most 
 suitable to their own means of accomplishment. Is it 
 necessary that I should speak of what is so famjliar, to 
 every reader ? the rude preparations of the Tyrolers to 
 defend their native defiles, by trunks of trees and frag- 
 ments of rocks, so disposed that at a word they could be 
 hurled from the mountains down into the valleys beneath. 
 
 The pass 1 here speak of was eminently suited for this,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 175 
 
 not only fi'om its narrowness and the precipitate nature 
 of its sides, but that the timber was large and massive, 
 and the rocks, in many cases, so detached by the action 
 of the torrents, that little force was required to move 
 them. Once free, they s\vept down the steep sides, 
 crushing all before them ; loosening others as they went, 
 and with a thunder louder than any artillery, plunging 
 into the depths below. Simple as these means of defence 
 may seem — it is but necessary to have once seen the 
 country to acknowledge how irresistible they must have 
 been — there was positively no chance of escape left. The 
 road, exposed in its entii'e length, lay open to view ; 
 beneath it, roared a foaming torrent, above, stood cliffs 
 and crags the hardiest hunter could not clamber ; and if, 
 perchance, some little path led upwards to a mountain 
 chalet or a Dorf, a handful of Tyrol riflemen could have 
 defended it against an army. 
 
 All was arranged early in the year, and it was deter- 
 mined that the revolt should break forth a week or ten 
 days before the time when the Bavarians were to march 
 the reliefs to the various garrisons — a movement which, 
 it was known, would take place in the spring. By signal- 
 fires in the mountain-tops, intimation was to be given to 
 those who inhabited the Alpine regions ; while for those 
 in the plains, and particularly in the valley of the Inn — • 
 the great line of operations — the signal was to be given 
 by sawdust thrown on the surface of the stream. A 
 month, or even more, was to elapse from the time I have 
 just spoken of ere the preparations would be fully made. 
 What an interval of intense anxiety was that to poorHans ! 
 
 A small detachment of Bavarian infantry, now stationed 
 at the Pontlatzer Briicke, made it unsafe to venture often, 
 as before, into the valley. Such frequent coming and 
 going would have excited suspicion ; and the interval 
 between suspicion and a drum-head tribunal was a short 
 one, and generally had a bloody ending. Hans could do 
 little more, then, than sit the livelong day on the brow of 
 the cliff, watching the valley, straining his eyes along the 
 narrow gleu towards Landeck, or gazing over the wide 
 expanse to the Kaunser-Thal. How often did his
 
 176 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 imagination people the space beneath vvitli an armed 
 host ! and how did he build up beforo his mind's eye the 
 glitter of steel, the tramp and dust of mounted squad- 
 rons, the long train of ammunition waggons, the gorgeous 
 staff — all the "circumstance of glorious war!" And 
 how strangely did it seem, as he rubbed his eyes and 
 looked again, to see that silent valley and that untrodden 
 road, the monotonous tramp of the Bavarian sentry the 
 only sound to be heard ! On the chapel door the previous 
 Sunday some one had written in chalk, 1st' zeit ? — Is it 
 time ? " to which another had written for answer " Bald 
 zeit— It will soon be!" "Oh," thought Hans, "that 
 it were come at last ! " And a feverish eagerness had so 
 gained possession of him, that he scarcely could eat or 
 sleep, starting from his bed at night to peep out of the 
 window and see if the signal fire was not blazing. 
 
 The devotional feeling is, as I have remai'ked, the most 
 active and powerful in a Tyroler's heart ; and deeply intent 
 as each was now on the eventful time that drew nigh, the 
 festival of Easter, which intervened, at once expelled all 
 thoughts save those pertaining to the solemn season. 
 Not a word, not a syllable, fell from any lip evincing an 
 interest in their more worldly anxieties. The village cha- 
 pel was crowded from before daybreak to late in the 
 evening ; the hum of prayer sounded from every cottage ; 
 and scarcely was there time for the salutations of friends, 
 as they met, in the eagerness to continue the Avorks of 
 some pious ritual. 
 
 I know not if Hans' Jorgle was as deeply impressed as 
 his neighbours by these devout feelings; I only can tell 
 that he refrained as rigidly as the others from any allusion 
 to the coming struggle, and never by a chance word showed 
 that his thoughts were wandering from the holy theme. 
 A very prying observer, had there been such in the Dorf, 
 might perhaps have detected that the boy's eyes, when 
 raised in prayer, rested longer on the spot where the 
 striped banners of Tyroler chivalry waved overhead, or 
 that an expression of wild excitement rested on his features 
 as the diH'erent groups, before entering the church, 
 deposited their broadswords and rifles in the porch, — every
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 177 
 
 clank of the weapons seemed to thrill through Hans' 
 heart. 
 
 The devotional observances over, Easter Monday came 
 with all the joyous celebrations with which the villagers 
 were wont to ftte that happy day. It was a time for 
 families to assemble their scattei'ed members, for old and 
 attached friends to renew the pledges of their friendship, 
 for those at variance with each other to become reconciled ; 
 little children paid visits to their grandfathers and grand- 
 mothers, with bouquets of spring flowers, repeating the 
 simple verses of some village hymn to welcome in tho 
 morning; garlands and wreaths hung from every door- 
 porch ; lovers scaled up the galleries to leave a rose, or an 
 Alp daisy, plucked some thousand feet high among the 
 snow-peaks, at their sweethearts' window. Pious souls 
 made little pi^esents to the Cure in the chapel itself. Tho 
 cattle were led through the village in a great procession, 
 with garlands on their heads and fresh flowers fastened to 
 their horns ; the villagers accompanying them with a 
 Tyrol song, descriptive of the approaching delights of 
 summer, when they could quit their dark dwellings and 
 rove free and wild over their native hills. It was joy 
 everywhere : in the glad faces and the glancing eyes, 
 the heartfelt embraces of those who met and saluted with 
 the well-known " Qott gruse dicJi — God greet thee ! " in 
 the little dwellings pranked with holly-boughs and wild 
 flowers ; in the chapel glittering with tapers on every 
 altar, pious offerings of simple hearts; in the tremulous 
 accents of age, in the boisterous glee of childhood, it was 
 
 joy- 
 
 It was the season of gifts, too. And what scenes of 
 pleasure and delight were there, as some new arrival from 
 the valley displayed before the admiring eyes of a house- 
 hold some little toy, the last discovery of inventive genius ; 
 bauer-houses that took to pieces and exhibited all their 
 interior economy at will ; saw-mills, that actually seemed 
 to work, so vigorously did they perform the incessant time 
 that mark their labour ; dolls of every variety of attraction, 
 but all in Tyrol taste ; nutcrackers that looked like old 
 men, but smashed nuts with the activity of the youngest ; 
 
 N
 
 178 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 soldiers of lead, stout-looking fellows, that never quitted 
 the posts committed to them, if the wire was not too 
 powerful — all were there ; appearing, besides, with a 
 magic in true keeping with their wonderful properties. 
 Some emerged from unknown pockets in the cuff of a 
 jacket ; others, from the deep waistband of parti-coloured 
 leather ; some, from the recesses of a hat ; but all in some 
 ■wonderful guise that well became them. 
 
 In one cottage only this little festive scene was not 
 enacted. Hanserl's mother, who for some time back had 
 been in declining health, was unable to contribute, as she 
 was wont, to their support. Too proud to confess her 
 poverty in the village, she contrived to keep up .all the 
 externals of their condition as before. She and her son 
 were seen on Sunday as well dressed as ever ; perhaps, if 
 anything, a more than ordinary attention in this respect 
 could be detected. Her offering to the curate rather ex- 
 ceeded than fell short of its customary amount. These 
 were, however, costly little sacrifices to pride ; for these, 
 their meal was made scantier and poorer ; for these, the 
 hours of the wintry night were made longer and drearier, 
 as, to save the cost of candle-light, they sat in darkness 
 beside the stove ; a hundred little privations, such as only 
 poverty knows or can sympathize with, fell to their lot ; 
 all, borne with fortitude and patience, but in their slow 
 process chilling and freezing up the hope from which these 
 virtues spring. 
 
 " Hanserl, my love," said the poor widow, and her eyes 
 swam and her tongue faltered as she spoke, " thou hast 
 had none of the pleasures of this joyous day. Take these 
 twelve kreutzers and buy thyself something in the Dorf. 
 There be many pi'etty things cost not more than twelve 
 kreutzers." 
 
 Hanserl made no answer ; his thoughts were wandering 
 far away. Heaven knows whether they had strayed back 
 to the bold daj's of Wallenstein, or the siege of Prague, 
 or were now, with the stormy cataract of the Danube — at 
 the iron gate, as it is called, the desperate scene of many 
 a bloody meeting between Turks and Austrians. 
 
 "Hans, love, dost hear me? I say, thou canst buy a
 
 fiORACE TEMPLETON. 179 
 
 bow with arrows ; tlioa hast long been wishing for one. 
 But bring no more books of battles, child," added she, 
 more feelingly ; " strife and war have cost us both dearly. 
 If thy father had not served the Kaiser, he would not 
 have fallen at Elchingen." 
 
 " I know it well," said the boy, his features flashing as 
 he spoke. " He would not have stood beside the 
 ammunition-waggons when the French dragoons bore 
 down, and with a, loud voice called out, 'Halt! these 
 tumbrels are powder ; another step and I'll explode the 
 train ! ' How they reined up and fled ! My father saved 
 tlie train ; didn't he mother ?" 
 
 " He did," sobbed the widow ; " and fell under the wall 
 of the citadel as the last waggon entered the gate." 
 
 " God preserve Franz the Emperor ! " said the boy, with 
 a wild enthusiasm ; " he has given many a brave soldier 
 a glorious gi-ave. But for this," here he struck 
 his shrunken limb violently with his hand, " I, too, had 
 
 been able to serve him. But for this " a passion of 
 
 sorrow, that found vent in teai's, checked his words, 
 and he buried his head in his hands and sobbed 
 hysterically. 
 
 The poor mother did everything she could think of to 
 console her son. She appealed to his piety for submission 
 under a visitation of God's own making ; she appealed to 
 his affection for her, since, had it not been for his 
 helplessness, he might one day have left her to be a 
 soldier. 
 
 " The conscription is so severe now, Hanserl, that they 
 take only sons away, like the rest — ay, and when they are 
 but thirteen years of age ! Take them away, and leave 
 the mothers childless ! But they cannot take thee, 
 Hans ! " 
 
 "No, that they cannot," cried the boy, in a burst of 
 grief. " The cripple and the maimed have not alone to 
 weep over their infirmity, but to feel themselves dis- 
 honoured before others." 
 
 The widow saw the unhappy turn her consolations had 
 taken, and tried in different ways to recall her error. At 
 last, yielding to her entreaties, Hans left the cottage, 
 
 N 2
 
 180 HOEACE TEMPLETOlJ. 
 
 faking the twelve kreutzers in kis hand to buy his Eastef 
 gift. 
 
 It was from no want of affection to his mother he 
 acted, nor was it from any deficiency of gratitude that 
 when he left the hut he forgot all about the toy, and the 
 twelve kreutzers, and the fete itself. It was that a deeper 
 sentiment had swallowed up every other, and left no 
 place in his heart for aught else. Hans then sauntered 
 along, and at last found himself on the little projecting 
 point of rock from which he usually surveyed the valley of 
 the Kaunser-Thal. Thei^e, he sat down and watched till 
 the darkness thickened around and hid out every thing. 
 
 When he arose to turn homeward the lights were 
 glittering in every window of the village, and the merry 
 sounds of rustic music filled the air. Hans suddenly 
 remembered it was Easter-night, the glad season of home 
 rejoicings, and he thought of his poor mother, who sat 
 alone, unfriended and suffering, in her little cabin. A 
 feeling of self-reproach at once struck him, and he turned 
 speedily towards the cottage. His shortest way was 
 through the village, and thither he bent his steps. The 
 night was starlit but dark, and none of the villagers were 
 in the street ; indeed, all were too happy within doors to 
 wander forth. In the Vorsteher's house the village band 
 was assembled, and there the merry notes of a 7/o^sa waltz 
 were accompanied by the tramp of feet and the sound of 
 mirthful voices. A little farther on was a rich 
 peasant's house. Hans stopped to peep through the half- 
 closed shutters, and there sat the lamily at their suppei\ 
 It was a well-filled board, and many a wine-flask stood 
 around, while the savoury steam rose up and hung like a 
 faint cloud above the dishes — not sufficiently, however, to 
 obscure a little larch-tree, which, set in a small bucket, 
 occupied the centre of the table. On this all the candles 
 were fastened, glittei-ing like stars through the sprayey 
 branches, and glancing in bright sparkles over a myriad 
 of pretty toys that hung suspended around. For this was 
 the Easter-tree, to which every friend of the house attaches 
 some little present. Many a more gorgeous epergne has 
 not yielded one hundredth part of the delight. Every eye
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 181 
 
 was fixed upon it ; some in pure astouishment and wonder, 
 others speculating what might fall to their share ; and 
 while the old grandfather tried to curb impatience among 
 the elder children, the young babj, with the destructive 
 privilege that belongs to infancy was permitted to pull 
 and tear from time to time at the glittering fruit — little 
 feats which excited as much laughter from the grown 
 people as anxiety from the younger. 
 
 Hans moved on, with a sigh, at these new signs of home 
 happiness in which he had no share. The next was the 
 Curate's cabin, and there sat a pleasant party round the 
 stove, while the old priest read something from an 
 amusing volume ; the lecture never proceeding far Avith- 
 out some interruption to comment upon it, to indulge a 
 laugh, or mayhap clink their glasses together as in token of 
 friendship, they pledged each other health and long life. 
 Beyond this again was a new cabin, just taken possession 
 of; and hei'e Hans, peeping in, beheld a young Tyroler 
 exhibiting to his wife — they had been married but a few 
 weeks — his new rifle. It was strange to see how she 
 admired the weapon, gazing at it with all the delight most 
 of her sex reserve for some article of dress or decoration. 
 She balanced it, too, in her baud, and held it to her 
 shoulder, with the ease of one accustomed to its use. 
 
 In every cabin some group, some home picture, met his 
 eye ; peaceful age, happy manhood, delighted childhood, 
 beamed around each hearth and board. The song, the 
 dance, the merry story, the joyous meal, succeeded each 
 other, as he went along. He alone, of all, was poor and 
 sad : in his mother's hut all was darkness and gloom ; the 
 half-suppressed sigh of pain the only sound. The last 
 cabin of the village, and the poorest too, belonged to an 
 old peasant, who had been a soldier under the Emperor 
 Joseph ; he was a very old man, and being burdened with 
 a large family of grandchildren, whose parents were both 
 dead, all he could do by hard labour was to maintain his 
 household. " Here," thought Hans, as he stopped to look 
 in, " here are some poor as ourselves, — I hope they are 
 happier." So they seemed to be. They were all seated on 
 the floor of the cabin, with the grandfather among them
 
 182 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 on a low stool, wliile he performed for them the evolutions 
 of the Grand Army at Presburg — the great review which 
 Maria Theresa held of all the Imperial troops. The old 
 man was sorely puzzled to convey a sufficiently formidable 
 notion of the force, for he had only some twenty little 
 wooden soldiers to fill up the different arms of the service, 
 and was obliged to plant individuals to represent entire 
 corps, while walnut-shells answei-ed for field-pieces and 
 mortars ; the citadel of Presburg being performed by tho 
 bowl of his Meerschaum pipe. 
 
 There were many more brilliant displays met Hans' 
 eyes that evening than this humble spectacle, and yet not 
 one had the same attraction for him. What would he 
 not have given to be among that group — to have watched 
 all the evolutions, many of which were now hidden from 
 his view — perchance to be permitted to move some of the 
 regiments, and suggest his own ideas of tactics. Ah, 
 that would have been happiness indeed ! How long he 
 might have watched there is no saying, when a slight 
 incident occurred which interrupted him — slight and 
 trivial enough was it, and yet in all its seeming insignifi- 
 cance to be the turning point of his destiny ! 
 
 It chanced that one of the little soldiers, from some 
 accident or other would not stand upright, and a little 
 boy, whose black eyes and sunburnt cheeks bespoke a 
 hasty temper, in endeavouring to set him on his legs, 
 broke one of them off. " Ah, thou worthless thing ! " 
 cried he passionately, " thou art no use now to King or 
 Kaiser, for thou art as lame as Hans Jorgle ; " and as he 
 spoke he opened the little pane of the window, and flung 
 the little figure into the street. 
 
 " Shame on thee, Carl! " said the old man reprovingly ; 
 
 " he would have done for many a thing yet. The best 
 
 scout we ever had on the Tuikish frontier was so lame, 
 
 you couldn't think him able to walk. Besides, don't you 
 
 remember the Tyrol proverb ? — 
 
 ' Gott hat sein plan 
 Fur Jedenmann;' 
 
 God has his plau 
 For every maa,
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 183 
 
 So never despise those who are unfit for thine own duties ; 
 mayhap, what thou deemest imperfectiou, may fit them 
 for somethins; far above thee." 
 
 Oh, how Hans drank in these words ! the grief that 
 filled him, on the insulting comparison of the child Avas 
 now changed to gratitude, and seizing the little soldier, 
 his own sad emblem, he kissed it a hundred times, and 
 then jDlaced it in his bosom. 
 
 Hanserl's mothgp was asleep when he reached home, so, 
 creeping silently to his bed, he lay down in liis clothes, 
 dreading lest he might awaken ker ; and with what a 
 happy heart did he lie down that night ! How full of 
 gratitude and of love as he thought over the blessed 
 words ! How he wished to remain awake all night long 
 and think over them, fancying, as he could do, the 
 various destinies which, even to such as him, might still 
 fall ! But sleep, that will not come when wooed, stole 
 over him as he lay, and in a deep, heavy slumber, he 
 clasped the little wooden figure in his hands. 
 
 The first effects of weariness over, Hans dreamed of all 
 he had seen ; vague and confused images of the different 
 objects passed and repassed before his mind, in that 
 disorder and incoherency that belong to dreams. The 
 scene of the Vorsteher's ^house become mingled with the 
 remembrance of the Pontlatzer bridge, where, until night- 
 fall, he had been watching the Bavarian sentinel ; and the 
 curate's parlour beside its listening group, had, now, a 
 meri'y mob of children dancing around the Easter-tree, 
 under whose spreading branches a cavalry picquet were 
 lying — the horses grazing — while the men lay stretched 
 before the watch-fires, smoking and chattering. 
 
 The memory of the soldiers once touched upon, every 
 other fled ; and now he could only think of the evolutions 
 around Presburg : and he fancied he saw the whole army 
 defiling over the bridge across the Danube, and disappear- 
 ing within the ancient gates of the city. The white- 
 cloaked cuirassiers of Austria, gigantic forms, seeming 
 even greater from the massive folds of their white 
 drapery ; the dark Bohemians on their coal-black horses ; 
 the Uhlans with their banners floating from their tall
 
 184 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 lances ; the prancing Hungarians mounted on their 
 springing white steeds of Ai^ab blood; the gay scarlet of 
 their chakos, the clink of their dolmans, all glittering 
 with gold, eclipsing all around them. Then came the 
 Jagers of the Tyrol, a countless host, marching Jlike one 
 raan, their dark plumes waving like a vast forest for miles 
 in distance. These followed again by the long train of 
 guns and ammunition carts. 
 
 Fitful glances of distant lands, of which he had once 
 read, passed before him : the wide-spreading plains of the 
 Lower Danube — the narrow passes of the Styrian Alps— 
 the bleak vast tracts of sterile country on the Turkish 
 frontier, with here and there a low raud-walled village, 
 surmounted by a minaretted tower ; all, however, were 
 peopled with soldiers, marching or bivouacking, striking 
 their tents at daybreak, or sitting around their camp- 
 fires by night. The hoarse challenge of the sentries, the 
 mellow call of the bugle, the quivering tramp of a 
 mounted patrol, were all vividly presented to his sleeping 
 senses. From these thoughts of far-away scenes, he was 
 suddenly recalled to home, and his own Tyrol land. He 
 thought he stood upon the rocky cliff, and looked down 
 into the valley which he had left so tranquil at nightfall, 
 but which now presented an aspect of commotion and 
 trouble. The inhabitants of the little village at the head 
 of the Kaunser-Thal were all preparing to quit their 
 homes and fly up the valley ; carts covered with their 
 furniture and effects crowded the little street ; packhoi'ses 
 and mules laden with everything portable ; while in the 
 eager and affrighted gestures of the peasants it was easy 
 to see that some calamity impended. Now and then some 
 horseman would ride in amongst them, and by his manner 
 it was plain the tidings he brought were full of disaster. 
 Hans looked towards the bridge : and there, to his 
 astonishment, he saw the very same soldiers the old man 
 had manoeuvred with. They had, seemingly, come off a 
 long mai'ch, and with their knapsacks unstrung, and their 
 arms piled, were regaling themselves with wine from the 
 guard-house. 
 
 Hans' first thought was to hasten back and tell hia
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 185 
 
 mother what lie saw ; and now lie stood up and leaned 
 over her bed, but her sleep was so tranquil and so happy 
 he could not bear to awaken her. " What can it mean ? " 
 thought he. " Are these the movements of our own 
 people ? or are the French wolves coming down upon us ?" 
 As he ruminated thus, he thought there came a gentle 
 tap at the door of the hut : he opened it cautiously, and 
 there, who should be standing before him but the lame 
 soldier, his own poor little fellow, the castaway ? 
 
 " Come along, Sans," said he in a friendly voice ; 
 " there is little time to lose. The Wolves are near." He 
 pi'essed his finger to his lips, in token of caution, and led 
 Hans without the door. No sooner were they outside 
 than he resumed, — 
 
 " Thou art maimed and crippled like myself, Hans 
 Jorgle. We should be but indifferent front-rank men 
 before the enemy : but remember the Tyrol proverb, — 
 
 ' Gott hat sein plaa 
 Fur Jedenmanu.' 
 
 Who knows if even we cannot serve the Vaterland ? 
 AVe must away, Hanserl — away to the top of the Kaiser- 
 fells, where the fagots lie ready for the signal fire. The 
 Bavarians have found out where it lies, and have sent a 
 scout party to destroy it, while their battalions are 
 advancing by forced marches np the Inn Thai. Thou 
 knowest all these paths well, Hans ; so lead the way, my 
 brave boy, and I'll do my best to follow." 
 
 Hans waited for no further bidding, but hastily crossing 
 the little wooden bridge commenced the ascent of the 
 mountain with an activity that bore no trace of his infir- 
 mity. 
 
 " We must light the beacon, Hans," said the lame 
 soldier. " When it is seen blazing, the signal will be 
 repeated up the Kaunser-Thal ; FiiusterniiiDze will have 
 it; and then Nauders. Maltz will shew it next, and then 
 all Tyrol w-ill be up. The war jodeJn will resound 
 in every valley and glen, and then let the Wolves 
 beware!"
 
 186 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Oh, how Hans straiued each nerve and sinew to push 
 forward ! The path led across several torrents, many of 
 them by places which, in day, demanded the greatest 
 circumspection, but Hans cleared them now at a spring. 
 The deep marshy ground, plashy with rivulets and 
 melted snow, he waded through ankle deep, climbing 
 the briery rocks and steep banks without a moment's 
 halt. 
 
 He thought that the lame soldier continued to exhort 
 him, and encourage his zeal, while gradually his own 
 pace slackened, and at last he cried out, " 1 can do no 
 more, Hans. Thou must go forward alone, my boy — to 
 thee all the glory — I am old and worn out ! Hasten, then, 
 my child, and save the Vaterland. Thou wilt see the 
 tinder-box and the rags in the hollow pine-tree beside the 
 fagot. It is wrapped in tow, and will light at once. 
 Farewell, and Gott guide thee ! " 
 
 I cannot tell a thousandth part of the dangers and 
 difficulties of that night's walk : in one place the path, for 
 several yards is on the brink of a ravine, eleven hundred 
 feet deep, and so abrupt is the turn at the end, that an iron 
 hook is inserted in the rock, by which the traveller must 
 grip ; a steep glacier is to be crossed farther on ; and 
 lastly, the torrent of the Kletscher must be traversed on 
 a tree, whose bark, wet and slippery from the falling 
 spray, would be impossible to all but the feet of a moun- 
 taineer. Each of these did Hans now surmount with all 
 the px'ecision and care of waking senses ; with greater 
 courage, by far, than. in his waking moments he could 
 have confronted them. 
 
 Gorges he never gazed on before without a shudder, he 
 passed now in utter disregard ; paths he trembled to tread, 
 he stepped along now in nimble speed, and at last caught 
 sight of a large dark object that stood out against the 
 sky — the great heap of fire-wood for the beacon. 
 
 As he came nearer, his eagerness grew greater; each 
 minute now seemed an hour — every false step he made 
 appeared to him as though it might prove fatal to his 
 mission ; and when, by any turn of the way, the beacon 
 pile disappeai^ed for a moment from his eyes, his heart
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 187 
 
 throbbed so powerfully as almost to impede his breath. 
 At last he gained the top — the wild mountain-peak of the 
 Kaiser-fells. The snow lay deep, and a cold, catting wind 
 swept the drift along, and made the sensation far more 
 intense. Hans cared not for this : his whole soul was on 
 one object ; suffering, torture, death itself, he would have 
 braved and welcomed, could he only accomplish it. The 
 mist lay heavily on the side by which he had ascended, 
 but towards Landgck the air was clear, and Hans gazed 
 down in that direction as w^ell as the darkness would per- 
 mit; but all seemed tranquil — nothing stirred, nor showed 
 the threatened approach. "What if he should be mis- 
 taken ? " thought Hans. " What if the lame soldier should 
 have only fancied this ? or could he be a traitor, that would 
 endeavour by a false alarm to excite the revolt before its 
 time ? " 
 
 These were torturing doubts, and while he yet revolved 
 them he stood unconsciously peering into the depth below, 
 when suddenly, close beneath him — so close that he 
 thought it almost beside him, though still about eighty 
 yards off — he saw two figures emerge from the shadow of 
 a pine copse, and commence the steep ascent of the peak. 
 They were followed by two others, and now a long com- 
 pact line issued forth, and begaii to clamber up the pass. 
 Their weapons clinked as they came : there could be no 
 doubt of it — they were the enemy. 
 
 With one spring he seized the tinder-box and struck 
 the light: the wood, smeared with tar, ignited when 
 touched, and before a minute elapsed a bright pillar of 
 flame sprung up into the dark sky. Hans, not content 
 with leaving anything to chance, seized a brand and 
 touched the fagots here and there, till the whole reeking 
 mass blazed out — a perfect column of fire. 
 
 No sooner had the leading files turned the cliff, than 
 with a cry of horror and vengeance they sprung forward. 
 It was too late : the signal was already answered from the 
 Kaiser- fells, and a glittering star on the Gebatsch told 
 where another fire was about to blaze forth. Hans had 
 but time to turn and fly down the mountain as the soldiers 
 drevY up, A particle of burning wood had touched his
 
 188 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 jacket, however, and, guided by the sparks, four bullets 
 followed him. It was at the moment when he had turned 
 for a last look at the blazing pile. He fell, but speedily 
 regaining his feet, continued his flight. His mission was 
 but half accomplished if the village were not apprised of 
 their danger. All the dangers of his upward course were 
 now to be encountered in his waking state ; and with the 
 agony of a terrible wound — for the bullet had pierced him 
 beneath the left breast — half frantic with pain and excite- 
 ment, he bounded from cliff to cliff, clearing the torrents 
 by leaps despair alone could have made, and at length 
 staggered rather than ran along the village street, and 
 fell at the door of the Vorsteher's house. 
 
 Already the whole village was a-foot : the signal blazing 
 on the mountain had called them to arm, but none could 
 tell by whom it was lighted, or by which path the enemy 
 might be expected. They now gathered around the poor 
 boy, who, in accents bx'oken and faltering, could scarce 
 reply. 
 
 "What! thou hast done it?" cried the Vorsteher, 
 angrily. " So, then, thou silly fool, it is to thy mad 
 ravings we owe all this terror — a terror that may cost 
 our country bitter tears ! Who prompted thee to 
 this?" 
 
 " The lame soldier told me they were coming," said 
 Hans, with eyes swimming in tears. 
 
 " The lame soldier !— he is mad ! " cried an old peasant: 
 " there is none such in all the Dorf." 
 
 "Yes, yes," reiterated Hans; "they flung him away 
 last night, because he was lame — lame, and a cripple like 
 me: but he told me they were coming: and I had only 
 time to reach the Kaiser-fells when they gained the top 
 too." 
 
 "Wretched fool!" said the Vorsteher, sternly; "thy 
 mad reading and wild fancies have ruined the Vaterland. 
 See, there is the signal from Pfunds, and the whole Tyrol 
 .vill be up ! If thy life were worth anything, thou shouldst 
 die for this!" 
 
 " So shall I !" said Hans, sobbing; "the bullet is yet 
 here." And he opened his jacket, and displayed to their
 
 HORACE fEMPLETON. 189 
 
 horrified gaze the whole chest bathed in blood, and the 
 round, blue mark of a gun-shot wound. 
 
 This terrible evidence dispelled every doubt of Hans* 
 story : and all its strange incoherency vanished before 
 that pool of blood, which, welling forth at every respira- 
 tion, ran in currents over him. Dreadful, too, as the 
 tidings, were, the better nature of the poor villagers pre- 
 vailed over their fears, and in the sorrow the child's fate 
 excited all other thou2:hts were lost. 
 
 In a sad procession they bore him home to his mother's 
 cottage, the Vorsteher walking at his side ; while Hans, 
 with rapid utterance, detailed the events which have been 
 told. Broken and unconnected as parts of his recital 
 were — incomprehensible as the whole history of the lame 
 soldier appeared — the wounded figure — the blazing fires 
 that already twinkled on every peak — were facts too 
 palpable for denial ; and the hearers stared at each other 
 in amazement, not knowing how to interpret the strange 
 story. 
 
 The agonizing grief of the bereaved mother, as she 
 beheld the shattered and bleeding form of her child, 
 broke in upon these doubtings ; and while they endea- 
 voured to offer her their consolation, none thought of the 
 impending danger. 
 
 t'or a while after he was laid in bed, Hans seemed sunk 
 in a swoon ; but, suddenly awaking, he made an effort to 
 rise. Too weak for this, he called the chief people of the 
 village around, and said, ■ 
 
 " They are coming from the Kaiser-fells ; they will be 
 down soon, and burn the village, if you do not cut away 
 the bridges over the Kletscher, and close the pass on the 
 Weissen Spitze. Throw out skirmishers along the moun- 
 tain side, and guard the footpath from the Pontlatzer 
 Eriicko." 
 
 Had the words been the dying orders of a general 
 commanding an army, they could not have been heard 
 ■with more implicit reverence, nor more strictly obeyed. 
 From the spot the Vorsteher issued commands for these 
 instructions to be followed. Hans' revelations were, to 
 the superstitious imaginations of the peasants, of divine
 
 190 HORACE TEMPLETON, 
 
 inspiration : and many already stoutly affirmed that tlie 
 lame soldier was St. Martin himself, their patron saint, 
 at whose shinne a crowd of devout worshippers were soon 
 after seen kneeling. 
 
 The village doctor soon pronounced the case above his 
 skill, but did not abandon hojDe. Hans only smiled 
 faintly, and whispered,- ■ 
 
 " Be it so ! The proverb is always right, — 
 
 ' Gott hat sein plan 
 Fur Jedenmann.' 
 
 '' What do you see there, Herr Vorsteher ? " cried he, 
 as the old man stared with astonished eyes from the 
 little window that commanded the valley. " What is it 
 you see ? " 
 
 " The Dorf in the Kaunser-Thal seems all in commo- 
 tion," answered the Vorsteher. " The people are packing 
 everything in their waggons, and pi^epariug to fly." 
 
 " I know that," said Hans, quietly ; " I saw it already." 
 
 '' Thou hast seen it already? " muttered the old man, 
 in tremblins^ awe. 
 
 ''Yes, I saw it all. Look sharply along the river side, 
 and tell me if a child is not holding two mules, who are 
 striving to get down into the stream to drink." 
 
 " God be around and about us ! " murmured the Vors- 
 teher ; " his power is great ! " He crossed himself three 
 times, and the whole company followed the pious motion ; 
 and a low murmuring prayer, was heard to fill the 
 chamber. 
 
 " There is a waggon with eight bullocks, too, but they 
 cannot stir the load," continued Hans, as, with closed 
 eyes, he spoke with the faint accents of one half-sleeping, 
 
 " Who are these coming along the valley, Hans ? " 
 asked the A'^orsteher ; " they seem like our own Jagers, as 
 well as my eyes can make out." 
 
 " He is asleep ! " whispered his mother, with a cautious 
 gesture to enforce silence. 
 
 It was true. Wearied, and faint, and dying, he had 
 fallen into slumber.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 191 
 
 "While poor Hans slept, the tidiags of which he was 
 the singular messenger had received certain confirmation. 
 The village scouts had already exchanged shots with tlio 
 Bavarian troops upon the mountains, and driven them 
 back. The guard at the Pontlatzer Briicke was seen to 
 withdraw up the valley towards Landeck, escorting 
 three field-pieces which had only arrived the preceding 
 day. Every moment accounts came of garrisons with- 
 drawn from distant outposts stations, and troops falling 
 back to concentrate in the open country. It was seen, 
 from various circumstances, that a forward movement had 
 been intended, and was only thwarted by the inexplic- 
 able intervention of Hans Jorofle. 
 
 The Tyrolers could not fail to perceive that their own 
 hour was now come, and the blow must be struck at once 
 or never ! So felt the leaders ; and scarcely had the 
 Bavarians withdrawn their advanced posts, than emissa- 
 ries flew from village to village, with little scraps of 
 paper, bearing the simple words, ^^ Es ist zeit ! — It is 
 time ! " while, as the day broke, a little plank was 
 seen floating down the current, with a small flag-staff", 
 from which a pennon fluttered — a signal that was wel- 
 comed by the wildest shouts of enthusiasm as it floated 
 along: — the Tyrol was up! '■^ Fur Gott, der Kaiser, 
 unci das Vaterland ! " rung from, every glen and every 
 mountain. 
 
 I dare not suff'er myself to be withdrawn, even for a 
 moment, to that glorious struggle — one of the noblest 
 that ever a nation carried on to victory. My task is 
 rather within that darkened room in the little hut, where, 
 with fast-ebbing life, Hans Jorgle lay. 
 
 The wild cheers and echoino' sonsrs of the marchinsf 
 peasants awoke him from his sleep, which, if troubled by 
 pangs of pain, had still lasted for some hours. He 
 smiled, and made a gesture as if for silence, that he 
 might hear the glorious sounds more plainly, and then 
 lay in a calm jDeaceful revei-ie, for a considerable time. 
 
 The Yorsteher had, with considerable difficulty, per- 
 suaded the poor widow to leave the bedside for a moment, 
 while he asked Hans a question.
 
 192 EORACE TEMPLETON* 
 
 The wretclied mother was borne, almost fainting, away ; 
 and the old man sat in her place, but, subdued by the 
 anguish of the scene, unable to speak. At last, while the 
 tears ran down his aged cheeks, he kissed the child's 
 hand, and said, — 
 
 " Thou wilt leave us soon, Hans ! " 
 
 Hans gave a smile of sad, but beautiful, meaning, 
 while his upturned eyes seemed to intimate his hope and 
 his faith. 
 
 " True, Hans — thy reward is ready for thee ! " 
 
 He paused a second, and then went on : — 
 
 "But even here, my child, in our own poor village, let 
 thy devotion be a treasure, to be handed down in memory 
 to our children, that they may know how one like them- 
 selves — more helpless, too — could serve his Vaterland. 
 Say, Hans Jorgle, will it make thy last moments happier 
 to think that our gratitude will raise a monument to 
 thee in the Dorf, with thy father's name who fell at 
 Elchingen, above thine own ? The villagers have bid me 
 ask thee this.'' 
 
 " My mother — my poor mother ! " murmured Hans. 
 
 " She shall never want, Hans Jorgle. The best house 
 in the Dorf shall not have a better fireside than hers. 
 Uut my question, Hans — time presses." 
 
 Hans was silent, and lay with closed eyes for several 
 minutes ; then, laying his hand on the old man, he spoke 
 with an utterance clear at first, but which gradually grew 
 fainter as he proceeded — 
 
 *' Let them build no monument to one poor and humble 
 as I am ; mine were not actions glorious enough for tro- 
 phies in the noon-day ; but let the Naclitivacliter come 
 here at midnight — at the same hour of my blessed dream 
 — and let him wish me a good night. They who are 
 sleeping will dream happier ; and the waking will think, 
 as they hear the cry, of Hans Jorgle ! "
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 193 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The Ortl'er is the Mont Blanc of the Tyrol, and seen from 
 I^auders, a village on a green, grassy table land, more 
 than four thousand feet above the sea, can well bear com- 
 parison with the boldest of the Swiss Alps. I^auders 
 itself, a type of a Tyroler village, is situated in a wild and 
 lonely region ; it has all the picturesque elegance and neat 
 detail of which Tyrolers are so lavish in their houses, 
 and, like every other Dorf in this country, has its proud 
 castle standing sentry over it. The Barons of the J^au- 
 dersbei'g were men of station in olden times, and exacted 
 a tribute over a tract extending deep into the Engadine ; 
 and now, in this great hall, whose chimney would contain 
 the heaviest diligence that ever waddled over the Arlberg, 
 a few Nauders notabilities are squabbling over some mys- 
 tei'ious passage in a despatch from Vienna, for it is the 
 high court of the district, while I wait patiently without 
 for some formality of my passport. To judge from their 
 grave expressions and their anxious glances towards me, 
 one would say that I was some dangerous or suspected 
 personage — some one whose dark designs the government 
 had already fathomed, and were bent on thwarting If 
 they did but know how few are, in all likelihood, the days 
 I have yet to linger on, they would not rob me of one 
 hour of them in this wild mountain. 
 
 And yet I have learned something while I wait. This 
 little dorf, Nauders, is the birthplace of a very remarkable 
 man, although one whose humble name, Bartholomew 
 Kleiuhaus, is little known beyond Tyrol. Left an orphan 
 at five years old, he lost his sight in the small-pox, and 
 was taken into the house of a carpenter who compassion- 
 ated his sad condition. Here he endeavoured to learn 
 
 o
 
 194 nOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 something of his pi'otector's trade; but soon relinqnishing 
 the effort, he set to work, forming little images in wood, 
 at first from models, and then self-designed, till, at the 
 age of thirteen, he completed a crucifix of singular beauty 
 and elegance. 
 
 Following up the inspiration, he now laboured assidu- 
 ously at his new craft, and made figures of various saints 
 and holy personages, for his mind was entirely imbued 
 with a feeling of religious fervour; and to such an extent 
 that, in order to speak his devotion by another sense, he 
 actually learned to play the organ, and with such a pro- 
 ficiency, that he performed the duties of organist for 
 neai-ly a year in the village church of Kaltenbrunnen. As 
 sculptor, his repute is widely spread and great in Tyrol. 
 A St. Francis by his hand is at pi'esent in the Ambras 
 collection at Vienna ; many of his statues adorn the 
 episcopal palaces of Chur and Brixen, and the various 
 churches throughout the province. 
 
 Leaving the sculptor and his birthplace, which already 
 a mountain mist is shrouding, I hasten on, for my pass- 
 port is at last discovered to be in order, and I am free to 
 pursue my road to Meran. 
 
 Of all spots in the Tyrol, none can compare with 
 Meran, the wildest character of mountain uniting with a 
 profusion of all that vegetation can bring. The snow 
 peak, the glacier, the oak forest, the waving fields of 
 yellow corn, the valley, one vast vineyard — where have 
 such elements of grandeur and simple beauty in sceneiy 
 been so gloriously commingled ? And then the little town 
 itself — what a strange reminiscence of long-buried years ! 
 The street — there is properly but one — with its deep 
 ai'ched passages, within which the quaint old shops, with- 
 out windows, display their wares ; and the courtyards, 
 galleried around, stoiy above story, and covered at top by 
 a great awning to keep off the sun ; for already Italy is 
 near, and the odour of the magnolia and oleander is felt 
 from afar. 
 
 I wandered into one of these courts last night ; the 
 twilight was closing, and there was a strange, mystei'ious 
 effect in the dim distances upwards, where figures came
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 195 
 
 and went along tlie liigh-perched galleries, Bej'ond the 
 court lay a garden, covered over with a vine-roofed trellis, 
 under whose shade various tables were placed. A single 
 light, here and there, sliowed where one or two guests 
 were seated ; but all so still and silently, that one would 
 have thought the place deserted. It seemed as if the 
 great charm was that mellow air softened by silence, for 
 none spoke. 
 
 I walked for some time tlirough the alleys, and at last 
 sat down to rest myself at a little table, over which a 
 wide-leaved fig-tree spread its dark canopy. 
 
 At first T did not remark that another person was 
 seated near the table ; but as my eyes became more 
 accustomed to the shade, I descried a figure opposite to 
 me, and immediately rising, I offered my apology in ■ 
 German for intruding. He replied in French, by politely 
 requesting I would be seated ; and the tone and manner 
 of his words induced me to comply. 
 
 We soon fell into conversation ; and although I could 
 barely distinguish his shadow as the night fell thicker, I 
 recognized that he was an old man ; his accent pro- 
 claimed him to be French. We chatted away, the topics 
 ranging, with that wilfulness conversation always inclines 
 to, from the " Wein-cur "; — the " Grape cure " — for which 
 Meran is celebrated, to the present condition and the past 
 grandeur of the ancient town. With its bygone history 
 my companion seemed well acquainted, and narrated with 
 considerable skill some of its illustrious passages, con- 
 cluding one by saying, "Here, in this very garden, on a 
 summer morning of 1342, the Emperor and the ]\Iai'grave 
 of Brandenburg sat at breakfast, when a herald came to 
 announce the advance of the procession with the future 
 bride of the Duke, Margaretta, while the Bishops of 
 Augsburg and Regensberg, and all the chivalry of the 
 Tyrol, rode beside and around her. In yonder little 
 chapel, where a light now glitters over a shrine, was the 
 betrothal pei'forraed. From that day forth Tyrol was 
 Austrian. Of all this gorgeous festivity, nothing remains 
 but an iron horse-shoe nailed to the chapel door. The 
 priest who performed the beti'othal somewhat indiscreetly 
 
 2
 
 196 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 suggested that, with such a dowry as the bridegroom 
 received, he might well be generous towards the Church ; 
 on which the Duke, a man of immense personal strength, 
 at once stooped down and wrenched a fore-shoe from the 
 bride's white palfrey, saying, with sarcastic bitterness, 
 * Here, I give thee iron for stone ! ' in allusion to the rocks 
 and precipices of the Tyrol land. 
 
 "Ungratefully spoken at the time," continued the 
 stranger, " and equally false as a prophecy. These wild 
 fastnesses have proved the best and last defences of that 
 same Austrian Empire. Indeed, so well aware was 
 Napoleon of the united strength and resources of the 
 Tyrol, that one of his first measures was to partition the 
 country between Bavaria, Austria, and Illyria. And yet 
 this Tyrol loyalty is inexplicable. They are attached to 
 the house of Hapsburgh, but they are not Austrian in 
 feeling. The friends of free trade need not go far in 
 Meran to find disciples to their doctrine. Every one 
 lemerabers the time that an aume of Meraner wine was 
 worth seventy-five gulden, which now is to be had for 
 five; but then they were Bavarian, and might barter the 
 grape-juice for the yellow produce of the Baierisch corn- 
 fields. At the present day they are isolated, shut up, and 
 imprisoned by custom-houses and toll ; and they arc grow- 
 ing daily poorer, and neglecting the only source they 
 possessed of wealth." 
 
 We talked of Hofer, and I perceived that my companion 
 was strongly imbued with an opinion, now very general in 
 the Tyrol, that his merits were much less than foreigners 
 usually ascribe to him. Sprung from the people, the host 
 of a little wayside inn, a man with little education, and of 
 the very roughest manner, it is somewhat singular that his 
 claims are most disputed among the very class he came 
 from. Had he been an aristocrat, in all likelihood they 
 had never ventured to canvass the merits they now so 
 mercilessly arraign. They judge of his efforts by the 
 most unfair of tests in such matters — the result. They 
 say, " To what end has Tyrol fought and bled ? Are we 
 better, or richer, or freer than before ? " They even go 
 further, and accuse him of exciting the revolt as a means
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 197 
 
 of escaping' the payment of his debts, which assuredly 
 were considerable. What a terrible price is paid for 
 mob popularity, when the hour of its effervescence is 
 past. 
 
 We fell to chat over the character of revolutions gene- 
 rally, and the almost invariable tendency to reaction that 
 ensues in all popular commotions. The character of the 
 three days and the present condition of France, more 
 despotically governed than ever Napoleon dared, was too 
 palpable an example" to escape mention. I had the less 
 hesitation in speaking my opinion on this subject, that I 
 saw my companion's leanings wore evidently of the legiti- 
 mist stamp. 
 
 From the revolution we diverged to the struggle itself 
 of the three days ; and being tolerably familiar, from 
 various personal narratives, with the event, I ventured on 
 expressing my concurrence with the opinion that a mere 
 mob, unprepared, unarmed, and undisciplined, could never ' 
 have held for an hour against the troops had there not 
 been foul play. 
 
 " Where do you suspect this treachery to have existed ?" 
 asked my companion. 
 
 The tone of the question, even more than its substance, 
 confused me, for I felt myself driven to a vague reply in 
 explanation of a direct charge. I answered, however, that 
 the magnitude of the danger could scarcely have been un- 
 known to many men highly placed in the service of 
 Cliarles X. ; and yet it was clear the King never rightly 
 understood that any real peril impended. The whole out- 
 break was treated as an " ecliaufouree.''' 
 
 " I can assure you of your error, so far," replied my 
 
 companion. " The greatest difficulty we encountered " 
 
 There was a slight pause here, as if by use of the word 
 " we " an unwitting betrayal had escaped him. He speed- 
 ily, however, resumed : " The greatest difficulty was to 
 persuade his Majesty that the entire affair was anything 
 but a street brawl. He treated the accounts with an in- 
 difference bordering on contempt ; and at every fresh 
 narrative of the repulse of the troops, he seemed to feel 
 that the lesson to be inflicted subsequently would be tho
 
 198 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 most efficacious check to popular excess in future. To give 
 an instance — a very slight one, but not without its moral, 
 of the state of feeling of the court, — -at four o'clock of the 
 afternoon of the third day, when the troops had fallen 
 back from the Place du Carrousel, and with great loss been 
 compalled to retreat towards the Champs Elysees, Captain 
 Langlet, of the 4th Lancers, volunteered to carry a verbal 
 message to Versailles, in doing which he should traverse 
 a great part of Paris in the occupation of the insurgents. 
 The attempt was a bold and daring one, but it succeeded. 
 After innumerable hairbreadth dangers and escapes, he 
 reached Versailles at half-past seven. His horse had twice 
 fallen, and his uniform was torn by balls ; and he entered 
 the courtyard of the Palace just as his Majesty learned 
 that bis dinner was served. Langlet hastened up the great 
 staircase, and, by the most pressing entreaties to the officer 
 in waiting, obtained permission to wait there till the King 
 should pass. He stood there for nearly a quarter of an 
 hour ; it seemed an age to him, for though faint, wounded, 
 and weary, his thoughts were fixed on the scene of struggle 
 he had quitted, and the diminishing chances of success 
 each m.oment told. At last the door of a salon was flunsr 
 "Wide, and the Grand Marechal, accompanied by the officers 
 in waiting, were seen retiring in measured steps before 
 the king. His Majesty had not advanced half-way along 
 the corridor when he perceived the splashed and travel- 
 stained figure of the officer. ' Who is that ? ' demanded 
 he, in a tone of almost asperity. The officer on guard 
 stepped forward, and told who he was and the object of 
 his coming. The king spoke a few words hastily and 
 passed on. Langlet awaited in breathless eagerness to 
 hear when he should have his audience — he only craved 
 time for a single sentence. What was the reply he re- 
 ceived ? — an order to present himself, ' suitably dressed,' 
 in the morning. Before that morning broke there was no 
 king in France ! 
 
 " Take this — the story is true — as a specimen of the 
 fatuity of the Court. Quern Deus vult perdcre : — so it is 
 we speak of events, but we forget ourselves." 
 
 " But still," said I, " the army scarcely performed their
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 199 
 
 devoir — not, at least, as French troops understand devoir — 
 where their hearts are engaged." 
 
 " You are mistaken again," said he. " Save in a few 
 companies of the line, never did troops behave better : four 
 entire squadrons of one regiment were cut to pieces at the 
 end of the Rue Royale ; two infantry regiments were actu- 
 ally annihilated at the Hotel de Ville. For eight hours, 
 at the Place du Cari'ousel, we had no ammunition, while 
 the insurgents poured in a most murderous fire ; so was it 
 along the Quai Voltaire." 
 
 "I have heard,'' said I, "that the Due de Raguse lost 
 his head completely." 
 
 " I can assure you, sir, they who say so calumniate 
 him," was the calm reply. " Never before that day was a 
 Marshal of France called upon to fight an armed host, 
 without soldiers and without ammunition." 
 
 " His fate would induce us to be superstitious, and be- 
 lieve in good luck. Never was there a man more persecuted 
 by ill fortune ! " 
 
 " I perceive they are shutting the gates," said my com- 
 panion, rising; "these worthy Meraners are of the very 
 earliest to retire for the night." And so saying, and with 
 a " Good-night," so hastily uttered as to forbid further 
 converse, my companion withdrew, while I wandered 
 slowly back to my inn, curious to learn who he might be, 
 
 and if I should ever chance upon him again. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I heard a voice this morning on the bridge, so exactly 
 like that of my companion of last night, that I could not 
 help starting. The speaker was a very large and singu- 
 larly handsome man, who, though far advanced in life, 
 walked with a stature as erect, and an air as assured, as 
 he could have worn in youth. Large bushy eye-brows, 
 black as jet, although his hair was perfectly white, shaded 
 eyes of undimmed brilliancy — he was evidently " some- 
 one," the least observant could not pass him without this 
 conviction. I asked a stranger who he was, and received 
 for answer, " Marshal Marmont — he comes here almost 
 every autumn."
 
 200 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE TYROL. 
 
 Every traveller in the Tyrol must have remarked, that, 
 v?herever the way is difficult of access, or dangerous to 
 traverse, some little shrine or statue is always to be seen, 
 reminding him that a higher Power than his own watches 
 over his safety, and suggesting the fitness of an appeal to 
 Him who is " A very present help in time of trouble." 
 
 Sometimes a rude painting upon a little board, nailed 
 on a tree, communicates the escape and gratitude of a 
 traveller ; sometimes a still ruder fresco, on the very rock, 
 tells where a wintry torrent had swept away a whole family, 
 and calling on all pious Christians who pass that way to 
 offer a prayer for the departed. There is an endless variety 
 in these little " Votive Tablets," which are never more 
 touching than when their very rude poverty attests the 
 simplest faith of a simple people. The Tyrolers are indeed 
 such. Perhaps alone, of all the accessible parts of Europe, 
 the Tyrol has preserved its primitive habits and tastes for 
 centuries unchanged. Here and there, throughout the 
 continent, to be sure, you will find some little " Dorf," or 
 village, whose old-world customs stand out in contrast to 
 its neighbours : and where in their houses, dress, and 
 bearing, the inhabitants seem unlike all else around them. 
 Look more closely, however, and you will see that, although 
 the grandmother is clothed in homespun, and wears her 
 leathern pocket at her girdle, all studded with copper 
 nails, that her granddaughter affects a printed cotton or a 
 Swiss calico ; and instead of the broad-brimmed and 
 looped felt of the old " Bauer," the new generation sport 
 broad-cloth and beaver.
 
 Horace templetoN. 201 
 
 Sucli hamlets are, therefore, only like the passengers 
 left behind by their own coach, and waiting for the next 
 conveyance that passes to carry them on their journey. 
 
 In the Tyrol, however, such evidences of progress — 
 as it is the fashion to call it — are rare. The peasantry 
 seem content to live as their fathers have done, and truly 
 he must be sanguine who could hope to better a condition, 
 which, with so few privations, comprises so many of life's 
 best and dearest blessings. If the mountain peaks be 
 snow-clad, even in midsummer, the valleys (at least all in 
 South Tyrol) are rich in vineyards and olive groves ; and 
 although wheat is seldom seen, the maize grows every- 
 where ; the rivers swarm with trout ; and he must be a 
 poor marksman who cannot have venison for his dinner. 
 The villages are large and well built; the great wooden 
 houses, with their wide projecting roofs and endless gal- 
 leries, are the very types of comfort. Vast piles of 
 fire-wood, for winter use, large granaries of forage for the 
 cattle — the cattle themselves with great silver bells hang- 
 ing to their necks — all bespeak an ease, if not an actual 
 affluence, among the peasantry. The Tyrolers are, in a 
 word, all that poets and tourists say the Swiss are, and of 
 which they are exactly the reverse. 
 
 It would be difficult to find two nations so precisely 
 alike in all external circumstances, and so perfectly dis- 
 similar in every feature of character. Even in their 
 religious feelings, Romanism, generally so levelling, has 
 not been able to make them of the same measure here. 
 The Swiss Catholic— bigotted, overbearing, and plotting — 
 has nothing in common with the simple-minded Tyroler, 
 whose faith enters into all the little incidents of his daily 
 life, cheering, exalting, and sustaining, but never suggest- 
 ing a thought, save of charity and good will to all. 
 
 That they have interwoven, so to say, their religious 
 belief into all their little worldly concerns, if not making 
 their faith the rule, at least establishing it as the com- 
 panion of their conduct, is easily seen. You never over- 
 take a group, retui'ning from fair or market, that all are 
 not engaged in prayer, repeating together some litany of 
 the Church ; and as each new arrival joins the party, his
 
 202 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 voice chimes in, and swells the solemn hum as naturally 
 as if pre-arranged or practised. 
 
 If you pass a village, or a solitary farmhouse, at sunset, 
 the same accents meet your ears, or else you hear them 
 singing some hymn in concert. Few "Bauer " houses, of 
 any pretension, are without the effigy of a patron saint 
 above the door, and even the humblest will have a verse 
 of a psalm, or a pious sentence, carved in the oaken beam. 
 Their names are taken from the saintly calendar, and 
 everything, to the minutest particular, shows that their 
 faith is an active working principle, fashioning all their 
 actions, and mingling with all their thoughts. Their 
 superstitions, like all simple-minded and secluded people's, 
 are many ; their ignorance is not to be denied ; mayhap 
 the Church has fostered the one, and done little to 
 enlighten the other: still, if Romanism had no heavier 
 sin to account for, no dai^ker score to clear up, than her 
 dealings in these mountains, there would be much to for- 
 give in a creed that has conferred so many good gifts, and 
 sowed the seeds of so few bad ones. 
 
 These pious emblems find their way, too, into places 
 where one would scarce look for them — over the doors of 
 village inns, and as signs to little wine and beer-houses: 
 and frequently the Holy personages are associated with 
 secular usages, strangely at variance with the saintly 
 character. This I have seen, in the village beside me, a 
 venerable St. Martin engaged in the extraordinary opera- 
 tion of shoeing a horse ; though what veterinary tastes 
 the saint ever evinced, or why he is so represented, I can 
 find no one to inform me. On the summit of steep passes, 
 where it is usual, by a police regulation, to prescribe the 
 use of a drag to all wheel carriages, the board which sets 
 forth the direction is commonly oi'namented by a St. 
 Michael, very busily applying the drag to a heavy waggon, 
 while the driver thereof is on his knees hard by, worship- 
 ping the saint, in evident delight at his dexterity. In the 
 same way many venerable and holy men are to be seen 
 presiding over savouiy hams and goblets of foaming beer, 
 and beaming with angelic beatitude at a party of hard- 
 drinking villagers iu the distance. Our present business
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 203 
 
 is, however, less with the practice iu general, than a 
 particular instance, which is to be met with in the Bavarian 
 Tyrol, raid- way between the villages of Murnou and Stein- 
 gadeu, where over the door of a solitary little way-side 
 inn hangs a representation of the Virgin, with a starling- 
 perched upon her wrist. Oue has only to remark the 
 expression of unnatural intelligence in the bird's look, to 
 be certain that it was not a mere fancy of the artist to 
 have placed her thus, but that some event of village tra- 
 dition, or history, is interwoven with her presence. 
 
 The motto contributes nothing to the explanation. It 
 is merely a line from the Church Litany, " Maria, Mutter 
 Gottes, hiilf uns — Mary, Mother of God, help us ! " 
 
 There is then a story connected with the painting, and 
 we shall, with your leave, tell it ; calling our tale by the 
 name of the little inn, 
 
 " MARIA HIJLF ! " 
 
 Has our reader ever heard, or read, of those strange 
 gatherings, which take place at the early spring in the 
 greater number of southern German cities and are called, 
 " Year Markets ? " The object is simply to assemble the 
 youth of the mountain districts in Tyrol and Vorarlberg, 
 that they may be hired, by the farmers of the rich pasture 
 countries, as herds. Thither they go — many a mile — 
 some children often or eleven years old, and seeming even 
 still younger, away from home and friends, little adven- 
 turers on the bleak wide ocean of life, to sojourn among 
 strangers in far-off lands ; to pass days long in lonely 
 valleys or deep glens, without a sight or sound of human 
 life around them ; watching the bright sun and counting 
 the weary minutes over, that night and rest may come, 
 perchance with dreams of that far-off home, which, in all 
 its poverty, is still cheered by the fond familiar faces ! 
 Some, ruddy and stout-looking, seem to relish the enter- 
 prise, and actually enjoy the career so promising in its 
 vicissitudes ; others, sad and care-worn, bear with them 
 the sorrows of their last leave-taking, and are only com-
 
 204 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 forted by the thought that autumn will come at last, and 
 then the cattle must be housed for the winter : and then 
 they shall be free to wend their way over mountain and 
 plain, far, far away beyond Maltz — high in the wild 
 peaks of the Stelvio, or deep in the lovely glens below 
 Meran, 
 
 It was one of these " Markets" at Innspruck that a little 
 boy was seen, not standing with the groups which usually 
 gather together under a single leader, but alone and apart, 
 seemingly without one that knew him. His appearance 
 bespoke great poverty ; his clothes, originally poor, were 
 now in rags ; his little cap, of squirrel skin, hung in frag- 
 ments on either side of his pallid cheeks; his feet — a rare 
 circumstance — were bare, and bloodstained from travel ; 
 want and privation were stamped in every feature : and 
 his eyes, which at that moment were raised with eager 
 anxiety as some Bauer drew nigh, gi'ew wan, and filling 
 at each new disappointment to his hopes, for this was his 
 third day to stand in the market, and not one had even 
 asked his name. And yet he heard that name ; ever and 
 anon it met his ears in sounds which stirred his feeble 
 heart, and made it throb faster. " Fritzerl ! ah, Fritzerl, 
 good fellow ! " were the words ; and poor Fitzerl would 
 stoop down when he heard them, and peep into a little 
 cage where a starling was perched — a poor emaciated 
 little thing it was, as wayworn and poverty sti'uck, to all 
 seeming, as himself: but he did not think so : he deemed 
 it the very paragon of the feathered tribe, for it had a 
 little toppin of brown -feathers on its head, and a little 
 ring of white around its neck, and would come when he 
 called it ; and, better than all, could sing, " Good Fritzerl 
 — nice Fritzerl ! " when it was pleased, and '• Potztausend !" 
 when angry. This was all its education; his master, poor 
 little fellow, had not much more. How could he ? Fritz- 
 erl's mother died when he vvas a baby ; his father was 
 killed by a fall from a cliff in the Tyrol Alps, for he was 
 by trade a birdcatcher, and came from the Engadine, 
 where everyone loves birds, and in the pursuit of this pas- 
 sion met his fate. 
 
 Fritzerl was left an orphan at eleven years old, and all
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 205 
 
 his worldly wealth was this little starling ; for although 
 his father had left a little cabin in the high nips, and a 
 rifle, and some two or three articles of house-gear, they all 
 were sold to pay the expenses of his funeral, and feast 
 the neighbours who were kind enough to follow him to 
 the o-rave : so that poor Fritz kept open house for two 
 days ; and when he walked out the third after the coffin, 
 he never turned his steps back again, but wandered away 
 far, far" away — to^,seek in the year-market of Tnnspruck 
 some kind peasant who would take him home to herd his 
 cattle, and be a father to him now. 
 
 Fritzerl knew not that the children who desire to be 
 hired out assemble together in little groups or gangs, 
 electing some one to bargain for them with the Bauers, 
 setting forth in vehement language their various excellen- 
 cies and good gifts, and telling where they have served 
 before, and what zeal and fidelity they have shown to their 
 trust. Fritz, I say, knew not this ; perhaps if he had it 
 would have availed him but little; for he was so poorly 
 clad and so weak-looking, and so ignorant of all about 
 tending cattle besides, that he would soon have been driven 
 from the fraternity with disgrace. It was, then, as fortu- 
 nate for him that he did not know the custom of the craft, 
 and that he took his stand alone and apart beside the 
 fountain in the main street of Innspruck. 
 
 And a lovely object is the same fountain, and a beauti- 
 ful street it stands in, with its stately houses, all rich in 
 stuccoed arabesques, and gorgeously carved doors and 
 gates ! And bright and cheei^ful, too, it looks, with its 
 Tyroler people clad in their gay colours and their gold- 
 banded hats ! 
 
 Fritz saw little of these things, oi-, if he saw, he marked 
 them not. Cold, hunger, and desolation, had blunted the 
 very faculties of his mind ; and he gazed at the moving 
 crowd with a dreamy unconsciousness that what he saw 
 was real. 
 
 The third day of his painful watching was drawing to 
 a close. Fritz had, several hours before, shared his last 
 morsel of black bread with his companion ; and the bird, 
 as if sympathizing with his sori'ow, sat moody and silent
 
 206 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 ou his perch, nor even by a note or sound broke the still- 
 ness. 
 
 "Poor Jacob!"* said Fritz, with tears in his eyes, 
 " my hard luck should not fall ou thee ! If no one comes 
 to hire me before the shadow closes across the street, I'll 
 open the cage and let thee go ! " 
 
 The very thought seemed an agony, for scarcely had he 
 uttered it when his heart felt as if it would break, and he 
 burst into a torrent of tears. 
 
 " Potztausend !" screamed Jacob, alarmed at the unusual 
 cries — '' Potztausend ! " And as Fritz sobbed louder, so 
 were the starling's cries of " Potztausend !" more shrill 
 and piercing. 
 
 There were few people passing at the moment, but such 
 as were, stopped ; some to gaze with interest on the poor 
 little boy — more, far more, to wonder at the bird ; when 
 suddenly a venerable old man, with a wide-leaved hat, 
 and a silken robe I'eaching down to his feet, crossed over 
 towards the fountain. It was the curate of Lenz, a pious 
 and good man, universally respected in Innspruck. 
 
 " What art thou weeping for, my child ? " said he, 
 mildly. 
 
 Fritz raised his eyes, and the benevolent look of the old 
 man streamed through his heart like a flood of hope. It 
 was not, however, till the question had been repeated, that 
 Fritz could summon presence of mind to tell his sorrow 
 and disappointment. 
 
 "Thou should'st not have been here alone, my child," 
 said the curate; " thou should'st have been in the great 
 market with the others.' And now the time is well-nigh 
 over: most of the Bauers have quitted the town." 
 
 " Potztausend !" cried the bird, passionately. 
 
 " It will be better for thee to return home again to thy 
 parents," said the old man, as he drew his little leathern 
 purse from between the folds of his robe — " to thy father 
 and mother." 
 
 " I have neither ! " sobbed Fritz. 
 
 " Potztausend! " screamed the starling — "Potztausend!" 
 
 *o 
 
 Every Starling in Germany is called Jacob.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 207 
 
 " Poor little fellow ! I would help thee more," said the 
 kind old pi'iest, as he put six kreutzers into the child's 
 hand, " but I am not rich either." 
 
 " Potztausend ! " shrieked the bird, with a shrillness 
 excited by Fritz's emotion; and as he continued to sob, 
 so did the starling yell out his exclamation till the very 
 street rang with it. 
 
 " Farewell, child !" said the priest, as Fritz kissed his 
 hand for the twentieth time ; " farewell, but let me not 
 leave thee without" a word of counsel: thou should'st 
 never have taught thy bird that idle word. He that was 
 to be thy companion and thy friend, as it seems to me he 
 is, should have learned something that would lead thee to 
 better thoughts. This would bring thee better fortune, 
 Fritz. Adieu! adieu!" 
 
 "Potztausend!" said the starling, but in a very low, 
 faint voice, as if he felt the rebuke ; and well he might, 
 for Fritz opened his little handkerchief and spread it over 
 the cage — a sign of displeasure, which the bird understood 
 well. 
 
 While Fritz was talking to the curate, an old Bauer, 
 poorly, but cleanly clad, had drawn nigh to listen. May- 
 hap he was not overmuch enlightened by the curate's 
 words, for he certainly took a deep interest in the stai'ling ; 
 and every time the creature screamed out its one expletive 
 he would laugh to himself, and mutter, — 
 
 " Thou art a droll beastie, sure enough." 
 
 He watched the bird till Fritz covered it up with his 
 handkerchief, and then Avas about to move away, when, for 
 the fiist time, a thought of the little boy crossed his mind. 
 He turned abruptly round, and said, — 
 
 " And thou, little fellow ! — what art doing here ?" 
 
 " AVaiting," sighed Fritz, heavily — " waiting ! " 
 
 " Ah, to sell thy bird ? " said the old man ; — " come, I'll 
 buy him from thee. He might easily meet a richer, but 
 he'll not find a kinder, master. What wilt have? — twelve 
 kreutzers, isn't it ? " 
 
 " I cannot sell him," sobbed Fritz ; " I have promised 
 him never to do that." 
 
 " Silly child ! " said the Bauer, laughing ; " thy bird
 
 203 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 cares little for all thj promises : besides, lie'Ilhavea better 
 life with me than thee." 
 
 "That might he easily!" said Fritz: "but I'll not 
 break my word." 
 
 " And what is this wonderful promise thou'st made, my 
 little man ? — come, tell it ! " 
 
 " I told him," said Fritz, in a voice broken with agita- 
 tion, " that if the shadow closed over the street down there 
 before any one had hired me, that I would open his cnge 
 and let him free; and look ! it is nearly across now — 
 there's only one little glimpse of sunlight remaining ! " 
 
 Poor child ! how many in this world live upon one 
 single gleam of hope — ay, and even cling to it wlien a 
 mere twilight, fast fading before them ! 
 
 The Bauer was silent for some minutes ; his look wan- 
 dered from the child to the caije, and back a^ain from the 
 cage to the child. At last he stooped down and peeped in 
 at the bird, Avhich, with a sense of being in disgrace, sat 
 with his head beneath his wing. 
 
 " Come, my little man," said he, laying a hand on Fritz's 
 shoulder, " I'll take thee home with me ! 'Tis true I have 
 no cattle — nothing save a few goats — but thou shalt herd 
 these. Pack up thy bird, and let us away, for we have a 
 long journey before us, and must do part of it before we 
 sleep." 
 
 Fritz's heart bounded with joy and gratitude. It would 
 have been, in good truth, no very splendid prospect for 
 any other to be a goatherd to a poor Bauer — so poor that 
 he had not even one cow ; but little Fritz was an orplian, 
 without a home, a friend, or one to give him shelter for a 
 single night. It may be believed, then, that he felt over- 
 joyed ; and it was with a light heart he trotted along 
 beside tlie old Bauer, who never could hear enough about 
 the starling — where he came from? how he was caught? 
 who taught him to speak ? what he liked best to feed 
 upon ? and a hundred other questions, which, after all, 
 should have been far more numerous ere Fritz found it 
 any fatigue to answer them. Not only did it give him 
 pleasure to speak of Jacob, but now ho felt actually 
 grateful to him, since, had the old Bauer not taken a
 
 aORACE TEMPtiETON. 209 
 
 fancy to the bird, it was more than likely he liad never 
 hired its master. 
 
 The Bauer told Fritz that the journey was a long one, 
 and true enough. It lay across the Zillar-thal, where the 
 garnets are found, and over the great mountains that 
 separate tlie Austrian from the Bavarian Tyrol — many a 
 long, weary mile — many, I say, because the Bauer had 
 come up to Innspruck to buy hemp for spinning when the 
 evenings of winter" are long and dark, and poor people 
 must do something to earn their bread. This load of 
 hemp was carried on a little wheeled cart, to which the 
 old man himself was harnessed, and in front of him his 
 dog — a queer-looking team would it appear to English 
 eyes, but one meets them often enough here; and as the 
 fatigue is not great, and the peasants lighten the way 
 by many a merry song — as the Tyrol jode/n — it never 
 suggests the painful idea of over-hard or distressing 
 labour. Fritzerl soon took his place as a leader beside 
 the dog, and helped to pull the load ; while the starling's 
 cage was fastened on the sheltered side of the little cart, 
 and there he travelled quite safe and happy. 
 
 I never heard that Fritz was struck — as he might pos- 
 sibly, with reason, have been — that, as he came into 
 Bavaria, where the wide-stretching plains teem with 
 yellow corn and golden wheat, the peasants seemed far 
 poorer than among the wild mountains of his own Tyrol ; 
 neither have I any recollection that he experienced that 
 peculiar freedom of respiration, that greater expansion of 
 the chest, travellers so frequently enumerate as among 
 the sensations whenever they have passed over the Aus- 
 trian frontier, and breathed the air of liberty, so bounte- 
 ously diffused through the atmosphere of other lands. 
 Fritz, I fear, for the sake of his perceptive quickness, 
 neither was alive to the fact nor the fiction above quoted ; 
 nor did he take much more notice of the features of the 
 landscape, than to mark that the mountains were further 
 off and not so high as those among which he lived — two 
 circumstances which weighed heavily on his heart, for a 
 Dutchman loves not water as well as a Tyroler loves a 
 mountain.
 
 210 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 The impression he first received did not improve as he 
 drew near the Dorf where the old Bauer lived. The 
 country was open and cultivated ; but there wei^e few 
 trees : and wliile one could not exactly call it flat, the 
 surface was merely a waving tract that never rose to the 
 dignity of mountain. The Bauer houses, too, unlike the 
 great wooden edifices of the Southern Tyrol — where 
 three, ay, sometimes four, generations may be found 
 dwelling under one roof — were small, misshapen things, 
 half stone, half wood. Xo deep shadowing eave along 
 them to relieve the heat of a summer sun ; no trellised 
 vines over the windows and the doorway ; no huge 
 yellow gourds drying on the long galleries, where bright 
 geraniums and prickly aloes stood in a row ; no Jager 
 either, in his green jacket and gold-tasselled hat, was 
 there, sharing his breakfast with his dog; the rich spoils 
 of his day's sport strewed around his feet — the smooth- 
 skinned chamois, or the stag with the gnarled horns, or 
 the gorgeously-feathered wild turkey, all so plentiful in 
 the mountain regions. 'No ; here was a land of husband- 
 men, with ploughs, and harrows, and deep-wheeled carts, 
 driven along by poor-looking ill-clad peasants, who never 
 sung as tliey went along, scarce greeted each other as 
 they passed. 
 
 It was true the great plains were covered with cattle, 
 but to Fritz's eyes the prospect had something mournful 
 and sad. It was so still and silent. The cows had no 
 bells beneath their necks like those in the Alpine regions ; 
 nor did the herds jodeln to each other, as the Tyrolers 
 do, from cliff to clifi", making the valleys ring to the merry 
 sound. N"o, it was as still as midnight; not even a bird 
 was there to cheer the solitude with his song. 
 
 If the aspect without had little to enliven Fritz's spirits, 
 within doors it had even less. The Bauer was very poor ; 
 his hut stood on a little knoll outside the village, and on 
 the edge of a long tract of unreclaimed land, which once 
 had borne forest trees, but now was covered by a low 
 scrub, with here and there some huge trunk, too hard to 
 split, or too rotten for firewood. The hut had two rooms, 
 but even that was enough, for there was nobody to dwell
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 211 
 
 In it but the Bauer, his "svife, and a little daughter, 
 Gretchen, or, as they called her in the Dorf, " Grettl'a." 
 She was a year younger than Fritz, and a good-tempered 
 little " IMadle ; " and who, but for over-hard work for one 
 so young, might have been even handsome. Her eyes 
 were large and full, and her hair bright-coloured, and her 
 skin clear ; yet scanty food and continual exposure to 
 the air, herding the goats, had given her a' look of being 
 much older than she really was, and imparted to her 
 features that expression of premature cunning which 
 poverty so invariably stamps upon childhood. 
 
 It was a happy day for Grettl'a that brought Fritz to 
 the cottage ; not only because she gained a companion 
 and a playfellow, but that she needed no longer to herd 
 the goats on the wild bleak plain, rising often ere day 
 broke, and never returning till late in the evening. Fritz 
 would do all this now ; and more, he would bring in the 
 firewood from the little dark wood-house, where she feared 
 to venture after nightfall ; and he would draw water from 
 the great deep well, so deep that it seemed to penetrate 
 to the very centre of the earth. He would run errands, 
 too, into the Dorf; and beetle the flax betimes; in fact, 
 there was no saying what he would not do. Fritz did 
 not disappoint any of these sanguine expectations of his 
 usefulness ; nay, he exceeded them all, showing himself 
 daily more devoted to the interests of his humble protec- 
 tors. It was never too early for him to rise from his 
 bed — never too late to sit np when any work was to be 
 done ; always willing to oblige — ever ready to render any 
 service in his power. Even the Bauer's wife, a hard- 
 natured, ill-thinking creature, in whom poverty had 
 heightened all the faults, nor taught one single lesson 
 of kindliness to others who were poor — even she felt her- 
 self constrained to moderate the rancour of her harshness, 
 and would even at times vouchsafe a word or a look of 
 good humour to the little orphan boy. The Bauer him- 
 self, without any great faults of character, had no sense 
 of the fidelity of his little follower. He thought that 
 there was a compact between them, which, as each ful- 
 filled in his own way, there was no more to be said of ita 
 
 p 2
 
 212 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Gretchcn more than made up for the coldness of her 
 parents. The little maiden, who knew by hard expe- 
 rience the severe lot to which Fritz was bound, she felt 
 her whole heart filled with gratitude and wonder towards 
 him. Wonder, indeed! for not alone did his services 
 appear so well performed, but they were so various and 
 so numerous. He was everywhere and at everything ; 
 and it was like a proverb in the house — "Fritz will do 
 it." He found time for all ; he neglected — stay, I am 
 wrong — poor little fellow, he did neglect something — 
 something that was more than all, but it was not his 
 fault. Fi'itz never entered the village church — he never 
 said a prayer ; he knew nothing of the Power that had 
 created him, and all that he saw around him. If he 
 thought on these things, it was with the vague indecision 
 of a mind without guidance or direction. Why, or how, 
 and to what end, he and others like him, lived or died, he 
 could not, by any effort, conceive. Fritz was a bond- 
 man — as much a slave as many who are canned away in 
 chains across the seas, and sold to strange masters. There 
 was no bodily cruelty in his servitude ; he endured no 
 greater hardships than poverty entails on millions ; his 
 little sphere of duties was not too much for his strength ; 
 his humble wants were met, but the darkest element of 
 slavery was there ! The daily round of service over, no 
 thought was taken of that purer part which in the peasant 
 claims as high a destiny as in the prince. The Sunday 
 saw him go forth with his flock to the mountain, like any 
 other day ; and though from some distant hill he could 
 hear the tolling bell that called the villagers to prayer, he 
 knew not what it meant. The better dresses and holiday 
 attire suggested some notion of a fete-day ; but as he 
 knew thei^e were no fete-days for him, he turned his 
 thoughts away, lest he should grow unhappy. 
 
 If Fritz's companion, when within doors, was Gi'ettl'a, 
 when he was away on the plain, or among the furze hills, 
 the Starling was ever with him. Indeed he could easier 
 have forgotten his little cap of squirrel skin, as he went 
 forth in the morning, than the cage, which hung by a 
 string on his back. This he unfastened when he had led
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 213 
 
 his goats into a favourable spot for pasturage, and sitting 
 down beside it, would talk to the bird for hours. It was 
 a long time before he could succeed in obeying the Cui-ate's 
 counsel, even in part, and teach the bird not to cry 
 " Potztausend." Starlings do not unlearn their bad habits 
 much easier than men; and, despite all Fritz's teaching, 
 his pupil would burst out with the forbidden expression on 
 any sudden emergency of surprise ; or sometimes, as it 
 happened, when he-iiad remained in a sulky fit for several 
 days together without uttering a note, he would reply to 
 Fritz's caresses and entreaties to eat by a sharp, angry 
 " Potztausend ! " that any one less deeply interested than 
 poor Fritz would have laughed at outright. They were 
 no laughing matters to him. He felt that the work of 
 civilization was all to be done over again. But his patience 
 was inexhaustible ; and a circumstance, perhaps, not less 
 fortunate — he had abundant time at his command. With 
 these good aids he laboured on, now punishing, now 
 rewarding, ever inventing some new plan of correction, 
 and at last — as does every one who has that noble quality, 
 perseverance — at last succeeding, not, indeed, all at once 
 perfectly ; for Star's principles had been laid down to last, 
 and he struggled hard not to abandon them, and he 
 
 persisted to cry " Potz -" for three months after he had 
 
 surrendered the concluding two syllables ; finally, how- 
 ever, he gave up even this ; and no temptation of sudden 
 noise, no riotous conduct of the villagers after nightfall, 
 no boiling over of the great metal pot that held the 
 household supper, nor any more alarming ebullition of 
 ill temper of the good Frau herself, would elicit from him 
 the least approach to the forbidden phrase. 
 
 While the Starling was thus accomplishing one part of 
 his education by unlearning, little Fritz himself, under 
 Grettl'a's guidance, was learning to read. The labour 
 was not all to be encountered, for he already had made 
 some little progress in the art under his father's tuition. 
 But the evening hours of winter, wherein he received his 
 lessons, were precisely those in which the poor bird 
 catcher, weary and tired from a day spent in the mountains, 
 would fall fast asleep, only waking up at intervals to
 
 214 HOBACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 assist Fritz over a difficult3% or say, " Go on," when his 
 blunders had made him perfectly unintelligible even to 
 himself. It may be well imagined, then, that his pro- 
 ficiency was not very great. Indeed, when first called 
 npon by Grettl'a to display his knowledge, his mistakes 
 were so many, and his miscallings of words so irresistibly 
 droll, that the little girl laughed outright ; and, to do 
 Fritz justice, he joined in the mirth himself. 
 
 The same persistence of purpose that aided him while 
 teaching his bird, befriended him here. He laboured late 
 and early, sometimes repeating to himself by heart little 
 portions of what he had read, to familiarize himself with 
 new words ; sometimes wending his way along the plain, 
 book in hand ; and then, having mastered some fierce 
 difiicalty, he would turn to his Starling to tell him of his 
 victory, and promise, that when once he knew how to read 
 well, he would teach him something out of his book — 
 " Something good ; " for, as the Curate said, " that would 
 bi'ing luck.'' 
 
 So long as the winter lasted, and the deep snow lay on 
 the hills, Fritz always herded his goats near the village, 
 seeking out some sheltered spot where the herbage was 
 still green, or where the thin drift was easily scraped 
 away. la summer, however, the best pasturages lay 
 further away among the hills near Steingaden, a s'till and 
 lonely tract, but inexpressibly dear to poor Fritz, since 
 there the wild flowers grew in such abundance, and from 
 thence he could see the high mountains above Route and 
 Paterkirchen, lofty and snow-clad like the " Jochs " in his 
 own Tyrol land. There was another i-eason why he loved 
 this spot. It was here that, in a narrow glen where two 
 paths crossed, a little shrine stood, with a painting of the 
 Virgin enclosed within it — a very rude performance, it is 
 true ; but how little connection is there between the 
 excellence of art and the feelings excited in the humble 
 breast of a poor peasant child ! The features, to his 
 thinking were beautiful ; never had eyes a look so full of 
 compassion and of love. They seem to greet him as he came 
 and follow him as he lingered on his way homeward. 
 Many an hour did Fritz sit upon the little bench before
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 215 
 
 tlae shrine, iu unconscious worship of that picture. Heaven 
 knows what fancies he may have had of its origin, it 
 never occured to hina to think that human skill could have 
 achieved anything so lovely. 
 
 He had often remarked that the villagers, as they 
 passed, would kneel down before it, and with bowed heads 
 and crossed arms seemed to do it reverence; and he himself, 
 when they were gone, would try to imitate their gestures, 
 some vague sentii^ent of worship struggling for utterance 
 iu his heart. 
 
 There was a little inscription in gilt letters beneath the 
 picture ; but these he could not read, and would gaze at 
 their cabalistic forms for hours long, thinking how, if he 
 could but decipher them, that the mystery might bo 
 revealed. 
 
 How he longed for the winter to be over and the spring 
 to come, that he might lead the goats to the hills, and to 
 the little glen of the shrine ! He could read now. The 
 letters would be no longer a secret ; they would speak to 
 him, and to his heart, like the voice of that beauteous 
 image. How ardently did he wish to be there ! and how, 
 when the first faint sun of April sent its pale rays over the 
 plain, and glittered with a sickly delicacy on the lake, how 
 joyous was his spirit and how light his step upon the 
 heather ! 
 
 Many a little store of childish knowledge had Grettl'a 
 opened to his mind in their winter evenings' study ; 
 but somehow, he felt as if they were all as nothing 
 compared to what the golden letters would reveal. The 
 portrait, the lonely glen, the solemn I'everence of the kneel- 
 ing Avorshippers, had all conspired to create for him a 
 mass of emotions indescribably pleasurable and thrilling. 
 Who can say the secret of such imaginings, or bound 
 their sway ? 
 
 The wished-for hour came, and it was alone and unseen 
 that he stood before the shrine and read the words, 
 "Maria, Mutter Gottes, hiilf uns." If this mystery were 
 unrevealed to his senses, a feeling of dependent helpless- 
 ness was too familiar to his heart not to give the words a 
 strong significance. He was poor, unfriended, and an
 
 216 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 orphan : who could need succour more than he did ? 
 Other children had fathers and mothers, who loved them 
 and watched over them ; their little wants were cared for, 
 their wishes often gratified. His was an uncheered exist- 
 ence : who was there to " help him ? " 
 
 Against the daily load of his duties he was not con- 
 scious of needing aid ; his burden he was both able and 
 willing to bear. It was against his thoughts in the long 
 hours of solitude — against the gloomy visions of his own 
 free-thinking spirit, he sought assistance ; against the sad 
 influence of memory, that brought up his childhood before 
 him, when he had a father who loved him — agaiust the 
 dreary vista of an unloved future, he needed help. " And 
 could she befriend him ? " was the question he asked his 
 heart. 
 
 " He must ask Grettl'a this ; she would know it all ! " 
 Such were the reflections with which he bent his way 
 homeward, as eagerly as in the morning he had sought the 
 glen. Grettl'a did know it all, and more too, for she had a 
 prayer-book, and a catechism, and a hymn-book, though 
 hitherto these treasures had been unknown to Fritz, 
 whose instructions were always given in a well-thumbed 
 little volume of fairy tales, where " Hans Daiimling " and 
 " The Nutzcracker " figured as heroes. 
 
 I am not able to say that Grettl'a's religious instruction 
 was of the most enlightened nature — not any more than it 
 was commemsurate with the wishes and requirements of 
 him who sought it ; it went, indeed, little further than an 
 explanation of the " golden letters." Still, slight and 
 vague as it was, it comforted the poor heart it reached, as 
 the most straggling gleam of sunlight will cheer the 
 dweller in some dark dungeon, whose thoughts soar out 
 upon its rays to the gorgeous luminary it flows from. 
 Whatever the substance of his knowledge, its immediate 
 etfect upon his mind was to diffuse a hopeful trust and 
 happiness through him he had never known till now. 
 His loneliness in the world was no longer the solitary 
 isolation of one bereft of friends. Not only with his own 
 heart could he commune now. He felt there was One above 
 who read these thoughts, and could turn them to his will.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETOX. 217 
 
 And in this trust his daily labour was lightened, and his 
 lot more happy. 
 
 " Now," thought be, one day, as he wandered onward 
 among the hills, " now, I can teach thee something good 
 — sometliing that will bring us luck. Thou shalt learn the 
 lesson of the golden letters. Starling — ay, truly, it will be 
 hard enough at first. It cost me many a weary hour to 
 learn to read, and thou hast only one little line to get off 
 by heart — and such a pretty line, too ! Come, Jacob, let's 
 begin at once." And, as he spoke, he opened the cage 
 and took out the bird, and patted his head kindly and 
 smoothed down his feathers. Little flatteries, that Starling 
 well understood were prepai'atory to some educational 
 requirement ; and he puffed out his chest proudly, and 
 advanced one leg with an air of importance : and draw- 
 ing up his head, seemed as though he could say, " Well, 
 what now. Master Fritz ? — what new scheme is this in thy 
 wise head ?" 
 
 Fritz understood him well, or thought he did so, which 
 in such cases comes pretty much to the same thing ; and 
 so, without more ado, he opened his explanation, which 
 perhaps, after all, was meant equally for himself as the 
 Starling — at least I hope so, for I suspect he comprehended 
 it better. 
 
 He told him that for a long time his education had been 
 grossly neglected ; that having originally been begun 
 upon a wrong principle, the great function of his teacher 
 had been to eradicate the evil, and, so to say, to clear the 
 soil for the new and profitable seed. The ground, to 
 carry out the illustration, had now lain long enough in 
 fallow — the time had arrived to attend to its better culture. 
 
 It is more than probable Fritz had never heard of the 
 great controversy in France upon the system of what is 
 called the " Secondary Instruction," nor troubled his head 
 on the no less active schism in our own country between 
 the enemies and advocates of National Education. So 
 that he has all the merit, if it be one, of solving a very 
 difficult problem for himself without aid or guidance ; for 
 he resolved that a religious education should precede all 
 other.
 
 218 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " I^^ow for it," said he, at tlie close of a longer exposi- 
 tion of bis intentions than was perhaps strictly necessary, 
 '' now for it. Starling ! repeat after me — ' Maria, Mutter 
 Gottes, hiilf nns ! ' " 
 
 The bird looked up in bis face with an arcb drollery 
 that almost-disconcerted the teacher. If a look could 
 speak, that look said, as plainly as ever words could, — 
 
 "Why don't you ask me to say the whole Litany, 
 Fritz?" 
 
 "Ay, ay," replied Fritz, for it was a reply, "I know 
 that's a great deal to learn all at once, and some of the 
 words are hard enough, too ; but with time, Star, time 
 and patience — I had to use both one and the other Ibefore 
 I learned to read ; and many a thing that looks difficult 
 and impossible even at first, seems quite easy afterwards. 
 Come, then, just try it : begin with the first word — 
 ' Maria.' 
 
 It was in vain Fritz spoke in his most coaxing accents, 
 in vain did be modulate the syllables in twenty different 
 ways ; all bis entreaties andpettings, all bis blandishments 
 and caresses, were of no avail, Star remained deaf to them 
 all. He even turned his back at last, and seemed as if no 
 power on earth should make a Christian of him. Fritz 
 bad had too much experience of the efficacy of perseverance 
 in his own case to abandon the game here ; so he went to 
 work again, and with the aid of a little lump of sugar 
 returned to the lecture. 
 
 Had Star been a Chancery lawyer he could not have 
 received the fee more naturally, though, for the honour of 
 the equity bar, I would hope the similitude ends there, for 
 he paid not the slightest heed to the " instructions." 
 
 It would, perhaps, be rash in us " featherless bipeds " to 
 condemn Star all at once ; there is no saying on what 
 grounds he may have resisted this educational attempt. 
 How do we know that his reasoning ran not somewhat in 
 this strain ? — 
 
 " What better off shall I be when I have learned all 
 your hard words ? — or how is it that you, my teacher, 
 knowing them so well, should be the poor, half-fed, half- 
 naked thing I see there before me ? "
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 219 
 
 These very conjectures would seem to Lave crossed 
 Fritz's mind, for he said, — 
 
 "It is not for a mere whim that I would have thee 
 learn this ; these words will bring us luck. Star ! Ay, 
 what I say is true, though thou mayst shake thy head and 
 think otherwise. I tell thee, ' Good words bring luck.' " 
 
 Whether it was that Star assumed an aii* of more than 
 ordinary conceit and inditFerence, or that Fritz had come 
 to the end of patience, I cannot affirm ; but he hastily 
 added, and in a voice much louder and more excited than 
 was his wont, — " It is so ; and thou shalt learn the words 
 whether thou wilt or no — that I tell thee ! " 
 
 " Potztausend ! " cried the bird, frightened by his 
 excitement, and at once recurring to his long unused 
 exclamation : '' Potztausend ! " 
 
 " Hush, shameless thing! " said Fritz, angrily ; "there 
 is nothing for it but punishment ! " And so he replaced 
 him in the cage, covered him close on every side with his 
 handkerchief, and trudged soiTOwfully towards home. 
 
 For several days Fritz never spoke to Starling, even one 
 word. He brought him his food in silence ; and instead 
 of taking him, as of old, along with him into the fields, 
 he hung his cage in a gloomy corner of the hnt, whence 
 he could see little or nothing of what went on in the 
 house — no small privation for a bird so alive to inquisi- 
 tiveness. At length, when he believed punishment had 
 gone far enough, he took him down and hung him on his 
 back as usual, and brought him a long long way into the 
 hills. The day was fine, a fresh but balmy spring 
 breathed over the young flowers, and the little stream 
 danced and rippled pleasantly ; and the clouds moved 
 along overhead in large soft masses, bordered with a 
 silvery edge. Star never noticed these things ; he was 
 indignant at the neglect, as he deemed it, which had been 
 shown him of late. His pride and spirit — and Starlings 
 are not deficient in either — had sustained grievous injury ; 
 and he felt that, without due reparation made to him, he 
 could not, consistently with honour, sign a treaty of 
 reconciliation. 
 
 Fritz mistook these indications altogether — and who
 
 220 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 can blame him ? What the world calls dignity is not un- 
 frequently mere sulk. How should poor Fritz make dis- 
 tinctions great ministers and princes are sometimes inca- 
 pable of? 
 
 The end of all this was a struggle, a long and violent 
 struggle on each side for the ascendancy. Fritz, however, 
 had the advantage, for he could starve out the enemy — 
 a harsh measure no doubt ; but gi'eater folks have adopted 
 even more severe ones to enforce their principles. Fritz, 
 besides, had all the stern enthusiasm of a fanatic in the 
 cause. The dark zeal of the Holy Office itself never en- 
 forced its decrees with more inflexible purpose than did he 
 his. " Accept this creed or die in your sins," was, if not 
 exactly his dictum, certainly his full meaning. Star stood 
 out long, so long that Fritz began at last to fear that the 
 creature meditated martyrdom, and in this dread he I'e- 
 laxed somewhat of his prison discipline. 
 
 It would scarcely be instructive — not any more than 
 amusing — to recount the painful progress of this long con- 
 test, a contest after all in which there is nothing new to 
 any reader of history ; for when force is on one side and 
 weakness on the other, the result may be deferred but is 
 never doubtful. It is enough that we say Star made sub- 
 mission. True, it was the submission of coercion — no 
 matter for that, it was submission, for after three weeks 
 of various successes on either side, the creature greeted 
 Fritz one morning as he arose with a faint cry of "Maria, 
 Maria!" 
 
 This was enough, more than enough, and Fritzerl could 
 have hugged him to his heart. 
 
 His authority recognized, his will acknowledged, he was 
 but too hfippy to take his rebellious subject into full favour 
 again. Whether Star felt the benefits of his changed con- 
 duct so very satisfactory to his comfort, or that he was 
 really disposed to please his master, I cannot say ; but from 
 that hour out he laboured strenuously to learn his new 
 profession of faith, and screamed " Maria ! " from day-dawn 
 to dusk. The two following words were, however, down- 
 right puzzles: " Mutter-Gottes " was a combination that 
 BO starling, even a German one, bred up among strong
 
 aORACli TEMPLETON. 221 
 
 guttui'als and flat labials, could master. He worked hard, 
 however, and so did Fritz. If life depended upon it, 
 neither of them could have exerted themselves more zea- 
 lously; but it was no use. In any other language, perhaps, 
 Star might have been able to invoke the Virgin, but here 
 it was out of the question. The nearest approach the 
 poor fellow could make was something like a cry of 
 " Morder — Morder " (Murder — murder) ; so unfortunate 
 a change that Fritz abandoned the lesson with the best 
 grace he could, betaking himself to the concluding words 
 which happily presented no such unseemly similitudes. 
 
 His success here was such as to obliterate all memory 
 of his former defeat. Starling made the most astonishing 
 progress and learned the words so perfectly, with such 
 accuracy of enunciation, that to hear him at a little dis- 
 tance any one would say it was some pious Catholic invok- 
 ing the Virgin with all his might. The " Hiilf uns " was 
 not a mere exclamation but a cry for actual aid so natural 
 as to be perfectly startling. 
 
 So long as the bird's education was incomplete, Fritzerl 
 carefully screened him from public observation. He had 
 all the susceptibility of a great artist who would not let 
 his canvas be looked upon before the last finishing touch 
 was laid on the picture. No sooner, however, had full 
 success crowned his teaching than he proudly displayed 
 him in a new cage made for the occasion at the door of the 
 Bauer's hut. 
 
 It was Sunday and the villagers were on their way to 
 mass ; and what was their astonishment to hear themselves 
 exhorted as they passed by the fervent cry of " Maria, 
 hiilf uns ! Hiilf uns, Maria ! " Group after group stood 
 in mute amazement gazing at the wonderful bird, some 
 blessing themselves with a pious fervour, others disposed 
 to regard the sounds as miraculous, and more than either 
 stood in dumb astonishment at this new specimen of 
 ghostly counsel. 
 
 All this while Fritzerl lay hid beneath the window, en- 
 joying his triumph with a heart full almost to bursting. 
 Never did singing-master listen to the syren notes of his 
 pupil, while as the 'prima donna of a great opera she elec-
 
 222 HORACE TEMPLETOl?. 
 
 trifled or entranced a crowded audience with more entlm- 
 siastic rapture than did Fritz at bis starling's performance. 
 Poor little fellow ! it was not merely vanity gratified by 
 public applause — it was a higher feeling was engaged here. 
 A sense of religious exaltation worked within him that he 
 had laboured in a great cause ; a thrill of ecstasy trembled 
 at his heart that another voice than his own was asking aid 
 for him, and incessantly invoking the Virgin's protection 
 on his own head. Happy had it been for him that no other 
 sentiment had intervened, and that he had not also indulged 
 a vain pride in the accomplishment of his pupil ! 
 
 It so chanced that among those who passed the hut and 
 stood to wonder at this astonishing creature, was a tall, 
 ragged-looking, swarthy fellow, whose dress of untanned 
 leather, and cap ornamented with the tail of many a wood 
 squirrel, told that he was an " Engadiner," one from the 
 same land Fritz came himself. A strange wild land it is ! 
 where in dress, language, custom, and mode of life, there 
 is no resemblance to anything to be seen throughout 
 Europe. A more stinking representative of his strange 
 country need not have been wished for. His jacket was 
 hung round with various tufts of plumage and fur for 
 making artificial birds, with whistles and bird-calls to 
 imitate every note that ever thrilled through a leafy 
 grove ; his leathern breeches only reached to the knee, 
 which was entirely bare, as well as the leg, to below the 
 calf, where a rude sandal was fastened ; his arms, also, 
 copper-coloured as those of an Indian, were quite naked, 
 two leathern bracelets enclosing each wrist, in which 
 some metal hooks were inserted : by these he could hang 
 on the branch of a tree, or the edge of a rock, leaving his 
 hands at liberty. He wore his coal-black hair far down 
 on his back and shoulders, and his long moustache 
 drooped deep beneath his lank jaw. If there was some- 
 thing wild almost to ferocity in his black and flashing 
 eyes, the mouth, with its Avhite and beautifully regular 
 teeth, had a look of almost womanly delicacy and soft- 
 ness — a character that was well suited to the musical 
 sounds of his native language — one not less pleasant to 
 the ear than Italian itself. Such was he who stopped to
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 223 
 
 listen to the bird, and wlio, stealing round to the end of 
 the hut, lay down beneath some scattered branches of 
 firewood to delight his ear to the uttermost. 
 
 It may be doubted whether a connoisseur ever listened 
 to Grisi or Jenny Lind with more heartfelt rapture than 
 did the Engadiner to the starling ; for while the bird, 
 from time to time, would break forth with its newly 
 acquired invocation, the general tenor of its song was a 
 self-taught melody; — one of those wild and delicious volun- 
 taries in which conscious power displayed itself; now, 
 astounding the ear by efforts the wildest and most capri- 
 cious, now subduing- the sense by notes plaintive almost 
 to bring tears. In these latter it was that he mingled his 
 cry of " Maria, hiilf — hiilf — hiilf uns, Maria ! " — words so 
 touching and so truthful in their accents that at every 
 time the Engadiner heard them he crossed himself twice 
 on the forehead and the breast ; which devout exercise, I 
 am constrained to say, had in his case more of habit than 
 true piety, as the sequel proved. 
 
 I forget whether it is not Madame de Scuderi has built 
 a little theory upon the supposition that every mind has 
 within it the tendency to yield to some one peculiar tempta- 
 tion. The majority, I fancy, have not limited their weak- 
 ness to units. Poverty has so many wants to be supplied, 
 wealth so many seductions to ofl'er, that it maybe affirmed 
 he is not worse than his fellows whose heart has only one 
 undefended bastion. I am not anxious to claim for my 
 Engadiner any more than ordinary powers of resistance : 
 neither his race nor his country, the habits of his life, nor 
 his principles — if it be permitted to use the word — had 
 taught him such self-control ; but, if they had — if they 
 had steeled his nature against every common seduction, 
 they could not have stifled within him the native passion 
 for bird-catching, or, what is very much akin to it, bird- 
 stealing He would as soon have thought it needful to 
 restrict his lungs in their requisite quantity of atmospheric 
 air, as to curb what he regarded as a mere human instinct. 
 If Engadinei'S were made for anything, it was for bird- 
 catching : no one did anything else, thought, spoke, or 
 dreamt of anything else, in the Eugadine. It was not a
 
 224 HORACE (TEMPLETGN". 
 
 pastime, or a caprice ; it was not that the one was skilful, 
 or that the other was adroit at it, but the whole popula- 
 tion felt that birds were their natural prey, and that the 
 business of their life was comprised in catching, feeding, 
 training, sending, and selling them all over the globe — 
 not only in Europe, but over the vast continent of America. 
 Wherever birds had fanciers, wherever men cared for the 
 tints of plumage or the warbling mellowmess of their notes, 
 there an Engadiner was sure to be found. And who has 
 ever studied their nature like one of these moiintaineers, 
 who knows all their habits and their tastes, their seasons 
 of migrating and returning, how they build their nests, 
 and all their likings and their antipathies — the causes 
 which influence their selection and abandonment of a 
 peculiar locality, the meaning of their songs — ay, and 
 they are full of meaning — of welcome, of sorrow, of love, 
 and of despair? I^one like an Engadiner for all this! 
 Eew would have the patience, fewer still the requisite 
 gifts of acuteness, with uncommon powers of eye and ear 
 — of eye to discern the tints of plumage among the dark 
 leaves of the pine forest — of ear to catch and imitate the 
 notes of each tribe, so that birds themselves should answer 
 to the sounds. 
 
 The Engadiner stirred not from his hiding-place the 
 whole day ; he watched the moving throng passing to 
 and from the village church ; he saw the Bauers pass by, 
 some in the Sunday "waggons," their horses gaily capari- 
 soned, with huge scarlet tassels beneath their necks, and 
 great wide traces all studded with little copper nails; 
 and the more humble, on foot, the men dressed in their 
 light Bavarian blue, and the women clad in a coarser 
 stuff of the same colour, their wealth being all centered 
 in one strange head-dress of gold and silver filigree, 
 which, about the size and shape of a peacock's tail when 
 expanded, is attached to the back of the head — an un- 
 wieldly contrivance, which has not the merit of becoming- 
 riess ; it neither affords protection against sun or rain, 
 and is so inconvenient, that when two peasant women 
 walk together they have to tack and beat, like ships in a
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 225 
 
 narrow cliannel ; and not unfrequently, like sucb craft, 
 ran foul of each other after all. 
 
 The Engadiner watched these evidences of affluence, 
 such as his wild mountains had nothing to compare with, 
 and yet his heart coveted none of them. They were 
 objects of his wonder, but no more ; while every desire 
 was excited to possess the little bird, whose cage hung 
 scarcely three yards from where he lay. 
 
 As evening drew nigh, the Engadiner became almost 
 feverish in excitement ; each stir within the house made 
 him fear that some one was coming to take the bird 
 away ; every step that approached suggested the same 
 dread. Twice he resolved to tear himself from the spot, 
 and pursue his journey ; but each time some liquid note, 
 some thrilling cadence, fell like a charm upon his ear, and 
 he sank down spell-bound. He sat for a long time with 
 eyes rivetted on the cage, and then at length, stooping 
 down, he took from the ground beside him a long branch 
 of pine-wood ; he measured with his eye the distance to 
 the cage, and muttered to himself an assent. With a 
 dexterity and speed which in his countrymen are instincts, 
 he fastened one handle of his scissors to the branch, and 
 tied a string to the other, making an implement like that 
 used by the grape gatherers in the wine season. He 
 examined it carefully, to try its strength, and even 
 experimented with it on the jessamine that gi"ew over 
 the front of the cottage. His dark eyes glistened like 
 burning coals as the leaves and twigs were snapped off at 
 a touch. He looked around him to see that all was still, 
 and no one near. The moment was favourable : the 
 Augelus was ringing from the little chapel, and all the 
 Dorf was kneeling in prayer. He hesitated no longer, 
 but, lifting the branch, he cut through three of the littlo 
 bars in the cage ; they were dry and brittle, and yielded 
 easily: in a moment more he had removed them, leaving 
 a little door wide enough for the bird to escape. This 
 done, he withdrew the stick, detached the scissors, and 
 in its place tied on a small lump of maple sugar — the food 
 the bii'd loves best. Starling, at first terrified by tho 
 intrusion, soon gained courage and appi'oached the bait.
 
 226 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 He knew not that a little noose of horse-bair hung beneath 
 it, wliicli, no sooner had he tasted the sugnr, than it was 
 thrown over his neck and drawn tight. Loss practised 
 fingers than the Engadiner's could scarcely have enclosed 
 thac little throat sufficiently to prevent even one cry, and 
 yet not endanger life. 
 
 Every step of this process was far more I'apid than we 
 have been in telling it. The moment it was effectedj the 
 Engadiner was awa3^ No Indian ever rose from his lair 
 with more stealthy cunning, nor tracked his enemy with a 
 fleeter step ; away over the wide plain, down through the 
 winding glens, among the oak-scrub, and into the 
 dark pine-wood, who could trace his wanderings ? — who 
 could overtake him now ? 
 
 "With all his speed, he had not gone above a mile from 
 the Dorf when Fritz missed his treasure. Pie went to 
 take his bird into the house for the night, wlien the whole 
 misfortune broke full upon him. For a few seconds, like 
 most people under sudden bereavement, his mind could 
 not take in all the sorrow : he peered into the cage, 
 he thrust his fingers into it, he tumbled over the moss at 
 the bottom of it ; and then, at length, conscious of his 
 loss, he covered his face with his hands, and sobbed as 
 though his heart was breaking. 
 
 Men and women may find it hard to sympathize with 
 such sorrow. A child, however, can nndei'stand a child's 
 grief, for Fritz had lost everything he had in the world. 
 This little bird was not only all his wealth, all his ambition, 
 his daily companion in solitary places, his hope, his friend, 
 butsomehow it was linked mysteriously with the memories 
 of his own home — memories that every day, every hour, 
 was eifacing — but these. Star still could call up in his 
 heart : to lose him was, therefore, to cut the last slender 
 cord that tied him to the past and linked him to the 
 future. 
 
 His violent sobbing brought Grettl'a to him, but 
 he could tell her nothing — he could only point to the 
 cage, which now hung on its side, and mutter the one 
 word, — 
 
 " Hiu ! bin ! "— Aw&y ! away I
 
 HORACE TEMPLETOJ?. • 227 
 
 The little girl's grief was scarcely less poignant than 
 his own. She wrung her hands in all the passion of 
 sorrow, and cried bitterly. 
 
 The Baner and his wife now came to the spot, the one 
 to join in, the other to rebuke their affliction. How little 
 the children noticed either ! Their misery filled up every 
 corner of their minds — their wretchedness was overwhelm- 
 ing. 
 
 Every corner of the little hut was associated with some 
 recollection of the poor " Star." Here, it was he used to 
 feed — here, he liopped out to greet Fritz of an evening, 
 when the bad weather had prevented him accompanying 
 him to the fields. There, he was accustomed to sit while 
 they were at supper, singing his merry song ; and here, 
 would he remain silently while they were at prayers, 
 waiting for the moment of their I'ising to utter the cry of 
 " Maria, hiilf uns ! " 
 
 Each time the children's eyes met, as they turned away 
 from looking at any of these well-known spots, they burst 
 into tears : each read the other's thoughts, and felt his 
 sorrows more deeply in the interchange. 
 
 What a long, long night was that ! They cried them- 
 selves to sleep, to awake again in tears ! — now, to dream 
 they heard " Star " calling to them — now, to fancy he had 
 come back again, all wayworn and ruffled, glad to seek his 
 usual shelter, and be with friends once more — and then 
 they awoke to feel the bitterness of disappointment, and 
 know that he was gone !" 
 
 " And he told me, GrettVa — he told me ' A good word 
 brings luck ! ' " sobbed Fritz, whose despair had turned to 
 scepticism. 
 
 Poor GrettFa had no argument wherewith to meet this 
 burst of misery — she could but mingle her tears with his. 
 
 We frequently hear of the hard-heartedness of the poor 
 — liow steeled they are against the finer affections and 
 softer feelings of the world ; but it might be as well to 
 ask if the daily business of life — which to them is one of 
 sheer necessity — does not combat more powerfully against 
 the indulgence of son-ow than all the philosophy that 
 raere wisdom ever taught ? 
 
 q2
 
 228 HORACE TEMPLETOM* 
 
 Poor Fritzerl awoke with a heart almost weighed down 
 with affliction, but still he went forth with his goats to 
 the pasture, and tended and watched after them as carefully 
 as ever. The next day, and the day after that again, he 
 went about his accustomed duties ; but on the third day, 
 as he sat beside Grettl'a under the old linden-tree before 
 the door, he whispered to her — 
 
 "I can bear it no longer, Grettl'a! I must away! — 
 away!" And he pointed to the distance, which, vague 
 and undefined as his own resolves, stretched out its broad 
 expanse before them. 
 
 Grettl'a did her best to persuade him against his rash 
 determination : she reasoned as well as she could reason ; 
 she begged, she even cried to him ; and at last, all else 
 failing, she forgot her pledge, and actually ran and told 
 her father. 
 
 The Bauer, sorry to lose so faithful a servant as Fritz, 
 added his influence to the little maiden's tears ; and even 
 the Bauer's wife tried to argue him out of bis resolve, 
 mingling with her wise suggestions about a " wide world 
 and a cold one " some caustic hints about ingratitude to 
 his friends and protectors. 
 
 Fritz was deaf to all : if he could not yield to 
 Grettl'a's prayers and weeping eyes, he was strong against 
 the old wife's sarcasms. 
 
 He cried all night through, and, arising before the 
 dawn, he kissed Grettl'a as she lay sleeping, and, cautiously 
 opening the latch, slipped out unheard. A heavy dew 
 was on the grass, and the large, massive clouds rested on 
 the mountains and filled the plain. It was cold, and 
 gloomy, and cheerless — just such as the world is to the 
 wanderer who, friendless, alone, and poor, would tempt his 
 fortunes in it ! 
 
 Fritz wandered on over the plain — he had no choice of 
 paths — he had nothing to guide, no clue to lead him. He 
 took this, because he had often gone it with " Star " when 
 he was happy and contented. As he went along, the sun 
 rose, and soon the whole scene changed from its leaden 
 grey to the bright tint of morning. The hoar-frost 
 glittered like thousands of spangles scattered over the
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 229 
 
 grass ; the earth sent up a deh'cious odour ; the leaves, as 
 they opened, murmured softly in the air ; and the little 
 brooks rustled among the stones, and rippled on with a 
 sound like fairy laughter. There was gladness and joy 
 everywhere, save in that heart which was now bei'eft of all. 
 
 "What could he mean ?" said he, again and again to 
 himself : " ' A good word brings luck ! ' When had I ever 
 misfortune till now ?" 
 
 Oh, Pritzerl ! take care lest you are not making the com- 
 mon mistake, an^ expecting the moral before the end of 
 the story. 
 
 Were it my object to dwell on this part of my tale, I 
 might tell you of Fritz's long conflict with himself — his 
 doubts, his hesitation, and his reasonings, before he could 
 decide on what course to take, or whither to bend his 
 steps. The world was a very wide one to hunt after a 
 Starling through it : that, he knew, though not very 
 deeply skilled in geography, 
 
 Fritz had never heard of those wise inspirations by 
 which, knights-errant of old guided their wanderings ; 
 nor, perhaps, if he had, would he have benefited by them, 
 seeing that to throw the rein loose on his charger's neck 
 was a matter of some difficulty. He did, perhaps, what 
 was the nearest thing in practice to this : he wandered 
 along, keeping the straight path, and, neither turning 
 right nor left, found himself at noon in the opening of the 
 beautiful glen that leads to Route. He looked up, and 
 there were great mountains before him — not hills, but real 
 mountains, with pine-forests beneath, and crags above 
 that, and over them, again, snow-peaks and glaciers. 
 They seemed quite near, but they were still many a mile 
 off. No matter : the sight of them cheered and en- 
 couraged him ; they reminded him of the old life among 
 the Tyrol " Jochs," and the wild cattle sporting about, and 
 the herdsmen springing from cliff to cliff, rifle in hand. 
 Oh, that was a free and joyous life ! 
 
 Fritz's musings on this head were suddenly put a stop 
 to by a severe pang of hunger, in all likelihood suggested 
 by the odour of a savoury mess which steamed from tho 
 open window of a littlo hut on the road-side.
 
 230 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 The peasant family were about to sit down to tlieir 
 twelve o'clock dinner, when Fritz, unconsciously to him- 
 self, drew up at the window, and looked in at the tempting 
 food. 
 
 There is one custom in Germany, which, simple as it is, 
 it would be hard to praise above its merits : that is, the in- 
 variable habit of every one, so far as his means permit, to 
 help the foot-traveller on his journey. By an old municipal 
 law of most of the cities, the tradesmen cannot settle and 
 establish themselves in their native town till they have 
 travelled and lived in other places ; thus learning, as it is 
 supposed, whatever improvements their several crafts may 
 have obtained in different and distant cities. These wan- 
 derings, which ai'e usually for one year or two, are accom- 
 plished dui'ing the period of apprenticeship ; so that you 
 never travel on any of the high-roads without meeting 
 these Lehr-Junkers, as they are called, who, with a knap- 
 sack on their back, and a spare pair of boots or two 
 depending from it, are either smoking or singing to beguile 
 the way. As it is not to be supposed that they ai-e over- 
 abundantly provided with means, it has grown into a re- 
 cognized custom to assist them with some trifle : but the 
 good habit ends not here; it extends to the poor boy re- 
 turning from the gymnasium, or school, to see his parents 
 — the discharged or furloughed soldier-:-the wayfarer of 
 every class, in fact, whose condition pleads to those more 
 plenteously endowed than himself. 
 
 Fritz was now to reap the benefifc of this graceful 
 charity ; and scarcely had his wan features appeared at 
 the window than a sign from the chief Bauer invited him 
 to partake. Happily for poor Fritz — happily for all who 
 give and all who accept such aid — there is no sense of 
 humiliation in doing so. It is, in fact, less an almsgiving 
 than a remnant of the ancient hospitality which made the 
 stranger welcome beneath every roof — a custom that dates 
 before railroads and giant hotels. 
 
 Fritz ate and drank, and was thankful. The few words 
 he spoke were in answer to the common questions, as to 
 whence he came — and whither he was going— and what 
 was bis handicraft ; inquiries which puzzled him sorely to
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 231 
 
 reply to. His besitations were not i*endered more embar- 
 rassing by the curiosity of bis questioners ; tbey neither 
 cared to push bira closely, nor troubled their beads upon 
 the matter. 
 
 " Farewell," said the Bauer's wife, as be thanked her 
 gratefully; "farewell. Be good and pious, young lad; 
 don't keep naughty company, nor learn bad ways ; and 
 remember 'A good word brings luck.' " 
 
 His eyes filled up with tears as she spoke. Who can 
 tell the conflict of feelings they called up in his bosom ? 
 
 "Where does this path lead to ? " he asked, in a faint 
 voice. 
 
 "To Rente, child." 
 
 "And then, after Rente ?" 
 
 " To Zillei-thal and Innspruck." 
 
 " To Innspruck ! " said Fritz, while a sudden hope shot 
 through him. " I'll go to Innspruck," muttered he, lower. 
 "Good-bye, Bauer; good-bye, Fran. God bless thee." 
 And with these words he set out once more. 
 
 How little they who roll on their journey with all the 
 speed and luxury that wealth can purchase, defying 
 climate and distance, know the vicissitudes that fall to the 
 lot of the weary foot-traveller ! From city to city, from 
 kingdom to kingdom, the rich man glides on, the great 
 panorama of life revealing itself before him, without an 
 effort on his part. The Alps — the Pyrenees, scarcely 
 retard him ; the luxuries he requires meet him at every 
 baiting-place, as though difference of region should not 
 trench upon even his daily habits; his patience, perhaps, not 
 more tried than by the occasional stoppages where fresh 
 horses meet him. And yet between two such stations a 
 foot-traveller may spend the live-long day, wearied, foot- 
 sore, heavy of heart. What crosses and trials are his ! 
 What strange adventures, too! and what strange com- 
 panionships ! Each day a new episode of life — but of life 
 over which Poverty has thrown its shadow. 
 
 Fritz was now to experience all this ; now, travelling 
 with a company of wandering apprentices; now, keeping 
 company with a group of peasants on the way to mai'ket; 
 sometimes, partaking of a seat in a Bauer's waggon —
 
 232 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 often, alone and weary, tliinking over his future — a 
 future that each day seemed to render more doubtful and 
 gloomy. 
 
 As he penetrated deeper into the Zlllerthal, the journeys 
 of each day became longer, the resting-places for the night 
 being further apart ; sometimes he was obliged to stop a 
 day, or even two days, at a village, to recruit strength 
 sufficient for a long march ; and then he would have to 
 walk from before daylight to late in the night ere he 
 reached his destination. His was not strength to endure 
 fatigue like this with impunity ; and if he did encounter 
 it, it was from an enthusiasm that supplied energy, where 
 mere bodily strength had failed. Two hopes buoyed him 
 up, and carried him along through every opposing diffi- 
 culty. Whether Star had escaped by accident, or been 
 taken away by design, he was lame, and would surely be 
 soon caught ; and if so, what more likely than that ho 
 would be sent to Innspruck to be sold, for there was the 
 greatest bird-market of all the world ? at least, so Fritz 
 believed. His second sustaining hope lay in the prospect 
 of once again meeting the old priest, and learning from 
 him how was it that a " good word " had not "brought 
 luck " to him, and whether from any fault of his own. 
 
 These thoughts had so far obtained possession of his 
 mind, that he became almost unconscious of every other ; 
 from dwelling on them so much, and revolving them so 
 frequently and in so many different shapes and forms, he 
 grew to think that he had no other object and aim than to 
 reach Innspruck and solve these two doubts. Hunger, 
 cold, and fatigue, every privation of a long and weary 
 journey was unregarded by him ; and although it was now 
 late in the autumn, and snow was beginning to fall on the 
 mountain passes, Fritz, poorly clad, and scarcely fed, 
 trudged on, day after day, his own heart supplying the 
 courage which his weak frame denied. 
 
 As winter drew near the days grew shorter ; and the 
 atmosphere, loaded with snow ready to drop, darkened the 
 earth, and made night come on, as it seemed, many hours 
 before sunset. This left very little time to Fritz for his long 
 journeys, which, just at this very period, unfortunately,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 233 
 
 were longer tliau ever. The way, too, had become far 
 rnore dreary and deserted, not only because it led through 
 a little-travelled district, but that the snow being too deep 
 for wheeled carriages, and not hard enough for sledges, the 
 travellers were fain to wait till eitlier rain or frost should 
 come on, to make the road practicable. Hence it hap- 
 pened that not unfrequently, now, Fritz journeyed the live- 
 long day, from dawn to dark, and scarcely met a single 
 traveller. Sometimes, too, not a hut would be seen in a 
 whole day's march, and he would never taste a morsel of 
 food till he reached his halting-place for the night. 
 
 All this was bad enough, but it was not the only diffi- 
 culty ; the worst of all was, how to find out the way in. 
 the mountain passes, where the snow lay so deep, that the 
 balustrades or pai\apets that flanked the road, and often 
 guarded it from a precipice, were now covei^ed, and no 
 wheel-track could be seen to guide the ti'aveller. Fritz, 
 when he journeyed this road before, remembered the awe 
 and terror with which he used to peep over the little stone 
 railing, and look down hundreds of feet into the dark 
 valley beneath, where a great river was diminished to the 
 size of a mere brawling rivulet; and now, where was that 
 parapet? — on which side of him did it lie? A deep 
 gorge was near — that he well knew ; the unfrozen torrent 
 beneath roared like thundei', but a waving surface of 
 untrodden snow stretched away on either side of him, 
 without foottrack or aught to mark the way. 
 
 For a long time did the poor child stand uncertain 
 which way to turn ; now thinking he heard the heavy plash 
 of wheels moving through the snow, and then discovering 
 it was merely the sound of falling masses, which, fi^om 
 time to time, slipped from their places, and glided down 
 the steep mountain sides. What desolate and heart 
 chilling solitude was there! A leaden, greyish sky over- 
 head — not a cloud, nor even a passing bird, to break its 
 dreary surface — beneath, nothing but snow ; snow on the 
 wild fantastic mountain peaks ; snow in waving sweeps 
 between them. The rocks, the fir-trees, all covered. 
 
 Fritz stood so long, that already the thin drift settled 
 on his head and shoulders, and clothed him in the same
 
 234 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 wintry livery as the objects around; his limbs were stiif, 
 his fingers knotted and frozen ; the little tears npon his 
 bine cheeks seemed almost to freeze ; his heart, that till 
 now bore bravely up, grew colder and heavier. He felt 
 as if he would be happy if he could cry, but that eveu 
 grief was freezing within him. Despair was near him 
 then! He felt a drowsy confusion creeping over him. 
 Clouds of white snow-drift seemed to Ml so thickly 
 around, that every object was hidden from view.^ Crash- 
 ing branches and roaring torrents mingled' their noises 
 with the thundering plash of falling snow-masses. Oh ! if 
 he could but sleep, and neither hear nor see these wearj^- 
 ing sounds and sights— sleep, and be at rest ! It was jast 
 at this instant his eye caught sight of a little finger-post, 
 from which a passing gust of wind had carried away the 
 snow. It stood at some distance beneath him, in the 
 midst of a waving field of snow. Had poor Fritz 
 remarked its leaning attitude, and the depth to which it 
 was covered, scarcely more than three feet appearing 
 above the surface, he would have known it must have 
 been carried away from its own appointed spot ; but Ids 
 senses were not clear enough for such simple reasonings, 
 and with a last effort he struggled towards it. The snow 
 grew deeper at every step ; not only did it rise above his 
 foot, and half his leg, but it seemed to move in a great 
 mass all around him, as if a huge fragment of the moun- 
 tain had separati^d, and was floating downwards. The 
 post, too, he came not nearer to it; it receded as he 
 advanced; was this a mere delusion? had his weakened 
 faculties lost all control of sense ? Alas ! these sensations 
 were but too real ! He had already crossed the_ parapet 
 which flanked the road — already was he in the midst of a 
 great " wraith " of fallen snow, which, descending from 
 the mountain peak, by a storm in the night, had carried 
 away the finger-post, and now only waited the slightest 
 impulse — the weight of that little child — to carry it 
 doAvn, down into the depth below ! And down, indeed, 
 it went ; at first, slowly— moving like a great unbroken 
 wave ; then growing more hurried as it ncared the edge 
 of the precipice, thickening and swelling with fresh
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 235 
 
 masses: it rose around him — now, circling his waisf, 
 now, enclosing Lis shoulders : he hud but time to grasp 
 the little wooden cross, the emblem of hope and succour, 
 Avhen the mass glided over the brink, and fell thundering 
 into the dark abjsp. 
 
 I would not risk any little credit I may, perchance, 
 possess with the reader, by saying -how deep that gorge 
 actually was ; but this will I say, when standing on the 
 spot, in a very different season from this I have described 
 ■ — when the trees*were in full leaf, the wild flowers 
 blossoming, and both sky above and river beneath, 
 blue as the bluest turquoise ; yet even then, to look 
 down the low parapet into the narrow chasm, was 
 something to make the head reel and the heart's blood 
 chill. 
 
 Bat to my story. — It was the custom iu this season, 
 Avhen the snow fell heavily on the high passes, to transmit 
 the little weekly mail between Rente and Innspruck by an 
 old and now disused road, which led alona: the edge of 
 the river, and generally, from its sheltered situation, con- 
 tinued practicable and free from snow some weeks later 
 than the mountain road. It was scarce worthy to be 
 called a road — a mere wheel-track, obstructed here and 
 there by stones and masses of rock that every storm 
 brought down, and not unfrequently threatened, by the 
 flooding of the river, to be washed away altogether. 
 
 Along this dreary way the old postilion was wending — 
 now, pulling up to listen to the crashing thunders of the 
 snow, which, falling several hundred feet above, might 
 at any moment descend and engulf him — again, plying 
 his whip vigorously, to push through the gorge, secretly 
 vowing in his heart that, come what would, he would 
 venture no more there that year. Just as he turned a 
 sharp angle of the rock, where merely space lay for the 
 road between it and the river, he found his advance 
 barred up by a larch-tree, which, with an immense frag- 
 ment of snow, had fallen from above. Such obstacles 
 were not new to him, and he lost no time in unharnessing 
 his horse and attaching him to the tree. In a few minutes 
 the road was cleared of this difiiculty ; and he now
 
 236 nORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 advanced, shovel in hand, to make a passage through the 
 snow. 
 
 " Saperlote /" cried he ; " here is the fiEger-post ! This 
 nnist have come down from the upper-road." 
 
 Scarcely were the words uttered, when a cry of horror 
 broke from him. He trembled from head to foot ; his eyes 
 seemed bursting from their sockets : and well might they, 
 for, close around the wood, just where it emerged from 
 the snow, were two little hands clasped tightly round the 
 timber. 
 
 He threw himself on the spot, and tore up the snow 
 with his fingers. An arm appeared, and then the long 
 yellow hair of a head resting on it. Working with all the 
 eagerness of a warm and benevolent nature, he soon dis- 
 interred the little body, v/hich, save one deep cut upon the 
 forehead, seemed to have no other mai'k of injury ; but it 
 lay cold and motionless — no sign of life remaining. 
 
 He pressed the little flask of brandy — all that he pos- 
 sessed — against the wan, white lips of the child ; but the 
 liquor ran down the chin and over the cheek — not a drop 
 of it was sucked. He rubbed the hands, he chafed the 
 body, he even shook it ; but, heavy and inert, it gave no 
 sign of life. 
 
 " Ach, Gott ! " muttered he, " it is all over ! " But 
 still, with a hope that asked no aid from reason, he 
 wrapped the child's body in his fur mantle, and, laj^ing 
 him softly down in the cart, continued his way. 
 
 The lights, which were glittering here and there through 
 the little village inns, had been gradually extinguished as 
 the night grew later, till, at last, none remained, save those 
 around the door of the post-house, where a little group of 
 loungers was gathered. As they talked together, one or 
 other occasionally would step out into the road and seem 
 to listen, and then rejoin his companions. " No sign of 
 him yet! What can keep him so late as this?" cried 
 the Postmaster, holding up his watch, that the lamp- 
 light should fall on it. " It wants but four minutes] to 
 eleven — his time, by right, is half after nine." 
 
 "He is trying the upper road belike, and the deep snow 
 has detained him."
 
 " He threw himself on the spot, and tore up the snow with his fingers.'
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 237 
 
 " Ko, no," said another, " Old Crisfcoph's too knowing 
 for that : bad as the lower road is, the upper is worse ; 
 and with the storm of last night, there will be drift 
 there deep enough to swallow horse and mail-cart twice 
 over," 
 
 " There may be fallen snow on the lower road," whis- 
 pered a third ; " Cristoph told me last week he feared it 
 would not be safe for another journey." 
 
 " He's a daring old fellow," said the Postmaster, as he 
 resumed his walk tfp and down to keep his feet warm ; 
 " but he'll try that lower road once too often. He can't 
 bear the upper road because it is a new one, and was not 
 made when he was a boy. He thinks that the world is 
 not half so wise, or so good, as it was some fifty years 
 back." ^ ^ 
 
 "If he make no greater mistates than that," muttered 
 an old white-headed hostler, " he may be trusted to choose 
 his own road." 
 
 "What's that Philip is mumbling?" said the Post- 
 master; but a general cry of " Here he comes ! Here he 
 is now ! " interrupted the answer. 
 
 " See how he drives full speed over the bridge I " 
 exclaimed the Postmaster, angrily, " Potz-Teufel ! if 
 the Burgomaster hears it, I shall have to pay a fine of 
 four gulden ; and I would not wonder if the noise awoke 
 him." 
 
 There was less exaggeration than might be supposed in 
 this speech, for Old Christoph, in open defiance of all 
 German law, which requires that nothing faster than a 
 slow walk shouldj be used in crossing a wooden bridge, 
 galloped at the full stride of his beast, making every 
 crazy plank and timber tremble and vibrate with a crash 
 like small arms. 
 
 'Never relaxing in his speed, the old man drove at his 
 fastest pace through the narrow old Roman gate, up tho 
 little paved hill, round the sharp corner, across the Platz, 
 into the main street, and never slackened till he pulled up 
 with a jerk at the door of the post-house : when, springing 
 from his seat, he detached the lamp from its place, and 
 thrust it into the waggon, crying with a voice that excite-
 
 238 HORACE TEMPLETOI?. 
 
 ment had elevated into a scream, — " He's alive still ! — I'll 
 swear I heard him sigh ! I know he's alive ! " 
 
 It is hard to say what strange conjectui'es might have 
 been formed of the old man's sanity, had he not backed 
 his words by stooping down and lifting from the straw, 
 at the bottom of the cart, the seemingly dead body of a 
 boy, which, with the alacrity of one far younger, he 
 carried up the steps, down the long arched passage, and 
 into the kitchen, where he laid him down before the fire. 
 
 "Quick now, Ernest; run for the doctor! Away, 
 Johan ; bring the Staats Physicus — bring two — all of 
 them in the town ! Frau Hostess, warm water and salt 
 — salt, to rub him with — I know he is alive ! " 
 
 A shake of the head from the old hostess seemed to 
 offer a strong dissent. 
 
 " Never mind that ! He is not dead, thougb he did 
 fall from the Riesenfels." 
 
 " From the Reisenfels ! " exclaimed three or four 
 together in amazement. 
 
 " Who was it came galloping at full speed over the 
 Bridge, and passed the grand guard on the Platz at the 
 same disorderly pace?" said the deep voice of the 
 Burgermeister, who arose from his bed to leaim the 
 cause of the tumult. 
 
 " It was I," exclaimed Cristoph, ruggedly ; " there lies 
 the reason." 
 
 "The penalty is all the same," growled the man of 
 authority : " four gulden for one, and two gulden thirty 
 kreutzei'S for the other offence." 
 
 Christopb either did not hear or heed the speech. 
 
 " Where's the mail-bag ? I haven't seen that yet," 
 chimed in the Postmaster ; who, like a wise ofiicial, 
 followed the lead of the highest village functionary. 
 
 Old Cristoph bustled out, and soon returned, not only 
 with the leathern sack in question, but with a huge frag- 
 ment of a wooden cross over his shoulders. 
 
 " There's the bag, Herr Postmeister, all safe and dry," 
 said he ; " and here Herr Burgermeister, here's your 
 fine finger-post that the Governor ordered to be stuck up 
 on the liiesenfels. I suppose they'll need it again when
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 239 
 
 the snow melts and the road is clear : though to be sure," 
 added he, in a lower tone, "he must have worse eyes than 
 Old Christoph who could not see his way to Imst from 
 that cliff without a finger post to guide him." 
 
 The Bui'germeistor was not disposed to suffer this irony 
 in silence ; but the occasion to exert liis authority with 
 due severity was not at that moment, when the whole 
 attention of the bystanders was directed to the proceed- 
 ings of the three tillage doctors — one of them no less a 
 personage than the Staats Physicus — who, with various 
 hard terms of art, were discussing the condition of the 
 senseless form before them. 
 
 Were I to recount one half of the learned sm-misesand 
 deep prognostications of these wise Esculapians, the 
 chances are, my reader would grow as weary of the 
 recital as did poor old Cristoph of the reality. For at 
 last, unable to endure any longer active controversies 
 about the pia mater and the dura mater, the vitreous 
 table and the cerebellum, with vague hints of " conges- 
 tion," " depression," " effusion," and so on, he broke in 
 with, "In God's name, dear gentlemen, let him be kept 
 warm and have a good glass of ' schuaps ' down his poor 
 throat ; and when he shows a chance of living, fight 
 away about the name of the malady to your hearts' 
 content." 
 
 I am far from defending Old Christoph's rude interrup- 
 tion. The learned faculties should always be treated 
 with becoming deference ; but he was a rude, unpolished 
 old fellow, and the best one can say is, that ho meant it 
 well. Certain it is they seemed to acknowledge the force 
 of his suggestion ; for they at once removed the child to 
 a warm bed, while they ordered the hostess to administer 
 a very comfortable cordial of her own devising ; and, to 
 show their confidence in the remedy, had three likewise 
 provided for their own individual comfort and support. 
 
 It is not my wish to dwell on the sad portions of our 
 tale, wherever the recital would elicit nothing of our 
 little hero's character : and such was the period which 
 now ensued. Fritz was conveyed, early on the following 
 morning, to the village hospital, where his case was pro-
 
 240 HOKACE TEMPLETOJf. 
 
 nounced of the very gravest nature. The clangers from 
 cold, inanition, and exposure, were all inferior to the 
 greater one resulting from some injury to the brain. I 
 cannot be expected to be clearer and more explicit on this 
 theme than were his doctors ; and they, with proverbial 
 propriety, did differ most amazingly : one advocating a 
 fracture, another a concussion, and a third standing out 
 for both, and something more. They agreed, however, on 
 two points ; one of which was, that he would die — and 
 the other, that as he was evidently very poor and had no 
 friends, his death was of less consequence. I would not 
 be here undei'stood, by any malevolent critic, as wishing 
 to infer that the doctors' neglect of him was a strong 
 point in Fritz's favour. I merely desire to relate a simple 
 fact — that he continued to live from day to day, and 
 from week to week, gaining in strength, but never once 
 evidencing, by even the slightest trait, a return to his 
 faculty of reasoning. Alas, poor child ! — the intellect 
 which, in all his sorrow and poverty, had been his happi- 
 ness and his comfort, was now darkened, and he awoke 
 from that long dream of death — an idiot ! 
 
 Perhaps I may not have used the fitting word ; but how 
 shall I speak of his state ? He seemed sad and sorrow- 
 struck ; never spoke, even to answer a question, moved 
 listlessly and slowly about, as if in search of something, 
 and muttering lowly to himself. No one ever saw him 
 smile, and yet he did not weep. He looked more like one 
 in whom reason was, by some terrible shock, suspended 
 and held in abeyance, than actually routed or annihilated. 
 Unlike most others similarly afflicted, he slept very little, 
 remaining usually, the night long, sitting beside his bed, 
 gesticulating with his hands in a strange way, and 
 suddenly ceasing if observed. 
 
 His eye, for some minutes, would often seem bright with 
 intelligence ; but on looking more closely, it would be 
 discovered that the gaze was fixed on vacancy, and it 
 might be conjectured that no image of any near object 
 was presented to the mind, since no expression of pain, 
 pleasure, or astonishment would follow, when different 
 substances were displayed before him. One might say,
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 241 
 
 that the faculties were entirely absorbed by their owu 
 operations, and neither took note of those recorded by the 
 senses, nor had any sympathy with their workings — volition 
 was at a stand-still But why dwell on so sorrowful a 
 picture ? 
 
 Spring came, and Fritz, who ever obeyed each command 
 of those over him, was suffered to walk daily in the little 
 garden of the asyltlm. One day — it was the first bright 
 one of the new season — the birds were singing sweetly in 
 the trees when he went forth, and they who came some 
 time after to fetch him to the house, found him in teai-s. 
 His sorrow seemed, however, to have brought some sense of 
 relief with it, for that night he slept more calmly and 
 longer than usual. From this time out it was remarked 
 that his appearance varied with the weather of each day. 
 When the air was clear, and the sun shone bright, and the 
 birds gathered together in the blossoming branches of the 
 fruit-trees, he seemed happier ; but when dark skies or 
 rain came on, he would walk impatiently from place to 
 place — now, as if in search of some missing object — now, 
 as if suddenly overwhelmed by his loss. 
 
 Thus did he continue till about the first week in May, 
 when at the usual hour of recalling him to the house he 
 was not to be found. Search was made everywhere — 
 through the garden — about the neighbouring buildings — 
 in all the Dorf — but all in vain. No one had seen him. 
 
 Poor and unfriended as he was, his little simple ways, 
 his sinless innocence and gentleness, had made him 
 friends among all who had any authority in the asylum ; 
 and no pains were spared to track him out and discover 
 him — to no end, however. He was seen there no more. 
 Days and weeks long, with unwearying zeal, the search 
 continued, aud was only abandoned when all hope 
 seemed gone. By none was this sad termination of his 
 suffering more poignantly felt than by old Cristoph. 
 Every week he came to Imst, his first care was to ask 
 after the little boy ; and when he learned his fate, his 
 grief was deep and heartfelt. 
 
 I know not if my reader has ever visited Innspruck. 
 
 R
 
 242 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Every one lias been everywhere now-a-days; and so the 
 chances are, that the Tyrol capital is as well known to 
 them as to myself. At all the hazard of being tedious, 
 however, I must mention one feature of that beautiful old 
 city — a little street whicb leads out of the Old Market, 
 and runs westward down a somewhat steep declivity 
 towards the Inn. It is one of those narrow, old gloomy 
 alleys a traveller would scarcely think of exploring. A 
 low range of arches, supported on pillars of the most 
 sturdy proportions, runs along either side, furnished with 
 massive stone seats, worn smooth by the use of some 
 centuries of gossips. The little sliops within this dark 
 arcade are undefended by windows of any kind, but lie 
 open, displaying to the passer-by, not only the various 
 wares exposed for sale, but frequently, as the wind, or 
 chance, waves the folds of an old curtain at the back, the 
 little household of the merchant himself. 
 
 The middle portion of this street, scarcely wide enough 
 for three to walk abreast, grows even narrower as you 
 look up, by the gradual enci'oachment of each storey on 
 either side ; so that while the denizens of the first-floors 
 have merely the neighbourly advantages of a near saluta- 
 tion, they who inhabit the garrets may embrace without 
 any fear on the score of bodily danger. Oar business is 
 only with those beneath, however, and thither I must ask 
 of 3'our accompanying me. 
 
 If the two groined arches — dark with age as well as 
 faint light — the narrow, gloomy-looking alley, might at 
 first deter the stranger from entering, scarcely would he 
 venture a few steps ere a strange fascination would lead 
 him onward. Within these little dens — for such rather 
 than shops do they seem — are objects to be found, the 
 strangest and the most curious ever exposed for sale. In 
 one, you find a collection of ancient armour the greatest 
 Eitter Saal would be proud to choose from : weapons of 
 every age and country — the chain-mail of Milan — the 
 plate-armour of Venice — the heavy double-nailed suits of 
 Regensbourg — the small conical helmet of the East— the 
 massive but beautifully fashioned casque of Spanish mould 
 —the blade of Damascus — the double-handled sword of
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 243 
 
 Appenzell — the jereed — the Crusadei^'s lance — the old 
 pike of the Tyrol, with daggers and poniards of every 
 shape, that luxury or cruelty ever invented. Adjoining 
 this, perhaps, lives one who deals in rare flowers and 
 shrubs ; and, strange as it may seem in such a place, the 
 orange-tree, the cactus, the camellia, and the aloe, shed 
 their bloom and perfume through these vaulted cells, 
 where age, and rust, and decay would appear the most 
 fitting denizens. ' Here, lives one who sells the rich 
 brocaded silks and tabourets of a by-gone century — great 
 flowering waistcoats, stiff and imposing as the once 
 wearers — huge sweeping trains of costly embroidery — 
 relics of a time when stateliness was cultivated, and 
 dignified deportment the distinctive sign of birth. Eight 
 opposite to this is a store of ancient articles of furniture 
 and virtii — marquetry and bnhl — Dresden and Sevres — 
 carved oak and ebony— ivory and box-wood. All that 
 ever fancy conceived uncomfortable to sit upon, or a 
 diseased imagination ever inaugurated as the throne of 
 nightmare to sleep in — are here to be had. Stools to 
 kneel upon and altai's to kneel at— Virgins in ivory and 
 silver — idols of Indian adoration — ancient goblets, and 
 most curiously carved treasure-boxes of solid-iron, massive 
 little emblems of a time when men put slight faith in 
 bankers. 
 
 A little further on you may meet with a jeweller's, 
 where ornaments the most rare and costly arc to be 
 found : massive old necklaces of amethyst or emerald, in 
 which the ungainly setting bears such a contrast to the 
 value of the stone — rich clasps of pink topaz or ruby, for 
 the collar of a cloak — sword-handles all paved with 
 precious gems — and signet-rings, that have circled the 
 fingers of proud Counts of the Empii-e, and, mayhap, 
 sealed with their impress many a dark and gloomy re- 
 cord. 
 
 Some deal in old books and manuscripts, ancient rolls, 
 and painted missals; some, in curious relics of horse- 
 equipment, brass-mounted demi-piques and iron-strapped 
 saddles of the sixteenth century, with spurs of a foot in 
 length, and uncouth bits that would hold an elephant in 
 
 R 2
 
 244 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 clieclc : and one little dusky corner-shop, kept by an old 
 hunchback, contained the strangest of all stocks-in-trade, 
 — an assemblage of instruments of torture : chains of 
 every kind hung from the ceiling ; thumb-screws, back- 
 bolts, helmets made to close upon the skull, and crushed 
 by the action of a vice ; racks, hatchets, and pincers ; 
 while conspicuous in the midst, as the support of an old 
 iron lantern, is the block of a headsman, the surface 
 bearing the shocking record of its usage. Just where 
 this grim and ghastly cell stands, a little rivulet of clear 
 water crosses the street, and seems to separate it from the 
 remaining portion, which, by a steeper declivity, inclined 
 towards the river. 
 
 Separate, indeed, I might well say, for the two portions 
 are as unlike as the records of all man's vanity and cruelty 
 are unlike the emblem of God's goodness and wisdom. 
 You scarcely cross this tiny stream when the whole air 
 resounds with the warbling of birds, bright in every tint 
 and hue of plumage, golden and green, purple and 
 crimson. 
 
 From the lordly eagle of the Ort'ler to the rich toned 
 linnet of the Botzen valley, all ai-e there. There, the 
 paroquet of the Stelvio, gorgeous as the scarlet bustard 
 in plumage ; and here, the golden jay of the Vorarlberg. 
 Blackbirds, thrushes, tinches of a hundred different races, 
 " Iloth kopfs," and woodpeckers, spring, chirp, flutter, 
 and scream, on every side. The very atmosphere is 
 tremulous with the sounds, lifelike and joyous as they 
 are ! The very bustle and movement around is such a 
 relief from the torpid stillness of the other end of the 
 street, where nothing is heard save the low mono'onous 
 tones of some old Jew reading in his back-shop, or the 
 harsh clank of an iron weapon removed from its place ; 
 while, here, the merry twitter and the silvery-shake 
 recall the greenwood and the grove, the bright fields and 
 heath-clad mountains. 
 
 Here is the bird-market of Innspruck. It needs but one 
 passing glance to show what attractions the spot pos- 
 sesses for the inhabitants. Every rank, from the well- 
 salaried official of the government to the humblest
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 2i5 
 
 burgher — from the richly clad noble in his mantle of 
 Astracan, to the peasant in his dark jacket of sheep's 
 skin — the field officer and the common soldier — the 
 "Frau Griifin" voluminous in furs — the " Stuben miid- 
 chen " in her woollen jerkin — the lounging sexagenarian 
 from his coffee — the loitering school-boy returning from 
 school — all jostle and meet together here ; while the 
 scantiest intimacy with the language will suffice to collect 
 from the frequently uttered, " Wie schon!" " Ach Gott! " 
 " Wie immder-schon ! " that admiration and delight are 
 expressed by every tongue among them. 
 
 It is needless to say, that every corner of this little 
 territory is familiar to all Innspruckers ; not only each 
 shop and its owner, but each separate treasure. The 
 newly arrived bullfinch, or greywing, having the notoriety 
 that a Parisian circulates about the last dehutante of the 
 ballet or the opera. If not exactly one of those " lions," 
 that guide-books enforce among the duties of wandering 
 sights-seers, it is at least a frequent resort of the town's- 
 folk themselves, for whose gratification it supplies no 
 small proportion of small-talk. 
 
 Among the well-known and familiar objects of this 
 small world — for such the Juden Gasse in reality is — was 
 a poor boy of some twelve years old, who, clad in the 
 most wretched rags, and with want in every feature, used 
 to sit the livelong day on one of the stone benches 
 watching the birds. It needed but one glance at his 
 bright but unsteady eye, his faint unmeaning smile, his 
 vague and wild expression, to recognize that he was 
 bereft of reason. Is it necessary to say this was poor 
 Fritzerl ? 
 
 Whence he came, who were his parents, how he 
 journeyed thither, no one could tell ! He appeai-ed one 
 morning, when the shop-people were removing the shutters, 
 sitting close by a window, where the early songs of the 
 birds were audible, his head bent down to listen, and his 
 whole attitude betokening the deep attention. Though 
 he o2ei-ed no resistance when they bade him leave the 
 spot, he showed such deep sorrow and such reluctance, 
 that he v/as sufi"cred to remain ; and this was now his
 
 246 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 dwelling-place. He never quitted it during the day, and 
 there did lie pass the night, under the shelter of the deep 
 arches, and protected by the fragment of a mantle, which 
 some compassionate neighbour had given him. All 
 endeavours to induce him to speak were in vain ; a sickly 
 smile was his only answer to a question ; and, if pressed 
 too closely, the tears would come, so that none liked to 
 give him further pain, and the hope of learning anything 
 about him, even his name, was given up. Equally 
 fruitless was every effort to make him perform little 
 services. If the shopkeepers gave him a bird to carry 
 home for a purchaser, he would at once sit down beside 
 the cage and gaze wistfully, delightedly, at the occupant ; 
 but he could not be persuaded to quit his abiding-place. 
 AVho could rob one so poor of all the happiness his life 
 compassed ? certainly not the good-natured and kindly 
 folk who inhabited the bird-market. 
 
 He became then a recognized part of the place, as much 
 as the bustard with one eye in the corner shop, or the fat 
 old owl that had lived for fifty — some said seventy — years, 
 in the little den with the low iron door. Every one knew 
 him ; few passed without a look of kindness towards him. 
 It was of no use to give him money, for though he took 
 money when offered, the next moment he would leave it 
 on the stones, where the street children came and found 
 it. It was clear he did not understand its meaning. The 
 little sujDport he needed was freely proffered by the 
 neighbouring shopkeepers, but he ate nothing save a 
 morsel of dry bread, of which it was remarked that he 
 each day broke off a small portion and laid it by — not to 
 eat later on, for it was seen that he never missed it if 
 removed, nor took it again if suffered to remain. It was 
 one of the secrets of his nature none could rightly 
 account for. 
 
 Although many wealthy and benevolent people of the 
 city wished to provide the poor boy with a more comfortable 
 home, the shopkeepers protested against his removal. 
 Some loved his innocent, childish features, and would 
 have missed him sorely ; others were superstitious enough 
 to think, and even say, that he had brought luck to the
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 247 
 
 bird-market — that every one had prospered since he came 
 there; and some, too, asserted, that having selected the 
 spot himself, it would be cruel to tear him away from a 
 place where accustomed and familiar objects had made for 
 him a kind of home. All these reasoning's were backed by 
 the proposal to build for him a little shed, in the very spot 
 he had taken up, and there leave him to live in peace. 
 This was accordingly done, and poor Fritz, if not a 
 " Burgher of Inuspruck," had at least his own house in the 
 bird- market. 
 
 Months rolled on : the summer went by, and the 
 autumn itself now drew to a close ; and the various prepara- 
 tions for the coming winter might be seen in little hand- 
 barrows of firewood deposited before each door, to be split 
 up and cut in fitting lengths for the stoves. Fur mantles 
 and caps were hung out to air, and some prudent and 
 well-to-do folks examined the snow-windows, and made 
 arrangements for their adjustment. Each in his own way, 
 and according to his means, was occupied with the cai-es 
 of the approaching season. There was but one unmoved 
 face in the whole street — but one who seemed to take no 
 note of time or season — whose past, and present, and 
 future, were as one. This was Fritz, who sat on his 
 accustomed bench gazing at the birds, or occasionally 
 moving from his place to peep into a cage whose occupant 
 lay hid, and then, when satisfied of its presence, retiring 
 to his seat contented. 
 
 Had the worthy citizens been less actively engrossed by 
 their own immediate concerns, or had they been less 
 accustomed to this humble dependent's presence amongst 
 them, it is likely they would have remarked the change 
 time had wrought in his appearance. If no actual evi- 
 dence of returning reason had evinced itself in his beai'ing 
 or conduct, his features displayed at times varieties of 
 expression and meaning very different from their former 
 monotony. The cheek, whose languid pallor never altered, 
 would now occasionally flush, and become suddenly scar- 
 let ; the eyes, dull and meaningless, would sparkle and 
 light up ; the lips, too, would part, as if about to give 
 utterance to words. All these signs, however, would be
 
 24S HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 only momentary, and a degree of depression, even to 
 prostration, would invariably follow. Unlike his former 
 apathy, too, he started at sudden noises in the street, felt 
 more interest in the changes that went on in the shop, 
 and seemed to miss certain birds as they happened to be 
 sold or exchanged. The most remarkable of all the 
 alterations in his manner was, that, now he would often 
 walk down to the river-side, and pass hours there gazing 
 on the current. Who can say what efforts at restored 
 reason were then taking place within him — what mighty 
 influences were at work to bring back sense and intellect 
 — what struggles, and what combats ? It would seem as 
 if the brain could exist in all its integrity— sound, and 
 intact, and living — and yet some essential impulse be 
 wanting which should impart the power of thought. 
 Momentary flashes of intelligence, perhaps, did cross 
 him ; but such can no more suffice for guidance than does 
 the forked lightning supply the luminary that gives us 
 day. The landscape preternaturally lit up for a second, 
 becomes darker than midnight the moment after. 
 
 Bright and beautiful as the river is, with its thousand 
 eddies whirling along — now, reflecting the tall spires and 
 battlemented towers of the town— now, some bold, pro- 
 jecting cliff of those giant mountains beside it— how does 
 its rapid stream proclaim its mountain source, as in large 
 sheets of foam it whirls round the rocky angles of the 
 bank, and dashes along free as the spirit of its native 
 home ! Fritz came here, however, less to gaze on this 
 lovely picture than on a scene which each morning pre- 
 sented to his eyes close by. This was a garden, where 
 a little girl of some seven or eight years old used to play, 
 all alone and by herself, while the old nurse that accom- 
 panied her sat knitting in a little harbour near. 
 
 The joyous river — the fresh and balmy air — the flowers 
 flinging delicious odours around, and gorgeous in their 
 brilliant tints, only needed this little infant figure to 
 impart a soul to the scene, and make it one of ravishing 
 enchantment. Her tiny footsteps on the ground— her 
 little song, breathing of innocence and happiness — the 
 garlands which she wove, now to place upon her own fair
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 249 
 
 brow, now, in childish sport, to throw into the clear 
 current — all imparted to the poor idiot's heart sensations 
 of intense delight. Who can say if that infant voice did 
 not wake to feeling the heart that all the wisdom of the 
 learned could not arouse from its sleep ? 
 
 Not only was Fritz happy while he sat and watched 
 this little child, but, for the entire day after, he would 
 appear calm and tranquil, and his face would display 
 the placid expression of a spirit sunk in a pleasing 
 trance. 
 
 It was not unusual with him, while he was thus gazing, 
 for sleep to come over him — a calm, delicious slumber — 
 from which he awoke far more refreshed and rested than 
 from his night's repose. Perhaps she was present in his 
 dreams, and all her playful gestures and her merry tones 
 were with him while he slept. Perhaps — it is not im- 
 possible — that his mind, soothed by the calming influence 
 of such slumber, recovered in part its lost power, and not 
 being called on for the exercise of volition, could employ 
 some of its percej)tive faculties. 
 
 Be this as it may, this sleep was deep, and calm, and 
 tranquillizing. One day, when he had watched longer 
 than usual, and when her childish sport had more than 
 ever delighted him, he dropped oS" almost suddenly into 
 slumber. Motionless as death itself he lay upon the bank 
 — a faint smile upon his parted lips, his chest scarcely 
 seeming to heave, so soft and quiet was his slumber. The 
 river rippled pleasantly beside him, the air was balmy as 
 in the early spring, and fanned his hot temples with a 
 delicious breath, the child's song* floated merrily out— the 
 innocent accents of infant glee — and Fritz seemed to 
 drink these pleasures in as he slept. 
 
 What visions of heavenly shape — what sounds of angelic 
 sweetness — may have flitted before that poor distracted 
 brain, as with clasped hands and muttering lips he seemed 
 to pray a prayer of thankfulness — the outpouring grati- 
 tude of a pent-up nature finding vent at last! Suddenly 
 he awoke with a start — terror in every feature — his eyes 
 starting from their sockets : he reeled as he sprang to his 
 feet, and almost fell. The river seemed a cataract — the
 
 250 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 mountains leaned over as though they were about to fall 
 and crush him — the ground beneath his feet trembled and 
 shook with an earthquake movement — a terrible cry rano- 
 through his ears. What could it mean ? There! — there 
 again he heard it ! Ob, what a pang of heart-rendino- 
 anguish was that ! '■'■ Ridf I liulfl liulfT'' were the words'. 
 The infant was struggling in the current — her little hand 
 grasped the weeds, while at every instant they gave 
 Avay — the water foamed and eddied round her — deeper 
 and deeper she sank : her hair now floated in the stream, 
 and her hands, uplifted, besought, for the last time, aid. 
 " Hillfvns ! Maria ; Milfuns ! " She sank. With a cry 
 of wildest accent, Fritz sprang into the stream, and seized 
 the yellow hair as it was disappearing beneath the flood : 
 the struggle was severe, for the strong stream inclined 
 towards the middle of the river, and Fritz could not swim. 
 Twice had the waves closed over him, and twice he 
 emerged with his little burden pressed to his heart ; were 
 it not for aid, however, his efforts would have been vain. 
 The cry for help had brought many to the spot, and he 
 was rescued — saved from death: saved from that worse 
 than death — the terrible union of life and death. 
 
 He lay upon the bank, wearied and exhausted — but oh, 
 how happy ! How doubly bright the sky !— how inex- 
 pressibly soft and soothing the air upon his bi-ow ! — how 
 sweet the human voice, that not only sounded to the ear 
 but echoed in the heart ! 
 
 In all his bright dreams of life he had fancied nothing 
 like the bliss of that moment. Friends were on every 
 side of him — kind friends, who never in a life-long could 
 tell all their gratitude ; and now, with words of aflection, 
 and looks of mildest, fondest meaning, they bent over that 
 jDoor boy, and called him their own preserver. 
 
 Amid all these sights and sounds of gladness — so full 
 of hope and joy — there came one shrill cry, which, 
 piercing the air, seemed to penetrate to the very inmost 
 charnber of Fritz's heart, telling at once the whole history 
 of his life, and revealing the secret of his suffering and 
 his victory. It was Star himself; who, in a cage beneath 
 the spreading branches of a cheslnut-tree, was glad to
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 251 
 
 mingle his wild notes witli tlie concourse of voices about 
 liim, and still continued at intervals to scream out "Maria, 
 Jiiilf ! half uns, Maria ! " 
 
 " Yes, child," said a venerable old man, as ho kissed 
 Fritz's forehead, " you see the fruits of your obedience and 
 your trust. I am glad you have not forgotten my teaching 
 — 'A good word brings luck.' " 
 
 Every story-teller^should respect those who like to hear 
 a tale to its very end. The only way he can evince his 
 gratitude for their patience is by gratifying all their 
 curiosity. It remains for' me, then, to say, that| Fritz 
 returned to the little village where he had lived with Star 
 for his companion ; not poor and fi'iendless as before, but 
 rich in wealth, and richer in what is far better — the 
 grateful love and affection of kind friends. His life 
 henceforth was one of calm and tranquil happiness. By 
 his aid the old Bauer was enabled to purchase his little 
 farm rent-free, and buy besides several cows and some 
 sheep. And then when he grew up to be a man, 
 Fritz married Gretl'a, and they became very well off, 
 and lived in mutial love and contentment all their 
 lives. 
 
 Fritz's house was not only the handsomest in the Dorf 
 but it was ornamented with a little picture of the Virgin, 
 with Star sitting upon her wrist, and the words of the 
 golden letters were inscribed beneath, — 
 
 "Maria, Mutter Gottes, hiilf uns !" 
 
 Within, nothing could be more comfortable than to see 
 Fritz and Grettl'a at one side of the fire, and the old 
 Bauer reading aloud, and the " Frau " listening, and Star 
 who lived to a great age, walking proudly about, as if he 
 was conscious that he had some share in pi'oducing the 
 family prosperity ; and close to the stove on a little low 
 seat made on purpose, sat a little old man, with a long 
 pigtail and very shrunken legs : this was old Christoph 
 the postilion — and who had a better right ? 
 
 Fritz was so much loved and respected by the villagers,
 
 252 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 that they elected him Vorsteher, or rector of the Dorf ; and 
 when he died — very old at last — they all, several hundreds 
 followed him respectfully to the grave, and, in memory of 
 his story, called the village Maria Htilf, which is its name 
 to this day.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 25 'd 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ^ Varenna, Lake of Como. 
 
 Italy at last ! I have crossed the Alps and reached my 
 goal, and now I turn and look at that winding road which, 
 for above two thousand feet, traverses the steep mountain- 
 side, and involuntarily a sadness steals over me — that I am 
 never to recross it! These same "last-times" are very 
 sorrowful things, all emblems as they are of that one great 
 " last-time " when the curtain falls for ever! Nor am I 
 sorry when this feeling impresses me deeply; nay, I am 
 pleased that indifference — apathy — have no more hold 
 upon me. I am more afraid of that careless, passionless 
 temperament than of aught else, and the more as hour by 
 hour it steals over me. Yesterday a letter, which once 
 would have interested me deeply, lay half read till 
 evening ; to-day, a very old friend of my guardian's, Sir 
 Gordon Howard, has left his card ; he is in the inn, 
 perhaps in the next room, and I have not energy to return 
 his visit and chat with him over friends I am never to see 
 again. And yet he is a gallant old officer — one of that 
 noble class of Englishmen whose loyalty made the boldest 
 feats of daring, the longest years of servitude, seem only 
 as a duty they owed their sovereign. The race is dying 
 out fast. 
 
 What can have brought him to Italy ? Let me see. 
 Here is the Travellers' Book ; perhaps it may tell some- 
 thing. 
 
 " Sir Gordon Howard, Officier Anglais," — simple enough 
 for a Major-General and K.C.B. and G.C.H. — " de Zurich 
 a Como." Not much to be learned from that. But stay! 
 he is not alone. "Mademoiselle Howard." And who can 
 she be ? He never had a daughtei', and his only son is in
 
 254 HOPvACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 India. Perhaps slie is a granddaughter; but what care I? 
 It is but another reason to avoid seeing him. I cannot 
 make new acqaintances now. He wants no companions 
 who must travel the road I am going ! Antoine must tell 
 me when Sir Gordon Howard goes out, and I'll leave my 
 card then. I feel I must remain here to-day, and I am 
 well content to do so. This calm lake, these bold 
 mountains, the wooded promontory of Bellagio, and its 
 bright villas seen amid the trees, are pleasant sights; 
 Avhile from the evei'-passing boats, with their white ai'ched 
 awnings, I hear laughter and voices of happy people, 
 whose hearts are lighter than my own. 
 
 If I could only find resolution for the task, too, there 
 are a host of letters lying by me unanswered. How little 
 do some of those " dear friends " who invite one to shoot 
 grouse in the Highlands, or hunt in Leicestershire, think 
 of the real condition of those they ask to be their guests ! 
 It is enough that you have been seen in certain houses of 
 
 a certain repute. You have visited at B , and spent a 
 
 Christmas at G ; you are known as a tolerable shot 
 
 and a fair average talker ; you are sufficiently recognized 
 in the world as to be known to all men of a very general 
 acceptance, and no more is wanted. Bat test this kind of 
 position by absence ! Try, if you will, what a few years 
 out of England effect! You are as totally forgotten 
 as though you belonged to a past generation. You expect 
 — naturally enough, perhaps — to resume your old place 
 and among your old associates ; but where are they ? and 
 what have they become? You left them young men about 
 town, you find them now among the " middle ages ; " when 
 you parted they were slim, lank, agile fellows, that could 
 spring into a saddle and fly their horse over a five-bar 
 rail, or pull an oar with any one. Kow, they are of the 
 portly order, wear wider-skirted coats, trousers without 
 straps, and cloth boots ; their hats, too, have widened in 
 the leaf, so as to throw a more liberal shade over broader 
 cheeks ; the whiskers are more bushy, and less accm^ate in 
 curl. If they ride, the horse has more bone and timber 
 under him ; and when they bow to some fair fiice in a 
 passing carriage there is no brightening of the eye, but in
 
 nORA.CE TEMPLETON. 255 
 
 its place a look of easier intimacy than heretofore. 
 These are not the men you left? — alas they are ! A new 
 generation of young men about town has sprung up, who 
 " know not Joseph," and with whom you have few, if 
 any, sympathies. 
 
 So I find it myself. I left England at a time when 
 pleasure was the mad pursuit of every young fellow; and 
 under that designation came every species of extravagance 
 and all kind of wild' excess. Men of five thousand a-year 
 were spending twelve ! Men of twelve, thirty ! Every 
 season saw some half-dozen cross the Channel, " cleared 
 out" — some never more to be heard of. Others, lino'erinsr 
 in Paris or Brussels to confer with their lawyer, who was 
 busily engaged in compromising, contesting, disputing, 
 and bullying a host of creditors, whose veiy rogueries had 
 accomplished the catastrophe they grumbled at. Lords, 
 living on ten or twelve hundred pounds a-year were to be 
 met with everywhere ; countesses lodged in every little 
 town in Germany. The Dons of dragoon regiments were 
 seen a-foot in the most obscure of watering-places ; and 
 men who had loomed large at Doncaster, and booked thou- 
 sands, were now fain to risk francs and florins among the 
 flats of Brussels and Aix-la-Chapelle. The pace was 
 tremendous ; few who came of age with a good estate held 
 out above two or three years. And if any listener should 
 take his place beside a group of fashionable-looking young 
 Englishmen in the Boulevard do Grand, or the Graben at 
 Vienna, the chances were greatly in favour of his hearing 
 such broken phrases as, " Caught it heavily ! " — "All wrong 
 at Ascot ! "— " Scott's fault! "—" Cleared out at Crocky's !" 
 — "IS"o standing two hundred per cent.!" — "Infernal 
 scoundrel. Ford !" — "That villain Columbine ; " — " Rascal 
 Bevan ! " — and so on, with various allusions to the Qnorri 
 hounds, the Clarendon, and Houlditch the coachmaker. 
 Such was the one song you heard everywhere. 
 
 Now the mode — a better one I willingly own it — is 
 "Toung Englandism." Kot that superb folly of white 
 neckcloth and vest, that swears by Disraeli and the 
 Morning Post, but that healthier stamp, whose steps of 
 travel have turned eastward, towards the land of old-world
 
 256 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 wonders, and who, instead of enervating mind and body 
 at Ems or Baden, seek higher and nobler sources of 
 pleasure among the cities and tombs of ancient Egypt. 
 Lord Lindsay, for instance, what a creditable specimen is 
 he of his age and class ! and Warburton's book, the 
 " Crescent and the Ci'oss," how redeeming is such a pro- 
 duction among the mass of frivolity and flippancy the 
 magazines teem with ! These are the men who, returning 
 to England, more intensely national than they left it, cannot 
 be reproached with ignoi-ance in this preference of their 
 native land above every other. Their nationality, not 
 built up of the leaders of the daily newspapers, is a con- 
 viction resulting from reflection and comparison. 
 
 They are proud of England ; not alone as the most 
 powerful of nations, but as that where personal integrity 
 and truth are held in highest repute — where character and 
 reputation stand far above genius— and where, whatever 
 the eminence of a gifted man, he cannot stand above his 
 fellows, save on the condition that he is not inferior in 
 more sterling qualities. The young man setting out to 
 travel can scarcely be sustained by a better feeling than 
 his strong nationality. He who sets a high store by the 
 character of his countiy will be slow to do aught that will 
 disgrace it. Of course I speak of nationality in its true 
 sense; not the aflectation of John Bullism iu dress, 
 manner, and bearing — not the insolent assumption of 
 superiority to the French and Germans, that some very 
 young men deem English; but a deep conviction that as 
 the requirements of England are higher in all that regards 
 fidelity to his word, consistency of conduct, and more 
 honourable employment of time and talents than prevail 
 abroad, he should be guardedly careful not to surrender 
 these convictions to all the seductions of foreign life and 
 manners. 
 
 I do not believe our country is superior to any foreign 
 land in any one particular so strikingly as iu the capabili- 
 ties and habits of our higher orders. Such a class as the 
 titled order of Great Britain, taking them collectively, 
 never existed elsewhere. 
 
 A German, with anything like independence, lives a life
 
 fiOEACE TEMPLETON. 257 
 
 of tobacco-smoking aud snipe-shooting. An Italian is con- 
 tent to eke out life with a cafe aud a theatre — lemonade 
 and a liaison are enough for him. The government of 
 foreign states, in shutting out the men of rank and fortune 
 from political influence, have taken the very shortest road 
 to their degradation. What is to become of a man who 
 has a Bureaucracy for a government and Popery for a re- 
 ligion ? 
 
 But what is the tumult in the little court-yard beneath 
 my window? Ha! an English equipage! How neatly 
 elegant that low-hung phaeton! and how superb in figure 
 and style that pair of powerful dark-brown thoroughbreds ! 
 — for so it is easy to see they ai'e, even to the smart groom, 
 who stands so still before the pole, with each hand upon 
 the bars of the bits. All smack of London. There is an 
 air of almost simplicity in the whole turn-out, because it 
 is in such perfect keeping. And here come its owners. 
 What a pretty foot ! — I might almost say, and ankk-, too ! 
 How gracefully she draws her shawl around her ! AVhat ! 
 ray friend Sir Gordon himself ? So, this is Mdlle. Howard ! 
 I wish I could see her face. She will not turn this way. 
 And now they are gone. How distinctive is the proud 
 tramp of their feet above the shuffling shamble of the 
 posters! 
 
 So, it is only a piccolo giro they are gone to make along 
 the lake, and come back again, to dinner. I thought I 
 heard him say my name to his valet, as he stepped into 
 the carriage. Who knocks at the door? I was right; 
 Sir Gordon has sent to invite me to dine at six o'clock. 
 Shall I go ? Why should I think of it ? I am sick, low, 
 Aveak, heart and body. Nay, it is better to refuse. 
 
 Well, I have written my apology, not without a kind of 
 secret regret, for somehow I have a longing — a strange 
 wish once more to feel the pleasant excitement of even so 
 much of society ; but, like the hero of the Peau de 
 Chagrin, I dread to indulge a wish, for it may lead me 
 more rapidly down to my doom. I actually tremble lest a
 
 258 HOBACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 love of life, that all-absorbiug desire to live, should lie in 
 wait for mc yet. I have heard that it ever accompanies 
 the last stage of my malady. It is better, then, to guard 
 against whatever might suggest it. Pleasure could not — 
 friendship, solicitude, kindness might do so.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 259 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Villa Cimarosa, Lago di Como. 
 
 It is a week since I wrote a line iu my notebook, and, 
 judging only from my sensations, it seems like a year. 
 Events rapidly succeeding, always make time seem longer 
 in retrospect. It is only monotony is brief to look back 
 upon. I expected ere this to have been at Naples, if not 
 Palermo ; and here I linger on the Lake of Como, as if 
 my frail health had left me any choice of a resting-place. 
 And yet, why should this not be as healthful as it is 
 beautiful ? 
 
 Looking out from this window, beneath which, not three 
 paces distant, the blue lake is plashing — the music of its 
 waves the only sound heard — great mountains rise grandly 
 from the water to the very skies, the sides one tangled mass 
 of olive, vine, and fig-tree. The dark-leaved laurel, the 
 oleander, the cactus and the magnolia cluster around each 
 rugged rocky eminence, and hang in graceful drapery over 
 the glassy water. Palaces, temples, and villas are seen on 
 every side ; some, boldly standing out, are reflected in the 
 calm lake, their marble columns tremulous as the gentle 
 wind steals past ; others, half bid among the embowering 
 trees, display but a window or a portico, or perchance a 
 deep arched entrance for the gondolas, above which some 
 heavy banner slowly waves its drooping folds, touching 
 the very water. The closed jalousies, the cloudless sky, 
 the unruffled water, over which no boat is seen to glide, the 
 universal stillness, all tell that it is noon — the noon of 
 Italy, and truly the northern midnight is not a season of 
 such unbroken repose. Looking at this scene, aiid fancying 
 to myself the lethargic life of ease, which not even thought 
 disturbs, of these people, I half wonder within me how 
 
 s 2
 
 2G0 Horace TEMPLETO^f. 
 
 had it fared with us of England beneath such a sun, and 
 in such a clime. Had the untiring spirit of enterprise, 
 the active zeal and thirst for wealth, triumphed over every 
 obstacle, and refused to accept, as a season of rest, the 
 hours of the bright and glaring sunshine ? 
 
 Here the very fishermen are sleeping beneath their can- 
 vas awnings, and their boats lie resting in the dark 
 shadows. There is something inexpressibly calm and 
 tranquillizing in all this. The stillness of night we accept 
 as its natural and fitting accompaniment, but to look out 
 upon this fair scene, one is insensibly reminded of the con- 
 dition of life which leaves these busiest of mortal hours, 
 elsewhere, free to peaceful repose, and Avith how littlo 
 labour all wants are met and satisfied. 
 
 How came I here ? is a question rising to my mind at 
 every moment, and actually demanding an eHbrt of memory 
 to answer. The very apartment itself is almost a riddle to 
 me, seeming like some magic transformation, realizing as 
 it does all that I could ask or wish. 
 
 This beautiful little octagon room, with its marble 
 *' statuettes " in niches between the windows, its frescoed 
 ceiling, its white marble floor, reflecting each graceful 
 ornament, even to the silver lamp that hangs high in the 
 coved roof ; and then, this little terrace beside the lake, 
 where under the silk awning I sit among a perfect bosquet 
 of orange and oleander trees; it is almost too beautiful 
 for reality. I try to read, but cannot ; and as I write I 
 stand up at each moment to peep over the balcony at the 
 fish, as sluggishly they' move along, or, at the least stir, 
 dart forward with arrowy speed, to return again the 
 minute after, for they have been fed here and know the 
 spot. There is a dreamy, visionary feeling, that seems to 
 be the spirit of the place, encouraging thought, and 
 yet leading the mind to dalliance rather than moody 
 reverie. And again, how came I here P Now for the 
 answer. 
 
 On Tuesday last I was at Varenna fully bent on pro- 
 ceeding by Milan to Genoa and thence to Naples. I had 
 not without some difficulty, resisted all approaches of Sir 
 Gordon Howard and even avoided meeting him. What
 
 HORACE TEMrLETON. 261 
 
 scores of fables did I invent merely to escape an interview 
 ■with an old friend ! 
 
 Well, at eight o'clock as I sat at breakfast I heard the 
 bustle of preparation in the court-yard, and saw with inex- 
 pressible relief that his horses were standing ready har- 
 nessed, while my valet came with the welcome tidings that 
 the worthy baronet was starting for Como, near which he 
 had taken a villa. The Villa Cimarosa, the most beautiful 
 on the lake — frescoes, statues, hanging gardens, I know 
 not how many more charming items did my informant 
 recite with all the impassioned eloquence of George Robins 
 himself. He spared me nothing, from the news that 
 JMadamoiselle, Sir Gordon's granddaughter, who was a 
 prodicjious heiress, was ordered to Italy ior hei- health, and 
 that it was more than likely we should find them at Naples 
 for the winter, down to the less interesting fact that the 
 courier, Giacorao Bartoletti, was to proceed by the steamer 
 and get the villa ready for their arrival. I could only stop 
 his communications by telling him to order horses for 
 Lecco, pay the bill, and follow me as I should stroll down 
 the road and look at the caverns of rock which it traverses 
 by the lake side. 
 
 I had seen Sir Gordon drive off — I had heard the accus. 
 tomed "Buon viaggio " uttered by the whole household in 
 choi'us — and now I was fi^ee once more ; and so escaping 
 this noisy ceremony of leave-taking, I sauntered listlessly 
 forth and took my way along the lake. The morning was 
 delicious ; a slight breeze from the north, the pleasantest 
 of all the winds on the Lake of Como, was just spring- 
 ing up. 
 
 It is here opposite Varenna that the lake is widest; but 
 nothing of bleakness results from the greater extent of 
 water, for the mountains are still bold and lofty, and the 
 wooded promontory of Bellagio dividing the two reaches 
 of the lake is a beautiful feature. Its terraced gardens 
 and stately palaces peeping amid the leafy shade and 
 giving glimpses of one of the sweetest spots the "Villeggi- 
 atura " ever lingered in. 
 
 I had got a considerable distance from the town of 
 Varenna without feeling it. The enchanting picture ever
 
 262 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 presenting some new effect and the light and buoj^ant 
 breeze from the water and a certain feeling of unusual 
 lightness of heart all aiding, I walked on without fatigue ; 
 nor was I aware of the distance traversed till, at a little 
 bend of the lake, I saw Varenna diminishing away — its 
 tall poplars and taper spires being now the most conspi- 
 cuous features of the town. 
 
 At a short distance in front of me lay a little creek or 
 bay, from one side of which a wooden pier projected — a 
 station for the steamers that ply on the lake. There now 
 Sir Grordon Howard's phaeton was standing, surrounded 
 with a most multifarious heap of trunks, packing-cases, 
 portmanteaus, and other travelling gear — signs that some 
 portion of his following, at least, were awaiting the arrival 
 of the packet. Nor had they to wait long, for as I looked 
 the vessel shot round the rocky point and darted swiftly 
 across the smooth water, till she lay scarce moving, about 
 a quarter of a mile from shore — the shoal water prevented 
 her approaching nearer to the jetty. 
 
 With the idle curiosity of a lounger, I sat down on a 
 rock to watch the scene. 
 
 I know no reason for it, but I ever take an interest in 
 the movements of travellers. Their comings and goings 
 suggest invariably some amusing pictures to my mind, and 
 many a story have I weaved for myself from nothing but 
 the passing glimpses of those landed hurriedly from a 
 steamer, 
 
 I watched, therefore, with all my usual satisfaction, the 
 launching of the boat laden heavily with luggage, on the 
 top of which, like its presiding genius, sat a burly courier, 
 his gold-banded cap glistening brightly in the sun. Then 
 came a lighter skiif, in the stern of which sat a female 
 figure shaded by a pink parasol. There was another para- 
 sol in the phaeton too — I thought I could even recognize Sir 
 Gordon's figure in the last boat ; but as I looked, the sky 
 became suddenly ovei'cast, and round the rocky point, 
 where but a moment before the whole cliff lay reflected in 
 the water, there now came splashing waves, tumbling 
 wildly by, till the whole creek suddenly was covered by 
 them ; dark squalls of wind sweeping over the watei'.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 263 
 
 tossing tbe two boats to and fro, and even heaving up the 
 huge steamer itself, till her bows were batlied in ibaming 
 cataracts. The suddenness of the tempest — for such it 
 really was — was a grand and sublime " effect "in such a 
 scene ; but I could no longer enjoy it, as there seemed to 
 be actual danger in the situation of the two boats which, 
 from time to time, were hidden between the swelling waves. 
 At last, but not without a struggle, they reached the 
 packet, and I could'' plainly see by the signs of haste on 
 board that the captain had not been a very willing spec- 
 tator of the scene. The luggage was soon on board, Mnd 
 the figures of the lighter boat followed quickly after. 
 Scarcely was this effected when the boats were cast off, 
 and again the paddle-wheels splashed through the water. 
 The gale at this instant increased, for no sooner was the 
 steamer's bow to the wind, than the waves went clean over 
 her, washing her deck from stem to stern, and dashing in 
 columns of spray over the dark funnel. A great stir and 
 commotion on deck drew off my attention from the boats ; 
 and now I heard a hoarse voice calling through a speaking- 
 trumpet to those in the boats. They, however, either 
 did not hear or heed the command, for they rowed boldly 
 towards the shore, nor once paid any attention to the sig- 
 nals which, first as a flag, and afterwards as a cannon-shot, 
 the steamer made for them. 
 
 While I was lost in conjecturing what possibly all this 
 might mean, the vessel once more rounded to her course, 
 and with full steam up breasted the rolling water, and 
 stood out towards the middle of the lake. A fisherman 
 just then ran his boat in to land, in a little creek beneath 
 me, and from him I asked an explanation of the scene. 
 
 " It's nothing, signer, but what one sees almost every day 
 here," said he jeeringly : that " canaille of Pollagino have 
 taken people out to the steamer, and would not wait to 
 bring them back again ; and now, they must go to Como, 
 whether they will or no." 
 
 This explanation seemed the correct one, and appeared 
 to be corroborated by the attitude of the party on shore, 
 for there stood the phaeton, still waiting, although all 
 chance of the other's returning was totally by-gone. Con-
 
 264 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 clucliug that, Sir Gordon thus carried off without his will, 
 his servants might possibly need some advice or counsel — 
 for I knew they were all English, except the courier — I 
 hastened down to the jetty, to offer them such aid as I 
 possessed. As I came nearer, I was more convinced that 
 my suspicions were correct. About thirty ragged and 
 not over-prepossessing looking individuals were assembled 
 around the phaeton ; some busily pressing the groom, who 
 who stood at the horses' heads, with questions he could 
 not answer; and others imploring charity with all that 
 servile tone and gesture your Italian bep:gar is master of. 
 Making ray way through this assemblage, I accosted the 
 groom, who knew me to be an acquaintance of his master's, 
 and instead of replying to me, at once cried out, — " Oh, 
 Miss Lucy, here is Mr. Templeton ! You need not be 
 afraid, now." I turned at once, and instead of a lady's- 
 maid, as I had believed the figure to be, beheld a very 
 lovely but delicate-looking girl, who, with an expression of 
 considerable anxiety in her features, was still following the 
 track of the departing steam-boat. At the mention of my 
 name she looked hurriedly around, and a deep blush covered 
 her face as she said, — 
 
 " I am so happy to see Mr. Templeton ! Perhaps he 
 will forgive me if I make the first moment of our acquaint- 
 ance the burden of a request ? " And then, in a very few 
 words, she told me how her grandfather, having gone on 
 board the steamer to give some particular orders and direc- 
 tions about his baggage, was unwillingly carried otf, leaving 
 her with only a groom," who could speak no language but 
 liis own. She went on to say, that they had taken the 
 Villa Cimarosa on the lake, and were then proceeding 
 thither by Lecco, when this mesaventure occurred. 
 
 " I now must ask Mr. Templeton's counsel how to act — 
 whether to return to the inn at Varenna, and wait there 
 till T can hear from my grandfather, or venture on to Como 
 with the carriage ? " 
 
 " If you will take my carriage, Miss Howard, it will be 
 here in a few minutes. My servant is a most experienced 
 traveller, and will not suffer you to endure the slightest 
 inconvenience; and I will follow in yours."
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 265 
 
 " But perhaps you cannot travel in an open carriage ? 
 I have heard that your health is delicate." 
 
 " I prefer it greatly." 
 
 " And I too " 
 
 She stopped suddenly, feeling that she was about to 
 utter what might seem an ungracious acknowledgment. 
 There was such an evident regret in the dread of having 
 offended me, that, without pausing to reflect, I said, — 
 
 " There is another alternative ; I am a very safe whip, 
 and if you would permit me to have the honour of ac- 
 companying you, I should be but too happy to be your 
 escort." 
 
 She tried to answer by a polite smile of acceptance, but 
 I saw that the proposition was scarcely such as she 
 approved of, and so at once I added, — 
 
 " I will spare you the pain of rejecting my offer; pray, 
 then, abide by my first suggestion. I see my carriage 
 coming along yonder." 
 
 " I don't know," said she, with a kind of wilfulness, like 
 that of one who had been long accustomed to indulgence ; 
 " it may seem very capricious to you, but I own I detest 
 post-horses, and cracking whips, and rope-harness. You 
 shall drive me, Mr. Templeton." 
 
 I replied by a very sincere assui'ance of how I esteemed 
 the favour, and the next moment was seated at her side. 
 As I stole a glance at the pale but beautifully-formed 
 features, her drooping eyelashes dark as night, and her 
 figure of surpassing symmetry and grace, I could not help 
 thinking of all the straits and expedients I had practised 
 for three entire days to avoid making her acquaintance. 
 As if she had actually divined what was then passing in 
 ray mind, she said, — 
 
 " You see, Mr. Templeton, it was like a fate ; you did 
 your utmost not to meet us, and here we are after 
 all." 
 
 I stammered out a very eager, but a very blundering 
 attempt at denial, while she resumed, — 
 
 "Pray do not make matters worse, which apologies in 
 such cases always do. Grandpapa told me that ill liealth 
 bad made you a recluse and avoid society. This, and the
 
 266 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 mystery of your own close seclusion, were quite enough 
 to make me desirous to see you." 
 
 " How flattered I should have been had I suspected so 
 much interest could attach to me ! but, really, I dreaded 
 to inflict upon a very old friend what I found to be so 
 tiresome, namely, my own company." 
 
 " I always heard that you were fastidious about going 
 into society; but surely a visit to an old friend, in a foreign 
 country too, might have escaped being classed in this 
 category ? " 
 
 " I own my fault, which, like most faults, has brought 
 its own penalty." 
 
 " If this be meant to express your deep affliction at not 
 coming to us, I accept the speech in all it most com- 
 plimentary sense." 
 
 I bowed in acquiescence, and she went on : — 
 
 "You must forgive me if I talk to you with a freedom 
 that our actual acquaintanceship does not warrant, for, 
 while you never heard of me before, 1 have been listening 
 to stories and narratives about you I cannot say how long." 
 
 " Indeed ! I scarcely suspected Sir Gordon had more 
 than remembered me.'' 
 
 " I did not say that grandpapa was my informant," 
 said she, laughing. " Lady Catherine Douglas — the Col- 
 lingwoods — the Grevilles — and then that delightful person, 
 Madame de Favancourt — all spoke of you .... For 
 which of my catalogue was that blush intended, Mr. 
 Templeton ? " 
 
 " I was only yielding to a very natural sentiment — call 
 it shame, pride or pleasure — that so many fair friends should 
 have deemed me worthy a place in their memory. Is 
 Mary Greville married ? " 
 
 " Yes ; about a month since she accepted the hand she 
 had, it is said, some half-dozen times rejected." 
 
 " Sir Blake Morony ? " 
 
 " The same : an intolerable bore, to my thinking; and, 
 indeed, I believe, to poor Mary's, too. But, then, 'the' 
 man did not oft'er. Some say he was bashful ; some, that 
 he dreaded what he need not have dreaded — a refusal ; 
 and so, Mary went out to the Cape when her father became
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 2.G7 
 
 Governer there; and, like all governor's daughters, took 
 a husband from the staff." 
 
 "She was very pretty, but " 
 
 " Say on; we were never more than mere acquaint- 
 ances," 
 
 " I was going to add, a most inveterate flirt." 
 
 " How I do detest to hear that brought as an accusa- 
 tion against a girl, from the very kind of person that 
 invariably induces "the error ! — Young men like JNIr. 
 Templeton, who, entering life with the prestige of ability 
 and public success, very naturally flatter the vanity of any 
 girl by their attentions, and lead to a more buoyant 
 character of mind and a greater desire to please, which 
 are at once set down as coquetry. For my own part, I 
 greatly prefer old men's society to young one's, from the 
 very fact that one is permitted to indulge all the caprices 
 of thought or fancy without incurring the ofi'ensive im- 
 putation of a design on his heart." 
 
 " I should not alwavs give a verdict of acquittal even 
 in such cases." 
 
 "Very likely not. There are old men whose manner 
 and bearing are infinitely more attractive than the self- 
 satisfied, self-relying composure of our modern young 
 ones. Anything, however, even boyish awkardness, is 
 preferable to your middle-aged gentleman, who with a 
 slight bald spot on his head, and a very permanent flush 
 on his cheek, adds the stately pomp of his forty autumns 
 to a levity that has no touch of younger days." 
 
 " Heaven help us ! what are we to do from thirty to 
 fifty-five or sixty ? " 
 
 "Marry and live in the country. I mean, do not be 
 young men about town. Apropos to nothing — are we 
 not, this instant, in the very scene of Manzoni's novel, ' I 
 Promessi Sposi ? ' " 
 
 " Yes ; the whole of our journey to-day lies through it 
 from Lecco to Como ; or rather, more to the northward 
 again — what they call here, the ' Brianza.' " 
 
 "The scene deserves better actors, in my opinion. I 
 have always thought it a very tiresome story, even among 
 that most tiresome class — pure love tales."
 
 2G8 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " What say yoa to the ' Bride of Lammcrmoor ? ' " 
 
 "That it is only inferior to 'Romeo and Juliet.' Bat 
 how many interests are there brought up before the reader 
 in either of these — all subordinate to the great one — but all 
 exciting mingled and conflicting emotions! The author, 
 in neither case, was satisfied to dwell on the daily and 
 nightly sighings of a love-stricken pair. He knew better 
 than to weave Iris web of one tissue. In fact the Master 
 of Ravenswood is more the slave of his own blighted 
 ambition than of his love, which, at best, was only an 
 element in his feeling of abasement." 
 
 "And yet, how faithfully was his love returned! 
 Nothing short of a true passion meets such requital." 
 
 "If you said, that no heart incapable of feeling ever 
 inspired such. I would agree with you ; but I fancy that 
 women are often imposed upon, by supposing that they 
 possess the entire affection of those they know capable of 
 strong attachments." 
 
 " That may possiby be true ; but I suspect that in the 
 world — in the middle of that life where we daily meet 
 and form friendships — there is very little time or op- 
 portunity for anything above a passing feeling of admira- 
 tion, that seldom reaches esteem. The Honourable Miss 
 Tollemache meets Captain Fitzhei'bert of the Guards. 
 They are introduced and dance together — the lady is 
 pretty — the Captain amusing — they have a large number 
 of mutual acquaintances, whom they quiz and praise by 
 turns, with sufficient agreement to be mutually pleased. 
 They separate ; and the Captain asks if the lady really 
 have " twenty thousand pounds fortune." Match-making 
 aunts and mothers arrange preliminaries; and the young 
 people have leisure to fall in love after the most approved 
 fashion : that is, they meet very often, and talk more 
 together, than common acquaintances are wont to do ; but 
 their talk is of Giisi and Lablache, of the Duke's fete at 
 Chiswick, and Lord Donnington's yacht excursion to 
 Malta. If the gentleman have a confidence to evoke, it 
 is possibly, the state of his mind on the approaching 
 'Derby.' ISTow I would ask, how much of mutual esteem, 
 or even knowledge grows out of all this ?"
 
 fiOEACE TEMPLETON. ^60 
 
 ** Pretty much the same amount as exists in a French 
 marriage, where M. le Marquis having '■fait ses farces,' 
 is fain to marry, being somewhat too deep in debt to 
 continue what his years admonish him to abandon. 
 Mademoiselle is brought from the convent, or the gover- 
 ness's apartment, to sign the contract and accept her 
 husband. There is enough in the very emancipation she 
 obtains to be pleasurable, not to speak of a grand trousseau, 
 diamonds, cashmeres, and the prettiest equipage in Paris." 
 
 Hence," said I, "we seem agreed, that one must not 
 choose a wife or husband « la mode AngJaise ni Fraiigriise." 
 
 " I believe not," said she, laughing ; " for if marriages 
 be made in heaven, they are about the strangest employ- 
 ment for angels I ever heard of." 
 
 " It entirely depends on how you regard what are com- 
 monly called accidents and chances, as to the interpretation 
 you give that saying. If you see, in those curious co- 
 incidences that are ever occuring in life, nothing more 
 than hazard, you at once abandon all idea of governing 
 human actions. If, on the other hand, you read them too 
 implicitly, and accept them as indications for the future, 
 you rush into fatalism. For my own part, I think less of 
 the events themselves, than as they originate or evoke 
 sentiments in two parties, who, though previously known 
 to each, only discover on some sudden emergency a won- 
 derful agreement in sentiment and feeling. In the ordinary 
 detail of life they had gone on, each ignorant of the 
 other's opinions : so long as the wheels of life revolved 
 free and noiselessly, the journey had called for nothing of 
 mutual interest; but some chance occurrence, some ac- 
 cidental rencontre occurs, and they at once perceive a 
 most fortuitous similarity in taste or thinking. Like 
 people who have suddenly discovered a long-pei'sisted-ia 
 mistake, they hasten to repair the past by sudden confi- 
 dences. Let me give an instance, even though it be 
 almost too bold a one for my theory. A friend of mine, who 
 had served some years with great distinction in the East, re- 
 turned to England in company with a brother officer, a man 
 of high family, knowing and known to every one of a certain 
 ttauding in London. My friend, who, from a remote
 
 270 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 province, had no town acquaintances, was, however, 
 speedily introduced by his friend, and, heralded by his 
 reputation, was greatly noticed in society. He soon 
 wearied of a round of dissipations, wherein the great, if 
 not the only interest, lies in knowledge of the actors ; 
 and was one night stealing away from a large evening 
 party, secretly resolving that it should be his last ball. 
 He had, by dint of great labour and perseverance, reached 
 the last salon, and already caught glimpse of the stair 
 beyond, when his progress was suddenl}'- arrested by a 
 very sweet but excited voice, saying — 'One moment, sir; 
 may I beg you will release my scarf.' He turned and 
 beheld a very handsome girl, who was endeavouring to 
 disengage from her shoulders a rich scarf of lace, one end 
 of which was caught in the star he wore on his breast — a 
 decoration from the Nizam. He immediately began to 
 detach the delicate tissue from its dangerous situation. 
 But his address was inferior to his zeal, so that he con- 
 tinually received admonitions as to greater care and 
 caution, with mingled laments over the inevitable mischief 
 that must follow. Something abashed by his own awk- 
 wardness, his nervousness made him worse, and he 
 muttered to himself in German, thinking it was a safe 
 tongue for soliloquy — ' Why will ladies wear such prepos- 
 terous finery? — the spider's web is not so fragile.' To 
 which at once the lady replied, in the same language, — 
 • If men are vain enough to carry a coat full of cracliats 
 and orders, ladies ought, at least, to be careful how they 
 pass them.' He blushed at the tart rebuke, and in his 
 eagerness he tore a little hoop or mesh of the scarf. ' Oh, 
 pray sir, permit me ! It is real Brussels ! ' and so saying, 
 she at once began, with a skill very different from his, the 
 w^ork of disentanglement. My friend, however, did not 
 desist, but gave what aid he could, their fingers more than 
 once meeting. Meanwhile a running fire of pleasantry 
 and smartness went on between them, when suddenly his 
 brother officer came up, saying, — 
 
 " ' Oh ! Lydia, here is my friend Collyton. I have been 
 so anxious you should know him ; and he leaves to- 
 
 morrow.'
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 271 
 
 " ' I hope he will permit me to rescue my scarf first.' 
 said the lady, taking no heed of the introduction. 
 
 " 'I am so sorry — I really am in despair,' said Collyton, 
 as the lady, growing at last impatient, tore the frail web 
 in order to get free. 
 
 " ' It was all your fault, sir, remember that — or rather 
 that of your star, which I'm sure I wish the Sirdar, or 
 the Nizam, had reserved for a more careful wearer.' 
 
 '' ' I never deemed it would have done me such service,' 
 said Collyton, recovering courage ; ' without it, I should 
 have passed on, and you would never have taken the 
 trouble to notice me.' 
 
 " ' There, sir, I must leave you your prize,' said she, 
 smartly, as, taking the arm of her partner, she joined the 
 waltzers ; while Collyton stood with the folds of a Brussels 
 scarf draped gracefully on his arm. 
 
 " He went home ; spent half the night disengaging the 
 intricate web, and the next day called to restore it, and 
 apologize for his misfortune; the acquaintance thus casually 
 formed ripened into m^utual liking, and, after a time, into 
 a stronger feeling, and in the end they were married ; the 
 whole of the event, the great event of every life, originat- 
 ing in the poxxupine fashion of the Nizam's star and the 
 small loops of a Brussels-lace scarf ! Here, then, is my 
 case ; but for this rencontre they had never met, save in 
 the formal fashion people do as first acquaintances. With- 
 out a certain collision, they had not given forth the sparks 
 that warmed into flame." 
 
 " I call that a pure chance, just as much as — as " 
 
 '" Our own meeting this morning, you were about to 
 say," said I, laughingly; and she joined in the mirth, but 
 Koou after became silent and thoughtful. I tried various 
 ways of renewing our conversation; I started new topics, 
 miles remote from all we had been talking of: but I soon 
 perceived that, whether from physical causes or tempera- 
 ment, the eager interest she exhibited when speaking, and 
 the tone of almost excited animation in which she listened, 
 seemed to weary and exhaust her. I therefore gradually 
 suffered our conversation to drop down to an occasional 
 reinark on passing- objects; and so wp travpHod o•!^varJs
 
 272 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 tiiJ, late in the afternoon, we found ourselves at the gate 
 of a handsome park, where an avenue of trellised vines, 
 wide enouc^h for two carriages to pass, led to a beautiful 
 villa, ou the terrace of which stood my old friend, Sir 
 Gordon Howard himself. 
 
 For a few moments he was so totally engrossed by the 
 meeting with his granddaughter that he did not even per- 
 ceive me. Indeed, his agitation was as great as it might 
 reasonably have been had years of absence separated them, 
 instead of the few brief hours of a twenty miles' drive ; 
 and it was only as she said, " Are you forgetting to thank 
 Mr. Teinpleton, papa ? " that he turned round to greet 
 me with all the warmth of his kindly nature. 
 
 It was to no purpose that I protested plans already 
 foi-med, engagements made, and horses written for ; he 
 insisted on my staying, if not some Aveeks — some days — 
 and at last, hours, at the Yilla Cimarosa. I might still 
 have resisted his kind entreaties, when Miss Howard, with 
 a smile and a manner of most winning persuasiveness, 
 said, " I with you would stay,'' — and here I am !
 
 EOraCE TEMPLETON. 273 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 La Villa Cimarosa, October, 
 
 How like a dream — a delicious, balmy, summer night's 
 di^eam — is this life I am leading ! For the first time have 
 I tasted the soothing tranquillity of domestic life. A 
 uniformity, that tells rather of security tlian sameness, 
 pervades everything in this well-ordered household, where 
 all come and go as if nnder the guidance of some ruling 
 genius, unseen and unheard. Sir Gordon, too, is like a 
 father; at least as I can fancy a father to be, for I was too 
 early left an orphan to preserve my memory of either 
 parent. His kindness is even more than vphat we call 
 friendship. It is actually paternal. He watches over my 
 health with all the uuobtrusive solicitude of true affection ; 
 and if I even hint at departure, he seizes the occasion to 
 oppose it, not with the warmth of hospitality alone, but a 
 more deeply-meaning interest that sometimes puzzles me. 
 Can it be that he recognizes in my weakened frame and 
 shrunken cheek, greater ravages of disease than I yet feel 
 or know of ? Is it that he perceives me nearer the goal 
 than as yet I am aware ? It was yesterday, as we sat in 
 the library together, running over the pages of an almanac, 
 I remarked something about my liking to travel by moon- 
 light, when, with a degree of emotion that amazed me, he 
 said, " Pray do not talk of leaving us ; I know that iu 
 this quiet monotony there may be much to weary you ; 
 but remember that your are not strong enough for the 
 world, did you even care to take your place in it as of 
 old. Besides," — here he faltered, and it was with a great 
 eflfort that he resumed — " besides, for my sake, if the 
 
 T
 
 274 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 selfishness of the request should not deter you, for my 
 sake remain with us some time longer." 
 
 I protested most warmly, as I had all reason to do, that 
 for years past I had never known time pass on so happily ; 
 that in the peaceful calm we lived, I had tasted a higher 
 enjoyment than all the most buoyant pleasures of healthier 
 and younger days had ever given me. " But," — I believe 
 I tried to smile as I spoke, — " but recollect. Sir Gordon, I 
 have got my billet : the doctors have told me to go, and 
 die, at Naples. What a shock to science if I should 
 remain, to live, at Como ! " 
 
 " Do so, my dearest friend," said he, grasping my hands 
 within both of his, while the tears swam in his eyes ; " I 
 cannot — I dare not — I have not strength to tell you, all 
 that your compliance with this wish will confer on me. 
 Spare me this anguish, and do not leave us." As he 
 uttered these words he left me, his emotion too great to 
 \ei me reply. 
 
 The sick man's selfishness would say, that his anxiety 
 is about that wasting malady, whose ravages are even 
 more plainly seen than felt. 
 
 Turn the matter over how I will, I cannot reconcile this 
 eager anxiety for my remaining with anything but a care 
 for myself. It is clear he thinks me far worse than I can 
 consent to acknowledge. I do not disguise from myself 
 the greater lassitude I experience after a slight exertion, 
 a higher tension of the nervous system, and an earlier 
 access of that night fever, which, like the darkness of the 
 coming winter, creeps daily on, shortening the hours of 
 saiilight, and ushering in a deeper and more solemn 
 gloom ; but I watch these symptoms as one already pre- 
 pared for their approach, and feel grateful that their 
 coming has not clouded the serenity with which I hope to 
 journey to the last. 
 
 Kind old man ! I would that I were his son, that I 
 could feel my rightful claim to the affection he lavishes on 
 me ; but for Ids sake it is better as it is ! And Miss 
 Howard — Lucy, let me call her, since I am permitted so 
 to accost her — what a blessing I should have felt such a 
 Bister to be, so beautiful, so kind, so gently feminine! for
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 275 
 
 that is the true charm. This, too, is better as it is. How 
 could I take leave of life, if I were parting with such 
 enjoyments ? 
 
 She is greatly changed since we came here. Every day 
 seems to gain something over the malady she laboured 
 under. She is no longer faint and easily wearied, but 
 able to take even severe exercise without fatigue ; her 
 cheek has grown fuller, and its rosy tint is no longer 
 hectic but the true dye of health ; and instead of that 
 slow step and bent-down head, her walk is firm and her 
 air erect ; while her spirits, no longer varying from high 
 excitement to deep depression, are uniformly good and 
 animated. Life is opening in all its bloom to her^ as 
 rapidly as its shadows are closing and gathering around 
 me ! Were it mine to bestow, how gladly would I give 
 what remains of flickering life to strengthen the newly- 
 sprung vitality, her light step, her brilliant smile and dark 
 blue eye ! That coming back to health, from out of the 
 very shadow of death, must be a glorious sensation ! The 
 sudden outbursting of all this fair world's joys, on a spirit 
 over which the shade of sickness has only swept, and not 
 rested long enough to leave its blight. I think I read iu 
 that almost heroic elevation of sentiment, that exquisite 
 perception of whatever is beautiful in Lucy, the triumph 
 of returning energy and health. She is less fanciful and 
 less capricious, too. Formerly, the least remark, in which 
 she construed a difference of opinion, would distress or 
 irritate her, and her temper appeared rather under the 
 sway of momentary impulse than the guidance of right 
 principle. Now, she accepts even correction mildly and 
 grateiuUy, and if a sudden spark of former haste flash 
 forth, she seems eager to check and repress it ; she 
 acts as though she felt that restored health imposed 
 more restraint and less of self-indulgence than sickness. 
 How happy if one were only to bring out of the sick 
 chamber its teaching of submission, patience, and grati- 
 tude, and leave behind its egotism and its irritability ! 
 This she would appear to aim at ; and to strive is to 
 win. 
 
 And now I quit this chronicling to join her. Already 
 
 T 2
 
 27G HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 she is on her way to the boat, and we are going to see 
 Pliny's villa ; at least the dark and shadowy nook where 
 it once stood. The lake is still as a mirror, and a p^orgeous 
 mirror it is, reflecting a scene of faery brilliancy and beauty. 
 She is waving her handkerchief to me to come. " Vengo, 
 sulifo." 
 
 This has been a delightful day. We rowed along past 
 Melzi till we came under the tall cliflfs near Bellagio ; and 
 there, in a little bay, land-locked and shaded by olive- 
 trees, we dined. I had never seen Sir Gordon so thoroughly 
 happy. When Lucy's spirits have been higher, and her 
 fancy has taken wilder and bolder wings, he has usually 
 worn a look of anxiety through all his admiring fondness. 
 To-day, she was less animated than she generally is — 
 almost grave at times — but not sad ; and I think that 
 " grandpapa " loved her better in this tranquil mood, 
 than in those of more eager enjoyment. I believe I read 
 his meaning, that, in her highest flow of spirits, he dreads 
 the wear and tear consequent on so much excitement ; 
 while in her more sombre days he indulges the hope that 
 she is storing up in repose the energies of future exertion. 
 How it takes off the egotism of sickness to have some 
 one whose ever- watchful care is busy for our benefit ! how 
 it carries away the load of "self," and all its troubles! 
 while I . . . iBut I must not dwell on this theme, nor dis- 
 turb that deep sense of gratitude I feel for all that I 
 possess of worldly advantage, were it no more than this 
 blessing, that on quitting life I leave it when my sense of 
 enjoyment has mellowed into that most lasting and en- 
 during one, the love of quiet, of scenery, of converse with 
 old friends on by-gone events — the tranquil pleasures of 
 age tasted without the repining of age ! 
 
 Lucy bantered me to-day upon my inordinate love of 
 ease, as she called it, forgetting that this inactivity was 
 at first less from choice than complusion ; now, it is a 
 habit, one I may as well wear out, for I have no time left 
 to acquire new ones. She even tried to stimulate my 
 ambition, by alluding to my old career and the I'ewards it 
 might have opened to me. I could have told her that a
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. ^77 
 
 father or an uncle at the " Council " was of more avail 
 than a clever despatch or a well-concluded treaty; that 
 some of our ablest Ministers are wasting life and energy 
 at small, obscure, and insignificant missions, where tlieir 
 functions never rise beyond the pi-esentation of lettei's of 
 congratulation or condolence, attendance on a court ball, 
 or a Te Deiim for the sovereign's birthday ; while capacities 
 that would be unnoticed, if they were not dangerous, have 
 the destinies of great events in their keeping. True, thei e 
 is always the Foreign Office as the " Coiir d' Appel ;" and, 
 whatever may be the oljections — grave and weighry tliey 
 certainly are at times — against those parliamentary inter- 
 rogations by which the Minister is compelleii to reveal 
 the object and course of his dealings wiih ioreign nations, 
 there is one admirable result — our foreign policy will 
 always be National. Ko Minister can long pursue any 
 course in defiance of the approval of Parliament ; nor 
 can any Parliament, in our day, long resist the force of 
 public opinion. While, therefore, Nicholas or Metternich 
 may precipitate the nations they rule over into a war, 
 where there is neither the sympathy nor the prejudices of 
 a people involved, tve never draw the sword without a 
 hearty goodwill to wield it. 
 
 To what end all this in reference to Lucy Howard's 
 question? None whatever; for, in truth, I was half 
 flattered by the notion that the shattered, storm-beaten 
 wreck, could be supposed sea-worthy, and so I promised 
 amendment. How pleasant it was, sitting Tityrus-like, 
 to di'eam over high rewards and honours ! She, at least, 
 seemed to think so ; for whether to stimulate my ardour, 
 or merely following the impulse of her own, I know not, 
 but she certainly dwelt with animation and delight on the 
 advantages of a career that placed one almost an pied 
 d' egal with sovereigns. " I am sure," said she, " that you 
 cannot look upon those who started in the race with j'our- 
 self, without some repinings that others, whom you know 
 to be inferior to you, have passed you ; and that men whom 
 you would never have thought of as competitors, are now 
 become more than equals." 
 
 If I accede to this opinion to a certain extent, still I
 
 278 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 must protest against any feeling of real regret when I 
 think that success is much oftener obtained by what is 
 called a " lucky hit," than by years of zealous and intel- 
 ligent exertion. I have known a man obtain credit for 
 stopping a courier— waylaying him, I might rather call it 
 — and taking by force a secret treaty from his hand, while 
 the steady services of a life-long have gone unrewarded. 
 These things have an evil influence upon diplomacy as a 
 " career ; " they suggest to young men to rely rather on 
 address and dexterity than upon " prudence and fore- 
 thought." Because Lord Palmerston discourses foreign 
 politics with a certain gifted and very beautiful Countess, 
 or that M. Guizot deigns to take counsel from a most 
 accomplished Princess of Russian origin, every small 
 attache thinks he is climbing the short road to fame and 
 honours by listening to the fadaise of certain political 
 boudoirs, and hearing " pretty ladies talk " about Spiel- 
 berg and Monkopf. When the JSTorthern minister sent his 
 son to travel through the world, that he might see with 
 his own eyes by what " commonplace mortals states were 
 governed," he might have recommended to his especial 
 notice Plenipos and Envoys Extraordinary. From time 
 to time, it is otherwise. Lord Castlereagh, whatever 
 detraction party hate may visit on his home politics, was 
 a consummate ambassador. Not of that school which Tal- 
 leyrand created, and of which he was the head, but a man 
 of unflinching courage, high determination, and who, with 
 a strong purpose and resolute will, never failed to make 
 felt the influence of a nation he so worthily represented. 
 With this, he was a perfect courtier ; the extreme simpli- 
 city ot his manner and address was accompanied by an 
 elegance and a style of the most marked distinction. 
 Another, but of a difierent stamp, was Lord Whitworth ; 
 one on whom all the dramatic passion and practised out- 
 rage of Napoleon had no efi'ect whatever. 
 
 Sir Gordon remarked, that in this quality of coolness 
 and imperturbability he never saw any one surpass his 
 friend, Sir Robert Darcy. One evening when playing at 
 whist, at^ Potzdam, with the late King of Prussia, his 
 Majesty, in a lit of inadvertence, appropriated to himself
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 279 
 
 several gold pieces belonging to Sii' Robert. The King 
 at last perceived and apologized for bis mistake, adding, 
 " Why did you not inform me of it? " " Because I knew 
 your Majesty always makes restitution when you have 
 obtained time for reflection." Hanover was then on the 
 tapis, and the King felt the allusion. I must not forget a 
 trait of that peculiar sarcastic humour for which Sir 
 Robert was famous. Although a Whig— an old blue-and' 
 yellow of the Fox school — he hated more than any man 
 that mongrel party which, under the name of Whigs, 
 have carried on the Opposition in Parliament for so many 
 years ; and of that party, a certain well-known advocate 
 for economical reforms came in for his most especial 
 detestation : perhaps he detested him particularly, be- 
 cause he had desecrated the high ground of Oppositional 
 attack, and brought it down to paltry cavillings about the 
 sums accoi'ded to poor widows on the Pension List, or the 
 amount of sealing-wax consumed in the Foreign Office. 
 When, therefore, the honourable and learned gentleman, 
 in the course of a continental tour, happened to pass 
 through the city where Sir Robert lived as ambassador, 
 he received a card of invitation to dinner, far more on 
 account of a certain missive from the Foreign Office, than 
 from any personal claims he was possessed of. The 
 Member of Parliament was & gourmand of the first water; 
 he had often heard of Sir Robert's cuisine — various 
 travellers had told him that such a table could not be 
 surpassed, and so, although desirous of getting foi'ward, 
 he countermanded his horses, and accepted the invitation. 
 
 Sir Robert, whose taste for good living was indisput- 
 able, no sooner read the note acceding to his request 
 than he called his aftacJies together, and said, " Gentle- 
 men, you will have a yerj bad dinner to-day, but I request 
 you will all dine here, as I have a particular object in 
 expressing the wish." 
 
 Dinner-hour came ; and after the usual ceremony the 
 party were seated at table, when a single soup appeared : 
 this was followed by a dish of fish, and then, without 
 entree or liors d'oeuvre, came a boiled leg of mutton, Sir 
 Robert premising to his guest that it was to have no
 
 280 HORACE TEMPLETON, 
 
 successor t adding, " You see, sir, what a poor entertain- 
 ment I have provided for you ; but to this have the 
 miserable economists in Parliament brought us — next 
 session may carry it further, and leave us without 
 even so much." Joseph was sold, and never forgot it 
 since. 
 
 I saw, that while Sir Gordon and I discussed people and 
 events in this strain, Lucy became inattentive and pre- 
 occupied by other thoughts ; and on charging her with 
 being so, she laughingly remarked that Englishmen 
 always carry about with them the one range of topics; 
 and whether they dine in Grosvenor Square, or beneath 
 an olive-tree in the Alps, the stream of the table-talk is 
 ever the same. " Now a Frenchman," said she, gaily, 
 " had uttered I cannot say how many flat sentimentalisms 
 about the place we are in ; a German had mysticized to 
 no end ; and an Italian would have been improvising 
 about everything, from the wire that restrained the 
 champagne cork to the woes of enchained Italy. Tell us 
 a story, Mr. Templeton." 
 
 " A story ! What shall it be ? A love story ? a ghost 
 story ? a merry, or a sad one ? " 
 
 "Any of these you like, so that it be true. Tell me 
 something that has actually happened." 
 
 " That is really telling a secret," said I ; " for while 
 truth can be, and oftener is, stranger than fiction, it is so, 
 rather from tunii ng ordinary materials to extraordinary 
 uses — making of every-day people singular instances of 
 vice and virtue — than for any great peculiarity in the 
 catastrophes to which they contribute." 
 
 " Well, I don't believe in the notion of every-day 
 people. I have a theory, that what are so summarily dis- 
 posed of in this fashion are just as highly endowed with 
 individualities as any others. Do you remember a beautiful 
 remark, made in the shape of a rebuke, that Scott one 
 day gave his daughter for saying that something was 
 * Vulgar ? ' ' Do you know what is the meaning of the 
 word vulgar ? It is only common ; and nothing that is 
 common, except wickedness, can deserve to be spoken of 
 in terms of contempt : and when you have lived to my
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 281 
 
 years, you will be disposed to agree with me in thanking 
 God that nothing really worth having or caring about in 
 this world is uncommon.'' " 
 
 " When I said ordinary, every-day people, don't mistake 
 me ! I meant only those who, from class and condition, 
 follow a peculiar ritual, and live after a certain rubric of 
 fashion ; and who, hiding themselves under a common 
 garment, whose cut, colour, and mode are the same, are 
 really undistinguishable, save on great and trying 
 occasions." 
 
 '* Kings, for instance ! whom great diplomatic folks are 
 supposed to see a great deal of, and know in all the terms 
 of an easy intimacy." 
 
 " But how do we see them ? In an armour of reserve 
 and caution, never assumed to any one else. The ease 
 you speak of is all assumed. It is the conventional polite- 
 ness accorded to a certain station. Kings, so far as I 
 have seen, are never really engaging, save to a great 
 minister out of power. Then their manner assumes all 
 its attractiveness; on the principle, perhaps, that 
 Curran paid his homage to the antique Hercules — 
 that his day might yet come uppermost, and he 
 would not forget the friend who visited him in adver- 
 Bity." 
 
 " Well, to come back, tell us a story. Let it be what 
 you will, or of where and whom you please, so that it 
 last while we are rowing homeward. Monologue is 
 always better than conversation by moonlight. 
 
 " But stay ; what are the lights we see yonder, glancing 
 from amid the trees ? And there, now, see the bright 
 blaze that has sprung up, and is reflected red and lurid on 
 tlie lake below. It is a ' Festa ' of the Church ; for hear, 
 the bells are ringing merrily from the mountain-top, and 
 there go the people in procession, climbing the steep path 
 towards the summit." 
 
 Wonderful superstition ! that has fashioned itself to 
 every phase and form of human nature — now sending its 
 aid to the darkest impulses of passion, as we see in Ireland 
 — now conforming to the most simple tastes of an 
 unthinking people ; for these peasants here are not imbued
 
 282 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 with the piety of the Church— they only love its gauds. 
 
 It is to the Tyrol you must go to witness the real devo- 
 
 tional feeling of a people. 
 
 " Well, shall 1 tell you a story ? " ^^ 
 
 »' No • I am weaving one now for myself!
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 283 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ^ Villa Cimarosa, Lake of Como. 
 
 Gilbert reminds me that I had arranged my departure 
 hence for to-morrow ; this was some weeks back, and now 
 I have no intention of leaving. I cling to this " Happy- 
 Valley," as one clings to life. To me it is indeed such. 
 These days of sunshine and nights of starry brilliancy — 
 this calm, delicious water — these purpled mountains, 
 glowing with richer tints as day wears on, till at sunset 
 they ai'e one blaze of gorgeous splendour — the very plash 
 of those tiny waves upon the rocky shore are become to 
 me like friendly sights and sounds, from which I cannot 
 tear myself. And Lucy, too, she is to me as a sister, so 
 full of kind, of watchful considcxation about me ; since 
 her own health is so much restorea, all her anxiety would 
 seem for mine. How puzzling is the tone assumed by Sir 
 Gordon towards me! It was only yesterday that, in 
 speaking of his granddaughter, he expressed himself in 
 Buch terms of giatitude to me for the improvement mani- 
 fest in her health, as though I had really been the main 
 agent in effecting it. I, whose power has never been 
 greater than a heart-cherished wish that one so fair, so 
 beautiful, and so good should live to grace and adorn the 
 world she moves in ! What a strange race, what a hard- 
 fought struggle has been going on within me for some 
 time back ! Ebbing life contesting with budding affection; 
 the calm aspect of coming death dashed by feelings and 
 thoughts — ay, even hopes I had believed long since at rest. 
 I feel less that I love, than that I should love if life were 
 to be granted to me. 
 
 I believe it is the pursuit that in most cases suggests 
 the passion ; that the effort we may make to win exalts the
 
 284 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 object we wish to gain. Not so here, however. If I do 
 love, it has been without any consciousness. It is so 
 seklom that one who has never had a sister learns to know, 
 in real intimacy, the whole heart and nature of a younof 
 and lovely girl, with all its emotions of ever-changing 
 hue, its thousand caprices, its weakness, and its pride. 
 To me this study — it has been a study — has given an 
 inexpressible interest to my life here. And then to watch 
 how gradually, almost imperceptibly to herself, the disci- 
 pline of her mind has been accomplished- — checking wild 
 flights of fancy here, restraining rash impulses there, 
 encouraging reflection, conquering prejudices — all these 
 done without my bidding, and yet palpably through my 
 influence. What pleasant flattery ! 
 
 One distressing thought never leaves me. It is this — 
 how will a nature so attuned as hers stand the rude jars 
 and discords of " the world " ? for, do how we will, screen 
 the object of affection how we may from its shocks and 
 concussions, the stern realities of life will make them- 
 selves felt. Hers is too impassioned a nature to bear such 
 reverses, as the most even current sustains, without injury. 
 The very consciousness of being mistaken in our opinions 
 of people is a sore lesson ; it is the beginning of scep- 
 ticism, to end — who can tell where ? 
 
 She smiles v/henever I lecture her upon any eccentricity 
 of manner, and evidently deems my formalism, as she 
 calls it, a relic of my early teaching. So, perhaps, it may 
 be. No class of people are so unforgiving to anythino- 
 like a peculiarity as your Diplomates. They know the 
 value of the impassive bearing that reveals nothing, and 
 they carry the reserve of office into all the relations of 
 private life. She even quizzes me about this, and says 
 that I remind her of the old Austrian envoy at Naples, 
 who never ventured upon anything more explicit than the 
 two phrases — Cest dure, or C'est sure, ringing the changes 
 of these upon every piece of news that reached him. 
 How altered am I, if this judgment be correct! I, that 
 was headstrong even to rashness, led by every impulse, 
 precipitate in everything, ready to resign all, and with one 
 chance in my favour to dare nine full against me !
 
 HORACE TEMPLE TON. 285 
 
 But why wonder if I be so changed ? How has life 
 and every living object changed its aspect to my eyes, 
 rendering distasteful a thousand things wherein I once 
 took pleasure, and making of others that 1 deemed flat, 
 stale, and unprofitable, the greatest charms of my 
 existence? What close and searching scrutiny of motives 
 creeps on with years! what distrust, and what suspicion! 
 ]t is this same sentiment — the fruit of a hundred self- 
 deceptions and disappointments — makes so many men, as 
 they advance in life, abjure Liberalism in politics, and lean 
 to the side of Absolute Rule. The " Practical " exercises 
 the only influence on the mind tempered by long expe- 
 rience ; and the glorious tyranny of St. Peter's is infi- 
 nitely preferable to the miscalled freedom of Popular 
 Government. The present Pope, however our Radical 
 friends think of it, is no unworthy successor of Hilde- 
 brand ; and however plausible be the assumed reforms in 
 his States, the real thraldom, the great slavery, remains 
 untouched! "Hands Free, Souls Fettered," is strange 
 heraldry. 
 
 Why have these thoughts crept over me? I would 
 rather dwell on very different themes ; but already, far 
 over the mountains westward, comes the distant sound of 
 strife. The dark clouds that are hurrying over the lofty 
 summit of Monte Brisbone are wafted from regions where 
 armed hosts are gathering, and the cry of battle is heard ; 
 and Switzerland, whose war-trophies have been won from 
 the invader, is about to be torn by civil strife. Even in 
 my ride to-day towards Lugano, 1 met parties of peasants 
 armed, and wearing the cockade of Ticino in their hats, 
 hastening towards Capo di Lago. The spectacle was a sad 
 one ; the field labours of the year, just begun, ai'e already 
 arrested ; the plough is seen standing in the unfinished 
 furrow, and the team is away to share the fortunes of its 
 owners in the panoply of battle. These new-made 
 soldiers, too, with all the loutish indifference of the 
 peasant in their air, have none of the swaggei'ing 
 effrontery of regular troops, and consequently present 
 Eflore palpably to the eye the sufierings of a population 
 given up to conscription and torn from their peaceful
 
 286 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 homes to scenes of carnage and bloodshed, and for what ? 
 — for an opinion ? — for even less than an opinion ; for a 
 suspicion — a mere doubt. 
 
 Who will be eager in this cause on either side? None, 
 save those that never are to mingle in the contest. The 
 firebrand journalist of Geneva — the dark-intentioned 
 Jesuit of Lucerne ; these are they who will accept of 
 no quarter, nor listen to one cry of mercy; such, at 
 least, is the present aspect of the struggle. Lukewarm- 
 ness, if not actual repugnance, among the soldiery ; 
 hatred supplying all the enthusiasm of those who hound 
 them on. 
 
 The Howards are already uneasy at their vicinity to the 
 seat of war, and speak of proceeding southward ; yet they 
 will not hear of my leaving them. I feel spell-bound, not 
 only to them bnt to the very place itself; a presentiment 
 is upon me, that, after this, life will have no pleasure left 
 for me — that I go hence to solitude, to suffering, and to 
 death ! 
 
 A restless night, neither waking nor sleeping, but 
 passed in wild, strange fancies, of reality and fiction 
 commingled ; and now, I am feverish and ill. The struggle 
 against failing health is at last become torture ; for I feel 
 — alas that I must say it ! — the longing desire to live. 
 Towards daybreak I did sleep, and soundly ; but I dreamed 
 too — and how happily ! I fancied that I was suddenly 
 restored to health, with all the light-heartedness and 
 spring of former days, and returning with my bride to 
 Walcott. We were driving rapidly up the approach, 
 catching glimpses at times of the old abbey — now a gable, 
 now some richly traceried pinnacle — some quaint old 
 chimney — some trellised porch. 8he was wild with 
 delight, in ecstasy at the sylvan beauty of the scene : the 
 dark and silent wood — the brown clear river, beside the 
 road — the cooing note of the wood-pigeon, all telling of 
 our own rural England. " Is not this better than ambition, 
 love?" said I. "Are not leafy groves, these moss-grown 
 paths, more peaceful than the high-roads of fame 'r" I 
 felt her hand grasp mine more closely, and I awoke —
 
 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 287 
 
 awoke to know that I was dreaming — that my happiness 
 was but a vision — my future a mere mockery. 
 
 Why should not Lucy see these scenes ? She will 
 return well and in strength. I would that she would dwell, 
 sometimes, at least, among the places I have loved so 
 much. I have often thought of making her my heir. I 
 have none to claim from me — none who need it. There is 
 one clause, however,, she might object to, nay, perhaps, 
 would certainly refuse. My grand-uncle's will makes it 
 imperative that the property should always descend to a 
 Templeton. What if she rejected the condition ? It 
 would fall heavily on me were she to say " No." 
 
 I will speak to Sir Gordon about this. I must choose 
 my time, however, and do it gravely and considerately, 
 that he may not treat it as a mere sick man's fancy. Of 
 course, I only intend that she should assume the name and 
 arms ; but this branch of the Howards are strong about 
 pedigi'ee, and call themselves older than the Norfolks. 
 
 So there is no time to be lost in execution of my plan. 
 The Favancourts are expected here to-morrow, on their 
 way to Naples. The very thought of their commg is 
 misery to me. How I dread the fersijiacje of the beauty 
 '^ en vogue ;" the heartless raillery that is warmed by no 
 genial trait ; the spiritless levity that smacks neither of 
 wit nor buoyant youth, but is the mere coinage of the 
 salons ! How I dread, too, lest Lucy should imitate her ! 
 she so prone to catch up a trait of manner, or a trick of 
 gesture! And Lady Blanche can make herself fascinating 
 enough to be a model. To hear once more the dull 
 recital of that world's follies that I have left, its endless 
 round of tiresome vice, would be a heavy infliction. Alas 
 that I should have gained no more by my experience than 
 to despise it ! But stay — I see Sir Howard yonder, near 
 the lake. Now for my project !
 
 288 HORACE TEMPLETON, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 La Spezzia. 
 
 Another month, or nearly so, haselapsed since lastlopened 
 this book; and now, as I look back, I feel like a convict 
 who has slept soundly during the night before his doom, 
 and passed in forgetfulness the hours he had vowed to 
 thought and reflection. I was reading Victor Hugo's 
 "Dernier Jour d'un Condamne " last evening, and falling 
 asleep with it in my hand, traced out in my dreams a 
 strange analogy between my own fate and that of the 
 convicted felon. The seductions and attractions of life 
 crowding faster and faster round one as we near the gate 
 of death — the redoubled anxieties of friends, their kinder 
 sympathies — how delightful would these be if they did not 
 suggest the wish to live ! But, alas ! the sunbeam lights 
 not only the road before us, but that we have been 
 travelling also, and one is so often tempted to look back 
 and linger! To understand this love of life, one must 
 stand as I do now ; and yet, who would deem that one so 
 lonely and so desolate, so friendless and alone, would care 
 to live ? It is so, however : sorrow attaches us more 
 strongly than joy ; and the world becomes dearer to us in 
 affliction as violets give out their sweetest odours when 
 pressed. 
 
 Let me recall something of the last few weeks, and 
 remember, if I can, why and how I am here alone. My 
 last written sentence was dated '' Como, the 29th October," 
 and then comes a blank — now to fill it up. 
 
 Sir Gordon Howard was standing near the lake as I 
 came up with him, nor was he aware of my approach till 
 I had my hand on his arm. Whether that I had disturbed 
 him in a moment of deep thought, or that something in
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 289 
 
 my own sad and sickly face impressed him, I know not, 
 but he did not speak, and merely drawing my arm within 
 his own, we wandered along the water's edge. We 
 sauntered slowly on till we came to a little moss-house, 
 with stone benches, where, still in silence, we sat down. 
 It belonged to the Villa d'Este, and was one of those 
 many little ornamental buildings that were erected by that 
 most unhappy Princess, whose broken heart would seem 
 inscribed on every tr^e and rock around. 
 
 To me the aspect of the spot, lovely as it is, has ever 
 been associated with deep gloom. I never could tread the 
 walks, nor sit to gaze upon the lake from chosen points of 
 view, without my memory full of her who, in her exile, 
 pined and suffered there. I know nothing of her history, 
 save what all others know ; I am neitlier defender nor 
 apologist — too humble and too weak for either. I would 
 but utter one cry for mercy on a memory that still is dearly 
 cherished by the poor, who dwelt around her, and by whom 
 she is yet beloved. 
 
 Whatever were Sir Gordon's thoughts, it was clear the 
 few efforts he made to converse were not in accordance 
 with them. The rumours of disturbance in Switzerland — 
 the increasing watchfulness on the Lombard frontier — the 
 growing feeling of uncertainty where and how far this new 
 discord might extend — these he spoke of, but rather as it 
 seemed to mask other themes, than because they were 
 uppermost in his mind. 
 
 " We must think of leaving this," said he, after a brief 
 pause. " ' Where to ? ' is the question. How would 
 Genoa agree with yoit ? " 
 
 " With me ! Let there be no question of me." 
 
 " Nay, but there must," said he, eagerly. " Remember, 
 first of all, that we are now independent of climate, at 
 least of all that this side of the Alps possesses ; and, 
 secondly, bethink you thatyo?^ are the pilot that weathered 
 the storm for us." 
 
 " Happily, then," said I, laughing, or endeavouring to 
 laugh, " I may sing, — 
 
 ' The waves are laid, 
 My duties paid. '
 
 290 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 I must seek out some harbour of refuge and be at 
 rest." 
 
 " But with us, Templeton. — always with us," said the 
 old man, affectionatel}-. 
 
 " Upon one condition, Sir Gordon — short of that I 
 refuse." 
 
 I fear me, that in my anxiety to subdue a risinfr emotion 
 I threw into these words an accent of almost stern jind 
 obstinate resolution ; for as he replied, " Name your con- 
 dition," his own voice assumed a tone of cold reserve. 
 
 It was full a minute before I could resume ; not only 
 Avas the subject one that I dreaded to approach fi'om fear 
 of failure, but I felt that I had already endangered my 
 chance of success by the inopportune moment of its intro- 
 duction. Retreat was out of the question, and I went on. 
 As much to give myself time for a little forethought, as to 
 provide myself with a certain impulse for the coming ef- 
 fort, as leapers take a run before they spring, I threw out 
 a hasty sketch of the late events of my life before leaving 
 England, and the reasons that induced me to come abroad. 
 " I'knew well," said I, " better far than all the skill of 
 physicians could teach, that no chance of recovery 
 remained for me ; Science had done its utmost : the 
 machine had, however, been wound up for the last time 
 — its wheels and springs would bear no more. Nothing 
 remained, then, but to economize the hours, and let them 
 glide by with as little restriction as might be. There was 
 but one alloy to this plan — its selfishness ; but when may 
 a man practise egotism so pardonably as when about to 
 part with what comprises it ? 
 
 "I came away from England, then, with that same 
 sentiment that made the condemned captain beg he mio-ht 
 be bled to death rather than fall beneath the axe. I 
 would, if possible, have my last days and hours calm and 
 unruffled, even by fear — little dreaming how vain are all 
 such devices to cheat one's destiny, and that death is never 
 so terrible as when life becomes dear. Yes, my friend, 
 such has been my fate ; in the calm happiness of home 
 here — the first time I ever knew the word's true meaning 
 — I learned to wish for life, for days of that peaceful
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. '291 
 
 happiness where the present is tempered by the past, and 
 hope has fewer checks, because it comes more chastened 
 by experience. You little thought, that in making my 
 days thus blissful my sorrow to part with them would be 
 a heavy recompense. . . . Nay, hear me out ; words of 
 encouragement only increase my misery — they give not 
 hope, they only awaken fresh feelings of affection, so soon 
 to be cold for ever." •> 
 
 How I approached the subject on which my heart was 
 set I cannot now remember — abruptly, I fear; imperfectly 
 and dubiously I know : because Sir Gordon, one of the 
 most patient and forbearing of men, suddenly interrupted 
 me by a violent exclamation, " Hold ! stay ! not a word 
 more! Templeton, this cannot be; once for all, never 
 recur to this again ! " Shocked, almost terrified by the 
 agitation in his looks, I was unable to speak for some 
 seconds ; and while I saw that some misconception of my 
 meaning had occurred, yet, in the face of his prohibition, 
 I could scarcely dare an attempt to rectify it. While I 
 remained thus in painful uncertainty, he seemed, by a 
 strong effort, to have subdued his emotion, and at length 
 said, "Not even to you, my dear friend — to you, to whom 
 I owe the hope that has sustained me for many a day past 
 can I reveal the secret source of this sorrow, nor say why 
 what you propose is impossible. I dreaded something like 
 this — I foresaw how it might be; nay, my selfisnness was 
 such that I rejoiced at it, for her sake. Theit — there, I 
 will not trust myself with more. Leave me, Templeton ; 
 whatever your griefs, they are as nothing compared to 
 mine." 
 
 I left him, and, hastening towards the lake side, soon 
 lost myself in the dark groves of chestnut and olive, the 
 last words still ringing in my ears — " Whatever your griefs 
 they are as nothing compared to mine," Such complete 
 pre-occupation had his agitation and trouble over my 
 mind, that it was long ere I could attempt to recall how 
 I had evoked tliis bui'st of passion, and by what words I 
 had stirred him so to address me. Suddenly the truth 
 flashed boldly out; I perceived the whole nature of the 
 error. He had, in fact, interrupted my explanation at a 
 
 u 2
 
 292 HOBACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 point which made it seem that I was seeking his grand- 
 daughter in marriage. Not waiting to hear me out, he 
 deemed the allusions to my name, my family arms, and 
 my fortune, were intended to convey a proposal to make 
 her my wife. Alas ! I needed no longer to wonder at his 
 repugnance, nor speculate further on the energy of his 
 refusal. How entertain such a thought for his poor child. 
 It were, indeed, to weave cypress with the garland of the 
 Bride! ' 
 
 Impatient any longer to lie under the misconception — 
 at heart, perhaps,vexed to think how wrongfully he must 
 have judged me when deeming me capable of the thought 
 — I hastened back to the Villa, determined at once to 
 rectify the eiTor and make him hear me out, whatever 
 paiusthe interview should cost either. 
 
 On gaining the house I found that Sir Gordon had just 
 driven from the door. Miss Howard, who for two days 
 had been indisposed, was still in her room. Resolving, 
 then to make my explanation in writing, I went to my 
 room ; on the table lay a letter addressed to me, the 
 writing of which was scarcely dry. It ran thus : — 
 
 " My dearest Friend, 
 
 " If J, in part, foresaw the possibility of what your 
 words to-day assured me, and yet did not guard against 
 the hazai'd, the sad circumstances of my lot in life are all 
 I can plead in my favour. I have never ceased to re- 
 proach myself that I had not been candid and open with 
 you at first, when our intimacy was fresh. Afterwards, 
 as it became friendship, the avowal was impossible. I 
 must not trust myself with more. I have gone from 
 home for a day or two, that when we meet again the im- 
 mediate memory of our last interview should have been 
 softened. Be to me — to her, also — as though the words 
 were never spoken; nor withdraw any portion of your 
 affection from those you have rescued from the greatest 
 of all calamities. 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 
 " Gordon Howard."
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 293 
 
 The mystery grew darker and more impenetrable ; 
 harassing, maddening suspicions, mixed themselves up in 
 my brain, with thoughts too terrible for endurance. I 
 saw that, in Sir Gordon's error as to my intentions, he 
 had unwittingly disclosed the existence of a secret — a 
 secret whose meaning seemed fraught with dreadful im- 
 port ; that he would never have touched upon this myste- 
 rious theme, save under the false impression my attempted 
 proposal had induced, was clear enough ; and, that tlius 
 I had unwittingly wrung from, him an avowal which, 
 under other circumstances, he had never been induced to 
 make. 
 
 I set about to think over every word I had used in our 
 last interview — each expression I had employed, torturing 
 the simplest phrases by interpretations the most remote 
 and unlikely, that thereby some clue should present itself 
 to this mystery : but, charge my memory how I could, 
 reflect and ponder as I might, the words of his letter had 
 a character of more deep and serious meaning than a mere 
 refusal of my proposition, taken in what sense it might, 
 could be supposed to call for. At moments, thoughts 
 would flash across my brain so terrible in their import, 
 that had they dwelt longer I must have gone mad. They 
 were like sudden paroxysms of some agonizing disease, 
 coming and recurring at intervals. Just as one of these 
 had left me, weak, worn out, and exhausted, a carriage, 
 drawn by four post-horses, drew up to the door of the 
 villa, and the instant after my servant knocked at my 
 door, saying, " La Comtesse de Favancourt is arrived, sir, 
 and wishes to see you." 
 
 Who was there whose presence I would not rather have 
 faced ? — that gay and heartless woman of fashion, whose* 
 eyes, long practised to read a history in each face, wouUl 
 soon detect in my agitated looks that "something haa 
 occurred," nor cease till she had discovered it. In Sir 
 Gordon's absence, and as Lucy was still indisposed, I had 
 no alternative but to receive her. 
 
 Scarcely had I entered the drawing-room than my 
 worst fears were realized. She was seated in an arm- 
 chair, and lay back as if fatigued by her journey ; but on
 
 294 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 seeing me, without waiting to return my greeting of wel- 
 come, she asked, abraptlj, — 
 
 "Where's Sir Gordon? — where's Miss Howard? 
 Haven't they been expecting me ? " 
 
 T answered, that Sir Gordon had gone over to the 
 Brianza for a day ; that Miss Howard had been confined 
 to her room, but, I was certain, had only to learn her 
 arrival to dress and come down to her." 
 
 "Is this said de ho7ine foi?^^ said she, with a smile 
 where the expression was far more of severity than 
 sweetness. "Are you treating me candidly, Mr. Teniple- 
 tou ? or is this merely another exercise of your old tunc- 
 tiuns as diplomatist?" 
 
 I started, partly from actual amazement, partly from a 
 feeling ot indiLrnant shame, at tiie accusation ; but re- 
 covering at once, assured her calmly and respectfully that 
 all I had said was the simple fact, without the slightest 
 shade of equivocation. 
 
 " So much the better," said she gaily ; " for I own to 
 you I was beginning to suspect our worthy friends of 
 other motives. You know what a tiresome world of 
 puritanism and mock propriety we live in, and I was 
 actually disposed to fear that these dear souls had got up 
 both the absence and the illness not to receive me." 
 
 "Not to receive you ! Impossible!" said I, with un- 
 feigned astonishment. " The Howards, whom I have 
 always reckoned as your oldest and most intimate 
 friends " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! very old friends, certainly : but remember 
 that these are exactly the kind of people who take upon 
 them to be severer than all the rest of the world, and are 
 ten times as rigid and unforgiving as one's enemies. 
 Now, as I could not possibly know how this affair might 
 have been told to them " 
 
 " What affair ? I'm really quite in the dark to what 
 you allude." 
 
 " I mean my separation from Favancourt." 
 
 "Are you separated from your husband, Lady Blanche?" 
 asked I, in a state of agitation in strong contrast to her 
 calm and quiet manner.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 295 
 
 *' What a question, when all the papers have been dis- 
 cussing it these three weeks ! And from an old admirer, 
 too ! Shame on you, Mr. Templeton ! " 
 
 I know not how it was, but the levity of this speech, 
 given as it was, made my cheek flush till it actually 
 seemed to burn. 
 
 " Nay, nay, I didn't mean you to blush so deeply," said 
 she. " And what a dear, sweet, innocent kind of life you 
 must have been leading here, on this romantic lake, to be 
 Capable of such soft emotions ! Oh dear ! " sighed she, 
 weariedly. "You men have an immense advantage in 
 your affairs of the heart ; you can always begin as freshly 
 with e.ich new affection, and be as youthful in sentiment 
 with each new love, as we are with our only passion. 
 Now I see it all ; you have been tiettiug up a ' tendre ' 
 here for somebody or other : — not Taglioni, I hope, for I 
 see that is her Villa yonder. — There, don't look indignant. 
 This same lake of Como has long been known to be the 
 paradise of danseiises and opera-singers ; and I thought 
 it possible you might have dramatized a little love-story 
 to favour the illusion. Well, well," said she, sighing, 
 " so that you have not fallen in love with poor Lucy 
 Howard " 
 
 " And why not with her ? " said I, starting, while in 
 my quick-beating heart and burning temples a sense of 
 torturing pain went through me. 
 
 " Why not with her ? " reiterated she, pausing at each 
 word, and fixing her eyes steadfastly on me, with a look 
 where no affected astonishment existed; " why not with 
 her? — did you say this ? " 
 
 " I did ; and do ask, What is there to make it strange 
 that one like her should inspire the deepest sentiment of 
 devotion, even from one whose days are so surely num- 
 bered as mine are — so unworthy to hope to win her? " 
 
 " Then you really are unaware ! Well, I must say this 
 was not treating you fairl3^ I thought every one knew it, 
 however ; and I conclude they themselves i^easoned in the 
 same way. Come, I suppose I must explain ; though, 
 from your terrified face and staring eyeballs, I wish the 
 task had devolved on some other. Be calm and collected,
 
 296 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 or I shall never venture upon it. — "Well, poor dear Lucy 
 inherits her mother's malady — she is insane ! '' 
 
 Broken half-words, stray fragments of speech, met my 
 ears, for she went on to talk of the terrible theme with 
 the volubility of one who revelled in a story of such 
 thrilling horror. I, however, neither heard nor remem- 
 bered more ; passages of well-remembered interest flashed 
 upon my mind, but, like scenes lit up by some lurid 
 light, glowed with meanings too direful to dwell on. 
 
 How I parted from her- — how I left the Villa and came 
 hither, travelling day and night, till exhausted strength 
 could benr no more — are still memories too faint to recall ; 
 the realities of these last few days have less vividness 
 than my own burning, wasting thoughts : nor can I, by 
 any effort, separate the terrible recital she gave from my 
 own reflections upon it. 
 
 I must never recur to this again — nor will I reopen the 
 page whereon it is written : I have written this to test 
 my own powers of mind, lest I too 
 
 Shakspeare, who knew the heart as none, save the 
 inspired, have ever known it, makes it the test of sanity 
 to recall the events of a story in the same precise order, 
 time after time, neither changing nor inverting them. 
 This is Lear's reply to the accusation of madness, when 
 yet his intelligence was unclouded, — " I will the matter 
 re-word, which madness would gabble from."
 
 Horace templeton. 297 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Lerici, Gulp of Spfzzia, 
 
 AjjOTHFR niglit of fever ! The sea, beating heavily upon 
 the rocks, prevented sleep ; or worse — filled it with images 
 of shipwreck and storra. I sat till nigh midnight on the 
 terrace — poor Shelley's favourite resting-place — watching 
 the night as it fell, at first in gloomy darkness, and then 
 bright and starlit. There was no moon, but the planets, 
 reflected in the calm sea, were seen like tall pillars of 
 reddish light; and, although all the details of the scenery 
 were in shadow, the bold outlines of the distant Apennines, 
 and of the Ponto Venere and the Island of Palmaria, 
 were all distinctly marked out. The tall masts and 
 taper spars of the French fleet at anchor in the bay were 
 also seen against the sky, and the lurid glow of the fires 
 spangled the surface of the sea. Strange chaos of thought 
 ■was mine ! At one moment, Lord Byron was before me, 
 as, seated on the taflfrail of the Bolivar, with all canvas 
 stretched, he plunged through the blue waters; his fair 
 brown hair spray-washed and floating back with the 
 breeze; his lip curled with the smile of insolent defiance; 
 and his voice ringing with the music of his own glorious 
 verse. Towards midnight the weather suddenly changed ; 
 to the total stillness succeeded a low but distant moaning 
 sound, which came nearer and nearer, and at last a 
 " Levanter," in all its fury, broke over the sea, and rolled 
 the mad waves in masses towards the shore. I have seen 
 a storm in the Bay of Biscay, and I have witnessed a 
 "whole gale" ofi" the coast of Labrador, but for sudden- 
 ness, and for the wild tumult of sea and wind commingled, 
 I never saw anything like this. Not in huge rolling 
 mountains, as in the Atlantic, did the waves move along,
 
 298 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 but in short, abrupt jets, as though impelled by some 
 force beneath ; now, skimming each over each, and now, 
 spirting up into the air, they threw foam and spray 
 around them like gigantic fountains. As abruptly as the 
 storm began, so did it cease ; and as the wind fell, the 
 waves moved more and more sluggishly ; and in a space 
 of time inconceivably brief, nothing remained of the 
 hurricane save the short plash of the breakers, and at 
 intervals some one, long, thundering roar, as a heavier 
 mass threw its weight upon the strand. It was just then, 
 ere the sea had resumed its former calm, and while still 
 warring with the effects of the gale, I thouglit I saw a 
 boat lying keel uppermost in the water, and a man grasp- 
 ing with all the enei-gy of despair to catch the slippery 
 planks, which rose and sank with every motion of the 
 tide. Though apparently far out at sea, all was palpable 
 and distinct to my eyes as if happening close to where I 
 sat. A grey darkness was around, and yet at one moment — 
 so brief as to be uncountable — I could mark his features, 
 beautifully handsome and calm even in his drowning 
 agony ; at least so did their wan and wearied expression 
 strike me. Poor Shelley ! I fancied you were before me ; 
 and, long after the vision passed away, a faint, low 
 cry, continued to ring in my ears — the last effort of the 
 voice about to be hushed for ever. Then the whole pic- 
 ture changed, and I beheld the French fleet all illuminated, 
 as if for a victory ; the decks and yards crowded with 
 seamen, and echoing with their triumphant cheers ; while 
 on the poop-deck of the Souverain stood a pale and 
 sickly youth, thoughtful and sad, his admiral's uniform 
 carelessly half-buttoned, and his unbelted sword carried 
 negligently in his hand. This was the Prince de Join- 
 ville, as I had seen him the day before, when visiting the 
 fleet. I could not frame to my mind where and over 
 whom the victory was won ; but disturbed fears for our 
 own naval supremacy flitted constantly across me, and 
 every word I had heard from the French captain who had 
 accompanied me in my visit kept sounding in my ears : 
 as, for instance, while exhibiting the Paixhan's cannons, 
 be added, — "!Now, here is an arm your ships have not
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 299 
 
 acquired." Sucli impressions must have gone deeper 
 than, at the time, I knew of, for they made the substance 
 of a long and painful dream ; and when, awaking sud- 
 denly, the first object I beheld was the French fleet restincr 
 still and tranquil in the bay, my heart expanded with a 
 sense of relief unspeakably delightful. 
 
 So, then, I must hence. These Levanters usually con- 
 tinue ten or twelve days, and then are followed by the 
 Traniontana, as is called the wind from the Apennines; 
 and this same Tramontana is all hut fatal to those as weak 
 as I am. How puzzling — I had almost said, how 
 impossible — to know anything about climate ! and how 
 invariably, on this as on most other subjects, mere words 
 usurp the place of ideas ! It is enough to say " Italy," 
 to suggest hope to the consumptive man; and yet, wiiat 
 severe trials does this same boasted climate involve 1 
 These scorching autumnal suns; and cold, cutting breezes, 
 wherever shade is found ; the genial warmth of summer, 
 here ; and yonder, in that alley, the piercing air of 
 winter — vicissitudes that make up the extremes of every 
 climate, occur each twenty-four hours. And he, whose 
 frail system can barely sustain the slightest shock, must 
 now learn to accommodate itself to atmospheres of every 
 density ; now vapour charged and heavy, now oxygenated 
 to a point of stimulation that, even in health, would be 
 felt as over-exciting. 
 
 There is soraetlimg of the same kind experienced here 
 intellectually : the every-day tone of society is trifling 
 and frivolous to a degree ; the topics discussed are of a 
 character which, to our practical notions, never rise above 
 mere levity ; and even where others of a deeper interest 
 are introduced, the mode of treating them is superficial 
 and meagre. Yet, every now and then, one meets with some 
 high and great intelligence, some man of wide reflection 
 and deep research ; and then, when hearing the words of 
 vpisdom in that glorious language, which unites Teutonic 
 vigour with every Gallic elegance, you feel what a people 
 this might be who have such an interpreter for their 
 thoughts and deeds. In this way I remember feeling 
 when first I heard Italian from the lips of a truly great
 
 300 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 and eloquent speaker. He was a small old man, slightly 
 bowed in the shoulders — merely enough so to exhibit to 
 more advantage the greater elevation of a noble head, 
 which rose like the dome of a grand cathedral ; his fore- 
 head, wide and projecting over the brows which were 
 heavy, and would have been almost severe in their 
 meaning save for the softened expression of his large 
 brown eyes ; his hair, originally black, was now grey, but 
 thick and massive, and hung in locky folds, like the 
 antique, on his neck and shoulders. In manner he was 
 simple, quiet, and retiring, avoiding observation, and 
 seeking rather companionship with those whose unob- 
 trusive habits made them unlikely for peculiar notice. 
 When I met him he was in exile. Indeed I am not 
 certain if the ban of his oflTence be recalled ; whether or 
 not, the voice of all Italy now invokes his return, and the 
 name of Gioberti is associated with the highest and the 
 noblest views of national freedom. 
 
 Well, indeed, were it for the cause of Italy if her 
 progress were to be entrusted to men like this — if 
 the great principles of reform were to be committed to 
 intelligences capable of weighing difficulties, avoiding and 
 accommodating dangers. So late as the day before last I 
 had an opportunity of seeing a case in point. It is but a 
 few weeks since the good people of Lucca, filled with new 
 wine and bright notions of liberty, compelled their 
 sovereign to abdicate. There is no denying that he had 
 no other course open to him ; for if the Grand Duke of 
 Tuscany could venture- to accord popular privileges, 
 supported as he was by a very strong body of nobles, 
 whose possessions will always assure them a great 
 interest in the state, the little kingdom of Lucca had few, 
 if any, such securities. Its sovereign must either rule or 
 be ruled. Now, he had not energy of character for the 
 one — he did not like the other. Austria refused to aid 
 him — not wishing, probably to add to the complication of 
 Ferrara ; and so he abdicated. Now comes le commence- 
 ment dwjin. The Luccese gained the day : they expelled 
 the Duke — they organized a national guard — they 
 illuminated, they protested, cockaded, and — are ruined!
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 301 
 
 Without trade, or any of its resources, this little capital, 
 like almost all those of the German duchies, lived upon 
 "the Court." The sovereign was not only the fount of 
 honour, but of wealth ! Through his household flowed 
 the only channel by which industry was nurtured : it was 
 his court and his dependants whose wants employed the 
 active heads and hands of the entire city. The Duke is 
 gone — the palace closed — the court-yard even already half 
 grass-grown ! Not an equipage is to be heard or seen ; 
 not even a footman in a court livery rides past ; and all 
 the recompense for this is the newly conferred privileges of 
 liberty, to a people who recognize in freedom, not a new 
 bond of obligation, but an unbridled license of action. 
 The spirit of our times is, however, against this. The 
 inspired grocer?, who form the Guardia Civica, are our 
 only guides now ; it will be curious enough to see where 
 they will lead us. 
 
 When thinking of Italian liberty, or Unity, for that is 
 the phrase in vogue, I am often reminded of the Irish 
 priest who was supposed by his parishioners to possess an 
 unlimited sway over the seasons, and who, when hard- 
 pushed to exercise it, at last declared his readiness to 
 procure any kind of weather that three farmers would 
 agree upon, well knowing, the while, how diversity of 
 interest must for ever prevent a common demand. This 
 is precisely the case. An Italian kingdom to comprise 
 the whole Peninsula would be impossible. The Lombards 
 have no interests in common with the Neapolitans. 
 Venice is less the sister than the rival of Genoa. How 
 would the haughty Milanese, rich in everything that con- 
 stitutes wealth, surrender their station to the men of the 
 South, whom they despise and look down upon ? None 
 would consent to become Provincial ; and even the 
 smallest states would stand up for the prerogative of 
 separate identity. 
 
 " A National " Guard slowly paces before the gate, 
 within which Royalty no longer dwells ; and the banner of 
 their independence floats over their indigence ! Truly, 
 they have torn up their mantle to make a cap of Liberty, 
 and they must bear the cold how they may !
 
 802 HORACB TEMPLETOM. 
 
 As for the Duke himself, I believe he desei'ves the 
 epithet I heard a Frenchman bestow upon him — he is a 
 I^anvre Sire ! There is a fatal consistency, certainly, about 
 the conduct of these Bourbon Princes in moments of try- 
 ing emergency ! They never will recognize danger till too 
 late to avert it. The Prince of Lucca, like Charles Dix, 
 laughed at popular menace, and yet had barely time to es- 
 cape from popular vengeance. There was a ball at the 
 palace on the very night when the tumult attained its 
 greatest importance ; frequent messages were sent by tho 
 Ministers, and more than one order to the troops given 
 duinngthe progress of the entertainment. A despatch was 
 opened at the supper-table ; and as the Crown Prince led 
 out his fair partner — an English beauty, by-the-by — to the 
 cotillon, he whispered in her ear, " We must keep it up 
 late, for I fancy we shall never have another dance in this 
 salle ! " And this is the way Princes can take leave of 
 their inheritance; and so it is, the " divine right " can be 
 understood by certain "Rulers of the people." 
 
 If the defence of monarchy depended on the lives and 
 characters of monarchs, how few could resist Republican- 
 ism ! though, perhaps, everything considered, there is no 
 station in life where the same number of good and grace- 
 ful qualities is so certain to win men's favour and regard. 
 Maginn used to say that we "admire wit in a woman as 
 we admire a few words spoken plain by a parrot." 
 
 The speech was certainly not a very gallant one ; but I 
 half suspect that our admiration of royal attainments is 
 founded upon a similar principle. 
 
 Kings can rarely be good talkers, because they have not 
 gone through the great training-school of talk — which is, 
 conversation. This is impossible where there is no equality ; 
 and how often does it occur to monarchs to meet each 
 other, and when they do, what a stilted, unreal thing, 
 must be their intercourse! Of reigning sovereigns, the 
 King of Prussia is perhaps the most gifted in this way ; 
 of course, less endowed with that shrewd appreciation of 
 character, that intuitive perception of every man's bias, 
 which marks the ]\Ionarch of the Tuileries ; but possessed 
 of other and very ditferent qualities, and with one as-
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 303 
 
 pecially which never can be over-valued — an earnest sin- 
 cerity of purpose in everything. There is no escaping 
 from the conviction that here is a man who reflects and 
 wills, and whose appeal to conscience is the daily rule of 
 life. The nationality of Germany is his great object, and 
 for it he labours as strenuously — may it be as successfully ! 
 — as ever his " Great " predecessor did to accomplish the 
 opposite. What a country would it be if the same spirit 
 of nationality were^to prevail from the Baltic to the Black 
 Sea, and " Germany" have a political signification as well 
 as a oreographical one ! 
 
 After all, if we have outlived the age of heroic monarchy, 
 we have happily escaped that of royal debauches. A cele- 
 brated civil engineer of our day is reported to have said, 
 in his examination before a parliamentary committee, that 
 he regarded "rivers as intended by Providence to supply 
 navigable canals ; " in the same spirit one might opine 
 certain characters of royalty were created to supply 
 materials for Vaudevilles. 
 
 What would become of the minor theatres of Paris if 
 Louis XIV., and Richelieu, and the Regency were to be 
 interdicted? On whose memory dare they hang so much 
 of shameless vice and iniquitous folly ? Whei'e find 
 characters so degraded, so picturesque, so abandoned, 
 so infamous, and so amusing ? What time and trouble, 
 too, are saved by the adoption of this era! No need of 
 wearisome explanations and biographical details of the 
 dramatis personcB. When one reads the word " Marquis," 
 he knows it means a man whose whole aim in life is se- 
 duction ; while " Madame la Marquise " is as invariably 
 the easy victim of royal artifice. 
 
 It might open a very curious view into the distinctive 
 nature of national character to compare the recognized 
 class to which vice is attributed in different countries ; for 
 while in England we select the aiistocracy always as the 
 natural subjects for depravity, in the Piedmontese territory 
 all the stage villains are derived from the mercantile world. 
 Instead of a lord, as with us, the seducer is always a 
 manufacturer or a shipowner ; and vice a captain of
 
 304 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 dragoons, their terror of domestic peace is a cotton-spinner 
 or a dealer in hardware. 
 
 Let it not be supposed that this originates in any real 
 depravity, or any actual want of honesty, in the mercantile 
 world. No ! the whole is attributable to the " Censor." 
 By his arbitrary dictate the entire of a piece is often re- 
 cast, and so habituated have authors become to the pre- 
 vailing taste, that they now never think of occasioning 
 him the trouble of the correction. Tradesman tliere stands 
 for scoundrel, as implicitly as with us an Irishman is a 
 blunderer and a Scotchman a knave. Exercised as this 
 power is, and committed to such hands as we find it in 
 foreign countries, it is hard to conceive any more quiet but 
 effectual agent for the degradation of a national taste. It 
 is but a few weeks back I saw a drama marked for stage 
 representation in a city of Lombardy, in which the words 
 " Pope " and " Cardinal " were struck out as irreverent to 
 utter ; but all the appeals — and most impious they were — 
 to the Deity were suffered to remain unmutilated. 
 
 And now I am reminded of rather a good theme for one 
 of those little dramatic pieces which amuse the public of 
 the Palais Royal and the Varietes. I chanced upon it in 
 an old French book, called " Memoires et Souvenirs de 
 Jules Auguste Prevost, premier Valet de Charge de S. A. 
 le Due de Courcelles." Printed at the Hague, anno 1742. 
 I am somewhat sceptical about the veraciousness of many 
 of M. Prevost's recitals ; the greater number aie, indeed, 
 little else than chronicles of his losses at Ombre, with a 
 certain Mdlle. Valencay, or narratives of pefits soupers, 
 where his puce-coloured shorts and coat of amber velvet 
 were the chief things worthy of remembrance. Yet here 
 and there are little traits that look like facts, too insignifi- 
 cant for fiction, and preserving something of the character 
 of the time to which they are linked. The whole bears 
 no trace of ever having been intended for publication ; and 
 it is not difficult to see where the new touches have been 
 laid on over the original picture. It was in all probability 
 a mere common-place book, in which certain circumstances 
 of daily life got mixed up with the written details of his 
 Bt3,tion iu the Duke's household.
 
 HORACE TEMrLETON. 305 
 
 Neither its authenticity nor correctness, however, are of 
 any moment to my purpose, which was to jot down — from 
 memory if I can — the subject I believe to be invested with 
 dramatic material. 
 
 M. Prevost's narrative is very brief; indeed it barely 
 extends beyond a full allusion to a circumstance very gene- 
 rally known at the time. The events run somewhat thus, 
 or at least should do so, in the piece. At the close of a 
 brilliant/e^e at Versailles, where every fascination that an 
 age of unbounded luxury could procure was assembled, 
 the King retired to his apartment, followed by that prince 
 of vaudeville characters, the Marechal Richelieu. His 
 Majesty was wearied and out of spirits ; the pleasures of 
 the evening, so far from having, as usual, elevated his 
 spirits and awakened his brilliancy, had depressed and 
 fatigued him. He was tired of the unvarying repetition 
 of what his heart had long ceased to have any share in; 
 and, in fact, to use the vulgar, but most fitting phrase, he 
 was bored ! Bored by the courtiers, whose wit was too 
 prompt to have been unprepared ; by the homage, too ser- 
 vile to have any sincerity ; by the smiles of beauty, per- 
 verted as they were by jealous rivalry and subtle intrigue ; 
 and, above all, bored by the consciousness that he had no 
 other identity than such as kingly trappings gave him, and 
 that all the love and admiration he received were accorded 
 to the monarch and nothing to the man. 
 
 He didn't exactly, as novel writers would say, pour his 
 sufferings into Richelieu's ear, but in very abrupt and 
 forcible expressions he manifested his utter weariness of 
 the whole scene, and avowed a very firm belief that the 
 company was almost as tired of him as he was of the 
 company. 
 
 In vain the Marechal rallies his Majesty upon successes 
 which were wont to be called triumphs ; in vain he assures 
 him, that never at any period was the domestic peace of 
 the lieges more endangered by his Majesty's condescen- 
 sions: in fact, for once — as will happen, even with kings 
 now and then — he said truth ; and truth, however whole- 
 some, is not always palatable. Richelieu was too subtle 
 an adversary to be easily worsted ; and after a fruitless
 
 806 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 effort to obliterate the gloomy impression of the king, he, 
 with a ready assurance, takes him in flank, and coolly 
 attrilmtes the royal dissatisfaction to the very natural 
 weariness at ever seeing the same faces, however beautiful, 
 and hearing the same voices, however gay and sparkling 
 their wit. 
 
 " Your Majesty will not give yourself the ci-edit due of 
 winning these evidences of devotion from personal causes, 
 rather than from adventitious ones. Happily, a good 
 opportunity presents itself for the proof. Your Majesty 
 may have heard of Madame de Vaugirarde, whose husband 
 was killed at La Rochelle ? " 
 
 " The pretty widow who refuses to come to court ? " 
 
 " The same, sire. She continues to reside at the antique 
 chateau of her late husband, alone, and without compan- 
 ionship ; and, if report speak truly, the brightest eyes 
 of France are wasting their brilliancy in that obscure 
 retreat." 
 
 "Well, what is to be done? You would not, surely, 
 order her up to Versailles by a ' leitre de cachet? ' " 
 
 " No, sire, the measure were too bold ; nay, perhaps my 
 counsel will appear far bolder ; it is, that since Madame de 
 Yaugirarde will not come to court, your Majesty should go 
 to Madame de Vaugirarde." 
 
 It was not very difficult to make this notice agi'eeable 
 to the king. It had one ingredient pleasurable enough to 
 secure its good reception — it was new — nobody had ever 
 before dreamt of his Majesty making a tour into the 
 provinces incog. This was quite sufficient ; and Richelieu 
 had scarcely detailed his intentions than the king burned 
 with impatience to begin his jourue}". The wily minister, 
 however, had many things to arrange before they set out ; 
 but of what nature he did not reveal to his master. Cer- 
 tain is it that he left for Paris within an hour, hastening 
 to the capital with all the speed of post-horses. Arrived 
 there, he exchanged his court suit for a plain dress, and 
 in a fiacre drove to the private entrance of the Theatre 
 Fran^ais. 
 
 " Is M. Duroset engaged ? " said he, descending from 
 the carriage.
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 307 
 
 " He is on the stage, monsieur," said the porter, who 
 took the stranger for one of the better bourgeois of Paris, 
 coming to secure a good lege by personal intercession with 
 the manager. Now, M. Daroset was at the very moment 
 occupied in the not very uncommon task of giving a poor 
 actor his conge, who had just presented himself for au en- 
 gagement. 
 
 As was the case in those days — we have changed since 
 then — the Director, not merely content with declining 
 the proiTered services, was actually adding some very 
 caustic remarks on the pretension of the applicant, whose 
 miserable appearance and ragged costume might have 
 claimed exemption from his gratuitous lecture. 
 
 '' Believe me, mon cher," said he, " a man mast have a 
 very different air and carriage from yours who plays ' Le 
 Mnrquis' on the Parisian boards. There sliould be some- 
 thing of the style and bearing of the world about him — his 
 address shoulcl be easy, without presumption — his presence 
 commanding, without severity." 
 
 "I always played the noble parts in the provinces. I 
 acted the ' Regent' " 
 
 " I've no doubt of it ; and very pretty notions of royalty 
 the audience must have gained from you. There, that will 
 do. Go back to Nancy, and try yourself at valet's parts 
 for a year or two — that's the best counsel I can give you ! 
 Adieu ! adieu ! " 
 
 The poor actor retired, discomfited and distressed, at 
 the same instant that the graceful figure of Richelieu ad- 
 vanced in easy dignity. 
 
 " Monsieur Duroset," said the Marechal, seating himself, 
 and speaking in tlie voice so habituated to utter commands, 
 *' I would speak a few words with you in confidence, and 
 where we might be certain of not being overheard." 
 
 " Nothing could be better than the present spot, then," 
 said the manager, who was impressed by the style and 
 bearing of his visitor, without ever guessing or suspecting 
 his real rank. " The rehearsal will not begin for half-an- 
 hour. Except that poor devil that has just left me, no one 
 has entered this morning." 
 
 " Sit down, then, and pay attention to what I shall 
 
 X 2
 
 308 fiOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 say," said the Marechal. The words were felt as a com- 
 mand, and instantly obeyed. 
 
 " They tell me, M, Duroset, that a young actress, of 
 great beauty and distinguished ability, is about to appear 
 on these boards, whose triumphs have been hitherto won 
 only in the provinces. Well, you must defer her debut 
 for some days ; and, meanwhile, for the beneft of her 
 health, she can make a little excursion to the neighbour- 
 hood of Fontainebleau, where, at a short distance from 
 the royal forest, stands a small chateau. This will be 
 ready for her reception ; and where a more critical taste 
 than even your audiences boast will decide upon her 
 merits." 
 
 " There is but one man in France could make such a 
 proposition ! " said the manager, starting back, half in 
 aniiizement, half in respect. 
 
 "And I am exactly that man," rejoined the Marechal. 
 " There need never be secrets between men of sense. M. 
 Duroset, the case is this : your beauty, whose manners 
 and breeding I conjecture to be equal to her charms, 
 must represent the character of the widowed Countess of 
 Vautrirarde, whose sorrow for her late husband is all but 
 inconsolable. The solitude of her retreat will, however, 
 be disturbed by the accidental arrival of a stranger, who, 
 accompanied by his friend, will demand the hospitality of 
 the chateau. Grief has not usurped every faculty and 
 devoir of the fair Countess, who consents the following 
 morning to receive thje respectful homage of the travellers, 
 and even invites them, weary as they seem by travel, to 
 stay another day." 
 
 " I understand — I understand," said Duroset, hastily 
 interrupting this narrative, which the speaker poured 
 forth with impetuous rapidity ; " but there are several 
 objections, and grave ones." 
 
 " I'm certain of it," rejoined the other ; " and now to 
 combat them. Here are a thousand louis ; five hundred 
 of which M. Duroset will keep — the remainder he will 
 expend, as his taste and judgment may dictate^ in the 
 costume of the fair Countess." 
 
 " But Mademoiselle Bellechasse ? "
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 309 
 
 ' Will accept of these diamonds, wbich will become her 
 to perfection. She is not a blonde?" 
 
 "No; dark hair and eyes." 
 
 " This suite of pearls, then, will form a most graceful 
 addition to her toilette." 
 
 " They are magnificent ! " exclaimed the manager, who, 
 with wondering eyes, turned from one jewel case to the 
 other ; " they are splendid ! Nay " — then he added, 
 in a lower accent^ and with a glance, as he spoke, of 
 inveterate cunning — " nay, they are a princely present." 
 
 " Ah, M. Duroset, uti homme d'esprit is always so easy 
 to treat with ! Might I dare to ask if Mademoiselle 
 Bellechasse is here ? — if I might be permitted to pay my 
 respects ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; your Excell— " 
 
 "Nay, nay, M. Duroset, we are all incog. y'' said the 
 Marechal, smiling good humouredly. 
 
 "As you please, sir. I will go and make a brief expla- 
 nation to Mademoiselle, if you will excuse my leaving 
 you. May 1 take these jewels with me? Thanks." 
 
 The explanation, was, indeed, of the briefest; and he 
 returned in a few seconds, accompanied by a young lady, 
 whose elegance of mien and loveliness of form seemed to 
 astonish even the critical gaze of Richelieu. 
 
 "Madame la Comtesse de Vaugirarde," said the Director, 
 presenting her. 
 
 " All, helle Comfes-te ! " said the Marechal, as he kissed 
 the tips of her fingers witli the most profound courtesy ; 
 " may I hope that the world has still charms to win back 
 one whose griefs should fall like spring showers, and only 
 render more fragrant the soil they water! " 
 
 " I know not what the future may bring forth," said 
 she, with a most gracefully affected sadness; "but for 
 the present, I feel as if the solitude of my ancient 
 chateau, the peaceful quiet of the country, would best 
 respond to my wishes : there alone, to wander in those 
 
 woods, whose paths are endeared to me- " 
 
 "Admirable ! — beautiful 1 — perfect ! " exclaimed Riche- 
 lieu, in a transport of delight ; " never was the tribute of 
 affection more touching — never a more graceful homage
 
 310 HORACE TEMPLETON* 
 
 rendered to past happiness ! N'ow, when can you set 
 out?" 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 " Why not to-day ? Time is everything here," 
 
 "Remember, monsiem% that we have purchases to make 
 — we visit the capital but rarely." 
 
 " Quite true ; I was forgetting the solitude of your 
 retreat. Such charms might make any lapse of memory 
 excusable." 
 
 " Ob, monsieur ! I should be, indeed, touched by this 
 flattery, if I could but see the face of him who uttered 
 it." 
 
 " Pardon me, fair Countess, if I do not respond to even 
 the least of your wishes : we shall both appear in our true 
 colours one of these days. Meanwhile, remember our 
 proverb that says, ' It's not the cowl makes the monk.* 
 When you shall hear this again, it will be in your chateau 
 of Vaugirarde, and " 
 
 "Is that the consigne, then ? " said she, laughing. 
 
 " Yes, that is the consigne — don't forget it;" and, with 
 a graceful salutation, the Marechal withdrew to perfect 
 his further arrangements. 
 
 There was a listener to this scene, that none of its 
 actors ever guessed at — the poor actor, who, having lost 
 his way among forests of pasteboard and palaces of painted 
 canvas, at last found himself at the back of a pavilion, 
 from which the speakers were not more than two paces 
 distant. Scarcely had the Marechal departed, than he 
 followed his steps, andjmadeall haste to an obscure a ubeiye 
 outside the barriei'S, where a companion, poor and friendless 
 as himself, awaited him. There is no- need to trace 
 what ensued at this meeting. The farce writer might, 
 indeed, make it effective enough, ending as it does in the 
 resolve, that since an engagement was denied them at 
 Paris they'd tr\' their fortune at Foutainebleau, by perso- 
 nating the two strangers, who were to arrive by a hazard 
 at the Chateau de Vaugirarde. 
 
 The whole plot is now seen. They set out, and in due 
 time arrive at the chateau. Their wardrobe and appear- 
 ance generally are the very reverse of what the fair
 
 HOEACK TEMPLETON. 811 
 
 Couniess expected, but as their stage experiences supply a 
 certain resemblance to rank and distinction — at least to 
 her notions of such — she never doubts that they are the 
 promised visitors, and is convinced by the significant 
 declaration, that if their wayworn looks 'and strange 
 costume seem little indicative of their actual position, 
 yet the Countess should remember, "It is not the cowl 
 makes the monk." 
 
 The constraint W4th which each assumes a new character 
 forms the second era of the piece. The lover, far from 
 suspecting the real pretensions he should strive to per- 
 sonate — the Countess, as much puzzled by the secrecy of 
 her guest's conduct, and by guesses as to his actual rank and 
 fortune. It is while these doubts are in full conflict, and 
 when seated at supper, that the King and Hichelieu 
 appear, announced as two travellers, whose carriage being 
 overturned and broken, are fain to crave the hospitality of 
 the chateau. 
 
 The discomfiture of Richelieu and the answer of the 
 King at finding the ground occupied, contrast well with 
 the patronizing graces of the mock Countess, and the 
 insolent demeanour of the lover, who whispers in her ear 
 that the new arrivals are strolling players, and that he 
 has seem them repeatedly in the provinces. All Richelieu's 
 endeavours to set matters right, unobserved by the King, 
 are abortive ; while his Majesty is scarce more fortunate 
 in pres.-ing his suit with the fair Countess, by whose 
 grace and beauty he is fascinated. In the very midst of 
 the insolent badinage of the real actors, an ofticer of the 
 household arrives, with important dispatches. Their 
 delivery brooks no delay, and he at once presents himself, 
 and, kneeling, hands them to the King. Shame, discom- 
 fiture, terror, and dismay, seize on the intruding players. 
 The King, however, is merciful. After a smart reproof 
 all is forgiven ; his Majesty sagely observing, that al- 
 though "the cowl may not make the monk," the ermine 
 has no small share in forming the monarch.
 
 312 HOIUCE TEMFLETON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 Florence. 
 
 What did Shelley, what does any one, mean by their 
 raptures about Florence? Never, surely, was the epithet 
 of La Bella more misapplied. I can well understand the 
 enthusiasm with which men call Genoa II Superho. Its 
 mountain background, its deep blue sea, its groves of 
 orange and acacia, the prickly aloe growing wild upon the 
 very shore in all the luxuriance of tropical vegetation, 
 indicative of an almost wasteful extravagance of produc- 
 tion ; while its amphitheatre of palaces, proudly rising in 
 terraced rows, are gorgeous remembrances of the haughty 
 Republic. But Florence! dark, dirty, and discordant! 
 Palaces, gaol-like and gloomy, stand in streets were wretch- 
 edness and misery seem to have chosen their dwelling- 
 place — the types of feudal tyranny side by side with 
 modern destitution. The boasted Arno, too, a shrunk-up, 
 trickling stream, not wide enough to be a river, not clear 
 enough to be a rivulet, winds along between hills hot and 
 sun-scorched, where the brown foliage has no touch of 
 freshness, but stands parched and shrivelled by the hot 
 glare of eternal noon. The white-walled villas glisten in 
 the dazzling heat, not tempered by the slightest shade, 
 but reflecting back the scorching glow from rocks cracked 
 and fissured by the sun ! 
 
 How disappointing is all this ! and how wearisome is 
 the endeavour, from the scattered objects here and there, 
 to make any approach to that Florence one has imagined 
 to himself! To me the abstraction is impossible. I carry 
 about with me, even into the galleries, before the triumphs 
 of Rafi'aelle and the wonders of Michael Angelo, the sad
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 313 
 
 discordant scenes through which I have passed. The 
 jarred senses are rendered incapable of properly appre- 
 ciating and feeling those influences that should diffuse 
 their effect upon the mind ; and even the sight of the 
 " Guardia Civica," strutting in solemn mockery beneath 
 the archways where the proud Medici have trod, are con- 
 trasts to suggest rather a sense of sarcasm than of pleasure. 
 
 Here and there you do come upon some grand and 
 imposing pile of building, the very stones of which seem 
 laid by giant hands ; but even these have the fortress 
 character, the air of strongholds, rather than of princely 
 dwellings, as at Genoa. You see at once how much more 
 defence and safety were the guiding principles, than 
 elegance of design and beauty of proportion. No vestibule, 
 peopled with its marble groups, opens here to the passer- 
 by a glimpse of a noble stair rising in spacious amplitude 
 between walls of marble. No gate of gilded fretwork 
 shows the terraced garden, with the plashing fountains, 
 and the orange-trees bending with their fruit. 
 
 Like all continental cities where the English congregate, 
 the inhabitants have a mongrel look, grafting English 
 notions of dress and equipage upon their own, and, like 
 most imitators, only successful in following the worst 
 models. The Casciui, too, exhibits a very motley assem- 
 blage of gaudy liveries and dusky carriages, riding-grooms 
 dressed like footmen, their masters no bad resemblance to 
 the " Jeunes Premiers " of a vaudeville. The men are 
 very inferior in appearance to the Milanese ; they are 
 neither as well-built nor well-grown, and rarely have any 
 pretensions to a fashionable exterior. The women are' 
 mostly ill-dressed, and, in no instance that I have seen, 
 even well-looking. They have the wearied look, without 
 the seductive languor, of the South ; they are pale, but 
 not fair ; and their gestures are neither plastic nor grace- 
 ful. In fact, in all that I have seen here, I am sadly dis- 
 appointed — all, save the Kaffaelles ; they are above my 
 conception of them. 
 
 How much of this lies in myself I dare not stop to 
 inquire ; a large share, perhaps, but assuredly not all. 
 This climate should be avoided by those of weak chest.
 
 814 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Symptoms of fui'tliei^ "breaking-up " crowd upon me each 
 day ; and this burning sun and piercing wind make a sad 
 conflict in the debihtated frame. But where to go, where 
 to seek out a quiet spot to linger a few days and die ! 
 E/Ome is in all the agonies of its mock liberty — Naples in 
 open revolt : here, where I am, all rule and government 
 have ceased to exist; the mob have everything at their 
 mercy : that they have not abused their power, is tbovg 
 owing to their ignorance than their honour. When the 
 Irish rebels carried the town of Ross by storm, they broke 
 into the grocers' shops to eat sugar ! The Florentines 
 having bullied the Duke, are only busied about the new 
 uniforms of their Civic Guard ! 
 
 Hitherto the reforms have gone no further than in 
 organizing this same National Guard, and in thrashing the 
 police authorities wherever found. Now, bad as this 
 police was, it was still the only protection to the public 
 peace. It exists no longer ; and Tuscany has made her 
 first step in liberty " eii Americaine," by adopting " Lynch 
 Law." 
 
 I was about to note down a singular instance of this 
 indignant justice of the people, when the arrival of a 
 letter, in a hand unknown to me, suddenly routed all my 
 intentions. If I am able to record the circumstance here, 
 calmly and without emotion, it is neither from that philos- 
 ophy the world teaches, nor from any higher motive — 
 it is merely on the same principle that one would bear 
 with tolerable equanimity the break-down of a carriage 
 when within a few miles of the journey's end ! Tlie fact, 
 then, is simply this, that I, Horace Templeton, whose 
 drafts a few days back might have gone far into the 
 " tens of thousands," without fear of " dishonour," am 
 now ruined ! When we read this solemn word in the 
 newspapers, we at once look back to the rank and station 
 of him whose ruin is predicated. A Duke is " ruined " 
 when he must sell three packs of hounds, three studs of 
 horses, four of his five or six mansions, part with his yacht 
 at Cowes, and his racers at Newmarket, and retire to the 
 Continent with a beggarly pittance of some fifteen thou- 
 sand per annum. A merchant is ruined when, by the
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 315 
 
 sudden convulsions of mercantile affairs, he is removed 
 from the unlimited command of millions to pass his dajs, 
 at Leamington or Cheltenham, on his wife's jointure of 
 two thousand a year. 
 
 His clerk is ruined when he drops his pocket-book on 
 his way from the bank, and loses six hundred pounds 
 belonging to the firm. His is more real ruin, for it 
 implies stoppages, suspicion — mayhap loss of place, and 
 its consequences. , 
 
 But I have lost everything ! Hamerton and Scott, my 
 bankers, have failed ; their liabilities, as the phrase is — 
 meaning thereby what they are liable to be asked for, but 
 cannot satisfy — are enormous. My only landed property 
 is small, and so heavily mortgaged as to be worth nothing. 
 I bad only waited for the term of an agreenaent to redeem 
 the mortgage, and clear off all encumbrances ; but the 
 *' crash " has anticipated me, and I am now a beggar ! 
 
 Yes, there is the letter, in all cold and chilling civility, 
 curtly stating that " the unprecedented succession of 
 calamities, by which public credit has been affected, have 
 left the firm no other alternative but that of a short sus- 
 pension of payment! Sincerely trusting, however, that 
 they will be enabled " and so forth. These announce- 
 ments have but one burden — the creditors are to be 
 mulcted, while the debtor continues to hope ! 
 
 And now for my own share in the misfortune. Is it 
 the momentary access of excitement, or is it some passing 
 rally in my constitution ? but I certainly feel better, and 
 in higher spirits, than I have done for many a day. It is 
 long since I indulged in my old habit of castle-building; 
 and yet now, at every instant, some new notion strikes 
 me, and I fancy some new field for active labour and 
 exertion. To the present Ministers I am slightly known 
 — sufficiently to ask for employment, if not in my former 
 career, in some other. Should this fail, I have yet power- 
 ful friends to ask for me. Not that I like either of these 
 plans — this playing " anficJiambre" is a sore penance at 
 my time of life. Had I health and sti'ength, I'd emi- 
 grate, I really do wonder why men of a certain rank, 
 younger sons especially, do not throw their fortunes into
 
 816 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 the colonies. Apart from the sense of enterprise, there ia 
 an immense gain, in the fact that individual exertion, be 
 it of head or hand, can exercise, free from the trammels 
 of conventional prejudices, which so rule and restrain us 
 at home. If we merely venture to use the pruning-knife 
 in our gardens here, there, we may lay the axe to the root 
 of the oak ; and yet, in this commonwealth of labour, the 
 gentleman, if his claim to the title be really well founded, 
 is as certain of muiiitaining a position of superiority as 
 though he had remained in his own country. The Yer- 
 nons, the Greys, and the Courtenays, have never ceased to 
 hold a peculiar place among their fellow-citizens of the 
 United States ; and so is it observable in our colonies, 
 even where mere wealth was found in the opposite scale. 
 
 But let me not longer dwell on these things, nor indulge 
 in speculations which lead to hope ! Let me rather reflect 
 on my present position, and calculate calmly by what 
 economy I may be able to linger on, and not exhaust the 
 means, till the lamp of life is ready to be quenched. 
 
 I am sure that most men of easy, careless temperament 
 could live as well on one-half of their actual incomes, 
 having all that they require, and never feeling any unusual 
 privation; that the other half is invariably mange by one's 
 servants, by tradespeople, by cases of mock distress, by 
 importunity, and by indolence. I well know how I am 
 blamable upon each of these several counts. Now, for a 
 note to my banker here, to ascertain what sum he holds 
 of mine ; and then, like the shipwrecked sailor on his raft, 
 to see how long liie may be sustained on half or quarter 
 rations ! 
 
 So, here is the banker's letter : — " I have the honour to 
 acknowledge," and so on. The question at issue is the 
 sum — and here it stands : Three hundred and forty-two 
 pounds, twelve shillings, and fourpence. I really thought 
 I had double the amount; but here I find cheques iunu- 
 merable. I have, no doubt, given to many, now far richer 
 than I am. Be it so. The next point is — How long can 
 a man live on three hundred and forty pounds ? One 
 man would say, Three weeks — another, as many months—
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 817 
 
 and another, as many years, perhaps. I am totally 
 ignorant what guidance to follow. 
 
 In this difficulty I shall send for Dr. Hennesy — he is 
 the man in repute here — and try, if it may be, to ascertain 
 what length of tether he ascribes to my case. Be it a 
 day, a week, or a month, let me but know it. And now 
 to compose myself, and speak calmly on a theme where 
 the slightest appearance of excitement would create 
 erroneous suspicions against me. If H. be the man of 
 sense I deem him^ he will not misconstrue my meaning, 
 even should he guess it. 
 
 Gilbert reminds me of what I had quite forgotten — • 
 that yesterday I signed an agreement for a villa here : I 
 took it for six months, expecting to live one ! It struck 
 me, when driving out on the Bolocrna road, both for 
 architecture and situation ; I saw nothing equal to it — an 
 old summer-palace of the Medici, and afterwards inhabited 
 by the Salviati, whose name it bears. 
 
 A princely house in every way is this ; but how unsuited 
 to ruined fortunes ! I walked about the rooms, now 
 stopping to examine a picture or a carved oak cabinet ; 
 now to peep at the wild glens, which here are seen dividing 
 the hills in every direction ; and felt how easy it would be 
 to linger on here, where objects of taste and high art 
 blend their influence with dreams of the long past. Now, 
 I must address my mind to the different question — How 
 to be released from my contract ? 
 
 H. has just been here. How difficult it was to force 
 him into candour ! A doctor becomes, by the practice of 
 his art, as much addicted to suspicion as a police agent. 
 Every question, every reply of the patient, must be a 
 " symptom." This wearies and worries the nervous man, 
 and renders him shy and uncommunicative. 
 
 For myself, well opining how my sudden demand, 
 "How long can I live?" might sound, if uttered with 
 abrupt sincerity, I submitted patiently to all the little 
 gossip of the little world of this place — its envy, hatred, 
 malice, and all uncharitableness — which certainly are 
 prime features in an English colony on the Continent—
 
 B18 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 all, that I miG-ht at last establish a character for soundness 
 of nntid and calmness of purpose, ere I put my qucere. 
 
 The favourable moment came at last, and I asked in 
 full earnest, but with a manner that showed no sign of 
 dread, — " Tell me, Dottore mio, how long may such a chest 
 as mine endure ? I mean, taking every possible care, as I 
 do ; neither incurring any hazai'd nor neglect ; and, in 
 fact, fighting the battle bravely to the last ?" 
 
 He tried at first, by a smile and a jocular manner, to 
 evade the question ; but seeing my determination fixed, 
 he looked grave, felt my pulse, percussed my chest, and 
 was silent. 
 
 " Well," said I, after a very long pause, " I await my 
 sentence, but in no mood of hope or fear. Is it a month ? 
 — a week ? — a day ? — nay, surely it can hardly be so near 
 as that ? Still silent! Come, this is scarcely fair ; I ask 
 simply " 
 
 " That which is perfectly impossible to answer, did I 
 concede that I ought to reply, as categorically as you 
 ask." 
 
 " Were I to tell my reasons, doctor, you might judge 
 more harshly of my intelligence than I should like ; 
 besides, you would certainly misinterpret my meaning. 
 Tell me, therefore, in the common course of such changes 
 as my disease involves, can I live a year? You shake 
 your head ! Be it so. Six months ? — Three, then ? — 
 Have I three? The winter, you say, is to be feared. I 
 know it. AYell, then, shall I own that my convictions 
 anticipate you at each negative ? I feel I have not a 
 month — nay, not half of one — a week will do it, doctor ; 
 and now excuse scant ceremony, and leave me." 
 
 Alone — friendless — homeless- — ruined, and dying ! Sad 
 words to write, each of them ; sadder when thus brought 
 in brothei'hood together. The world and its pageants are 
 passing fast by me, like the eddies of that stream which 
 flows beneath my window. I catch but one glimpse ;^-nd 
 they are gone, beneath the dark bridge of Death, to mingle 
 in the vast ocean of Eternity. 
 
 How strange to see the whole business of the world 
 going on, the moving multitude the tumult of active
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 319 
 
 mincls and bodies — at the very moment when the creeping 
 chill of ebbing life tells of days and hours numbered ! 
 
 I arn alone — not one to sit by me to combat thoujThts 
 that with the faintest help I could resist, but which 
 unaided are too strong for me. In this window-seat 
 where now I rest, who shall sit this day week? The 
 youth, perhaps, in gushing pride of heart and buoyancy, 
 now entering upon life, ardent and high-souled — or the 
 young bride, gazing on that same river that now I watch, 
 and reading in its circles wi'eathed smiles of happy 
 promise. Oh, may no memories of him, whose tears 
 fall fast now, haunt the spot and throw their gloom on 
 others ! 
 
 I am friendless — and yet, which of those I still call 
 friends would I now wish beside me ? To drink of the 
 cup of consolation, I must first offer my own of misery 
 •^nay, it is better to endure alone ! 
 
 Homeless am I, too — and this, indeed, I feel bitterly. 
 Old familiar objects, associated with ties of affection, 
 boand up with memories of friends, are meet companions 
 for the twilight hours of life. I long to be back in my 
 own chosen room — the little library, looking out on the 
 avenue of old beeches leading to the lake, and the village 
 spire rising amid the dark yew-trees. There was a spot 
 there, too, I had often fancied — when I close my eyes I 
 think I see it still — a little declivity of the ground 
 beneath a large old elm, where a single tomb stood sur- 
 rounded by an iron railing ; one side was in decay, and 
 through which I often passed to read the simple inscrip- 
 tion—" Courtenay Templeton, Armiger, getatis 22." 
 
 This was not the family burying-place — why he was 
 laid there was a family mystery. His death was attributed 
 to suicide, nor was his memory ever totally cleared of the 
 guilt. The event was briefly this : — On the eve of the 
 great battle of Fontenoy he received an insult from an 
 officer of a Scotch regiment, which ended in a duel. The 
 Scotchman fell dead at the first fire. Templeton was 
 immediately arrested ; and instead of leading an attack, 
 as he had been appointed to do, spent the hours of the 
 battle in a prison. The next morning he was discovered
 
 820 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 dead ; a great quantity of blood had flowed from his 
 mouth and nose, which, although no external wound was 
 found, suggested an idea of self-destruction. None sus- 
 pected, what I have often heard since from medical men, 
 that a rupture of the aorta from excessive emotion — a 
 broken heart, in fact — had killed him : a death more fre- 
 quently occurring than is usually believed. 
 
 "Ruined and dying " are the last words in my record ; 
 and yet neither desirous of fortune nor life ! At least, so 
 faint is my hope that I should use either with higher 
 purpose than I have done, that all wish is extinguished. 
 
 Seriously I believe that love of life is less general than 
 the habit of projecting schemes for the future — a vague 
 system of castle-building, which even the least speculative 
 practises ; and that death is thus accounted the great evil, 
 as suddenly interrupting a chain of events whose series is 
 still imperfect. The very humblest peasant that rises to 
 daily toil has his gaze fixed on some future, some period 
 of rest or repose, some hour of freedom from his lite-long 
 struggle. Now, I have exhausted this source ; the well, 
 that once bubbled with eddying fancies of days to come, 
 is dry. High spirits, health, and the buoyancy that result 
 from both, when joined to a disposition keenly alive to 
 enjoyment, and yet neither cloyed by excess nor depraved 
 by corrupt tastes, will always go far to simulate a degree 
 of ability. The very freedom a mind thus constituted 
 enjoys is a species of power ; and its liberty exaggerates 
 its range, just as the untrammelled paces of the young 
 colt seem infinitely more graceful and noble than the 
 matured regularity of the trained and bitted steed. 
 
 It was thus that I set out in life — ardent, hopeful, and 
 enthusiastic : if my mental resources were small, they 
 were always ready at hand, like a banker with a weak 
 capital, but who could pay every trifling demand on the 
 spot, 1 lived upon credit ; and upon that credit I grew 
 rich. Had I gone on freely as I began, I might still 
 enjoy the fame of wealth and solvency, but with the 
 reputation of affluence came the wish to be rich. I con- 
 tracted my issues, I husbanded my resources, and from 
 that hour I became suspected. To avoid a " run " for
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 321 
 
 gold, I ceased to trade and retired. This, in a few words, 
 is the whole history of my life. 
 
 Gilbert comes to say that the carriage is waiting to 
 convey me to the villa — our luggage is already there. Be 
 it so: still I must own to myself, that going to occupy a 
 palace for the last few hours of life and fortune is very 
 much like good Christopher Sly's dream of Lordliness.
 
 322 EOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 SOME REVERIES ABOUT PLACES. 
 
 What would the old school of Diplomatists have said if 
 they saw their secret wiles and machinations exposed to 
 publicity as is now the fashion ? When any " honourable 
 and learned gentleman" can call for "copies of the cor- 
 respondence between our Minister at the Court of 
 
 and the noble Secretary for the Foreign Department ; " 
 and when the Times can, in a leader, rip up all the flaws 
 of a treaty, or expose all the dark intentions of some 
 special compact? The Diplomatic " Holy of Holies " is 
 now open to the vulgar gaze, and all the mj-steries of the 
 craft as commonplace as the transactions of a Poor-law 
 Union. 
 
 Much of the prestige of this secrecy died out on the 
 establishment of railroads. The courier who travelled 
 formerly with breathless haste from Moscow to London, 
 or from the remotest cities of the far East, to our little 
 Isle of the West, was sure to bring intelligence several 
 days earlier than it could reach by any other channel. The 
 gold greyhound, embroidered on his arm, was no exag- 
 gerated emblem of his speed ; but now, his prerogative 
 over, he journeys in " a first-class carriage " with some 
 fifty others, who arrive along with him. Old age and 
 infancy, sickness and debility, are no disqualifications — 
 the race is open to all — and the tidings brought by " our 
 messenger " are not a particle later, and rarely so full, as 
 those given forth in the columns of a leading journal. 
 
 How impossible to affect any mysterious silence before 
 the '■ House! " — how vain to attempt any knowledge from 
 exclusive sources ! " The ordinary channels of informa- 
 tion," to use Sir Robert's periphrasis, are the extra-
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 323 
 
 ordinary ones too, and not only do they contain whatever 
 Ministers know, but very often " something more." 
 
 Time was when the Minister, or even the secretary at a 
 foreign court, appeared in society as a kind of casquet of 
 state secrets, — when his mysterious whispers, his very 
 gestures, were things to speculate on, and a grave motion 
 of his eyebrows could make " consols " tremble, and throw 
 the " threes " into a panic. Now, the question is, Have 
 you seen the city article in the Times ? What does the 
 Chronicle say ? Kg doubt this is a tremendous power, 
 and very possibly the enjoyment of it, such as we have it 
 in England, is the highest element of a pure democracy. 
 Political information of a very high order establishes a spe- 
 cies of education, which is the safest check upon the dan- 
 gers of private judgment, and hence it is fair to hope that 
 we possess a sounder and more healthy public opinion in 
 England than in any of the states of the continent. At 
 least it would not be too much to infer that we would be 
 less accessible to those sudden convulsions, those violent 
 coups de main by which governments are overturned 
 abroad ; and that the general diffusion of new notions on 
 political subjects, and the daily reference to such able ex- 
 positors as our newspaper press contains, are strong safe- 
 guards against the seductive promises of mob-leaders and 
 liberty-mongers. 
 
 In France, a government is always at the mercy of any 
 one bold enough to lead the assault. The attempt may 
 seem often a " forlorn hope " — it rarely is so in reality. 
 The love of vagrancy is not so inhei'ent in tlie Yankee as 
 is the destructive passion in the Frenchman's heart ; but 
 it is there, less from any pleasure in demolition than in the 
 opportunity thus offered for reconstruction. Mirabeau, 
 "Rousseau, Fournier, Lamennais are the social architects 
 of French predilection, and many a clearance has been 
 made to begin the edifice, and many have perished in laying 
 the foundations, which never rose above the earth, bat 
 which ere long we may again witness undertaken with new 
 and bolder hands than ever. 
 
 Events that once took centuries for their accomplishment 
 are now the work of days or weeks. Steam seems to have 
 
 ^ y2
 
 324 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 communicated its impetuosity to mind as well as matter, 
 and ere many years pass over, how few of the traces of 
 Old Europe will remain as our fathers knew them ! 
 
 I have scarcely entered a foreign city for the last few 
 years without detecting the rapid working of those changes. 
 Old families sinking into decay and neglect — time-honoured 
 titles regarded as things that "once were." Their very 
 homes, the palaces, associated with incidents of deep his- 
 toric interests, converted into hotels or ^' pensionnafs." 
 
 The very last time I strolled through Paris I loitered to 
 the quartier which in my young ambition I regarded 
 with all the reverence the pilgrim yields to Mecca. I 
 remembered the first soiree in which I was presented, 
 having dined at the Embassy, and being taken in the even- 
 ing by the ambassador that I might be inti'oduced to the 
 Machiavel of his craft, Prince Talleyrand. Even yet I feel 
 the hot blush which mantled in my cheek as I was passing 
 with very scant ceremony the round-shouldered little old 
 man who stood in the very doorway, his wide black coat 
 far too large for his figure, and his white hair trimly brushed 
 back from his massive temples. 
 
 It did not need the warning voice of my introducer, 
 hastily calling my name, to make my sense of shame 
 a perfect agony. " Monsieur Templeton, Monsieur le 
 Prince," said the ambassador ; " the young gentleman of 
 whom I spoke ;" and he added, in a tone inaudible to me, 
 something about my career and some mention of my 
 relatives. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the. Prince, smiling graciously, " I am 
 aware how ' connection,' as you call it, operates in Eng- 
 land ; but permit me, monsieur," said he, turning towards 
 me, " to give one small piece of advice. It is this : ' If 
 you can win by cards never score the honours.' " The 
 precept had little influence on himself, however. No man 
 ever paid greater deference to the distinctions of rank, or 
 conceded more to the prestige of an ancient name. Neither 
 a general, an orator, nor an author — not even the leader 
 of a faction — this astonishing man stood alone, in the 
 resources of his fertile intellect directing events which he 
 appeared to follow, and availing himself of resources which
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 325 
 
 he had stored up for emergency, but so artfully that they 
 seemed to arise out of the natural current of events. Never 
 disconcerted or abashed — not once thrown off his balance 
 — not more calmly dignified when he stood beside Napo- 
 leon at Erfurth, then master of Europe itself, than he was 
 at the Congress of Vienna, when the defeat of France had 
 placed her at the mercy of her enemies. 
 
 It was in this same house, in the Rue Saint Florentin, 
 that the Emperor Alexander lived when the Allies entered 
 Paris, on the last day of March, 1814. His Majesty occu- 
 pied the first floor ; M. de Talleyrand, the rez de chaiissee. 
 He was then no more than ex-Minister for Foreign Affairs ; 
 neither empowered by the Bourbons to treat for the Re- 
 storation, nor by the nation for the conditions of a govern- 
 ment — he was merely "one among the conquered;" and 
 yet to this man all eyes were turned instinctively, as to 
 one who possessed the secret of the future. That rez de 
 chaiissee was besieged with visitors from morning till night; 
 and even when, according to the custom of the French, he 
 made his lengthened toilette, his dressing-room was filled 
 by all the foreign ministers of the conquering mouarchs, 
 and Nesselrode and Metternich waited at these daily 
 levees. In all these discussions M. de Talleyrand took 
 the lead, with the same ease and the same aplomb, dis- 
 cussing kings to make and kingdoms to dismember, as 
 though the clank of the muskets, which now and then 
 interrupted their colloquy, came from the Imperial Guard 
 of Napoleon, and not the Cossacks of the Don and the 
 Uhlans of the Danube, who crowded the stairs and the 
 avenues, and bivouacked in the court. 
 
 Here the Restoration was decided upon, and Talleyrand 
 himself it was who decided it. The Emperor Alexander 
 opposed it strongly at first, alleging that the old spirit 
 and the old antipathies would all return with the elder 
 Bourbons, and suggesting the Due d'Orleans as king. 
 Talleyrand, however, overruled . the objection, asserting 
 that no new agent must be had recourse to for governing 
 at such a juncture, and that one usurpation could not be 
 succeeded by another. It is said that when the news 
 readied Vienna, in 1815, that Napoleon had landed from
 
 32G HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Elba, the Emperor Alexander came hurriedly over to 
 where Talleyrand was sitting, and informing him what 
 had occurred, said, " I told you before, your plan would bo 
 a failure ! " " Mais que faire ? " coolly retorted the calm 
 diplomate ; " of two evil courses it was the better — I never 
 said moi-e of it. Had you proclaimed the King of Rome 
 you had been merely maintaining the power of Napoleon 
 under another name. You cannot establish the govern- 
 ment of a great nation upon a half measure. Besides that, 
 Legitimacy, whatever its faults, was the only Principlr 
 that could prove to Europe at large that France and 
 Napoleon were parted for ever ; and, after so many barter- 
 ings of crowns and trucklings of kingdoms, it was a fine 
 opportunity of showing that there was still something — 
 whether it be or be not by right divine — which was supe- 
 rior to sabres and muskets, generals and armies." 
 
 It was the sanctity of right — whether of kings, people, 
 or individuals — which embodied Talleyrand's conception 
 of the Restoration ; and this is it which he so admirably 
 expressed when arriving at the Congress of Vienna, the 
 ambassador of a nation without wealth or army. " Je 
 viens," said he to the assembled kings and ministers of 
 conquering Europe—" Je viens, et je vous apporte plus que 
 vous n'avez, — je vous apporte I'idce du droit!" This 
 was happily expressed ; but no one more than he knew 
 how to epigrammatize a whole volume of thought. In 
 private life the charm of his manner was the most perfect 
 thing imaginable : his consciousness of rank and ancient 
 family divested him of all pretension whatever, and the 
 idea of entering the lists with any one never occurred to 
 his mind. Willingly availing himself of the talents of 
 others, and their pens upon occasion, he never felt any 
 embittering jealousy. Approachable by all, his unatfected 
 demeanour was as likely to strike the passing observer as 
 the rich stores of his intellect would have excited the 
 admiration of a more reflecting one. Such was he who 
 has passed away from amongst us — perhaps the very last 
 name of the eventful era he lived in which shall claim a 
 great place in history .' 
 
 A singular picture of human vicissitude ia presented to
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 327 
 
 UR in the aspect of those places, but more particularly of 
 those houses wherein great events have once occurred, 
 but where time's changes have brought new and very dif- 
 ferent associations. A very few years in this eventful cen- 
 tury we live in will do this. The wonderful drama of the 
 Empire sufhced to impress upon every city of Europe 
 some great and imposing reminiscence. A small unpre- 
 tending- little house, beside the ducal park at Weimar, was 
 Niipoleon's resting»place for three days, when the whole 
 world was at his feet ! The little salon whei-e his receptions 
 were held at evening — and what receptions were they ! the 
 greatest ministers and the most distinguished generals of 
 Europe! — scarcely more than an ordinary dressing-room 
 in size, remains to this hour as he left it. One arm-chair, 
 a little larger than the others, stands at the window, which 
 always lay open. A table was placed upon the grass-plot 
 outside, where several maps were laid. The salon, itself 
 was too small to admit it, and here, from time to time, the 
 Emperor repaired, while, with eagle glance and abrupt 
 gesture, he marked out the future limits of the continen- 
 tal kingdoms, creating and erasing monarchies, fashioning 
 Dations and joeoples, in all the |)roud wilfulness of Omnipo- 
 tence ! And now, while thinking of the Emperor, let me 
 bring to mind another local association. 
 
 In the handsomest part of the Chaussee dAntin, sur- 
 rounded on every side by the splendid palaces and gor- 
 geous mansions of the wealthiest inhabitants of Paris, 
 stands a small, isolated, modest edifice, moi-e like a Roman 
 villa than the house of some northern capital, in the midst 
 of a park ; one of those pleasure-grounds which the 
 French — Heaven knows why — designate as " Jardin An- 
 glais." The outer gate opens on Rue Chantereine, and 
 here to this hour you may trace, among the time-worn and 
 dilapidated ornaments, some remnants of the strange 
 figures which once decorated the pediment : weapons of 
 various ages and countries grouped together with sphinxes 
 and Egyptian emblems ; the faint outlines of pyramids, 
 the peaceful-looking ibis, are there, among the helmets and 
 cuirasses, the massive swords and the death-dealing arms 
 of our modern warfare. In the midst of all, the number
 
 828 HORACE TExMPLETON. 
 
 52 stands encircled with a little garland of leaves ; but 
 even they are scarcely distinguishable now, and the num- 
 ber itself requires the aid of faith to detect it. 
 
 Within, the place speaks of neglect and decay; the 
 shrubs are broken and uncared for ; the parterres are 
 weed-grown ; a few marble pedestals rise amid the rank 
 grass, to mark where statues once stood, but no other 
 trace of them remains: the very fountain itself is fissured 
 and bi'oken, and the water has worn its channel along the 
 herbage, and ripples on its wayward coui'se unrestrained. 
 The villa is almost a ruin, the sashes have fallen in in many 
 places ; the roof, too, has given way, and fragments of the 
 mirrors which once decorated the walls lie strewn upon 
 the floor with pieces of rare marble. Wherever the eye 
 turns, some emblem of the taste of its former occupant 
 meets you. Some fresco, stained with damp and green 
 with mildew ; some rustic bench, beneath a spreading tree, 
 where the view opens more boldly ; but all are decayed. 
 The inlaid floors are rotting ; the stuccoed ceilings, the 
 richly-carved architraves, fall in fragments as your foot- 
 steps move ; and the doomed walls themselves seem scarce 
 able to resist the rude blast whose wailing cadence steals 
 along them. 
 
 Oh, how tenfold more powerfully are the memories of 
 the dead preserved by the scenes they inhabited while in 
 life, than by the tombs and epitaphs that cover their ashes ! 
 How do the lessons of one speak home to the heart, call- 
 ing up again, before the mind's eye, the very images them- 
 selves ! not investing them with attributes our reason 
 coldly rejects. 
 
 I know not the reason that this villa has been suffered 
 thus to lapse into utter ruin, in the richest quarter of so 
 splendid a city. I believe some long-contested litiga- 
 tion had its share in the causes. My present business 
 is rather with its past fortunes ; and to them I will now 
 return. 
 
 It was on a cold dai'k morning of N^ovember, in the 
 year 1799, that the street we have just mentioned, then 
 called the Rue de la Victoire, became crowded with 
 equipages and horsemen ; cavalcades of generals and their
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 829 
 
 staffs, in full uniform, arrived and were admitted within 
 the massive gateway, before which, now, groups of curious 
 and inquiring gazers were assembled, questioning and 
 guessing as to the unusual spectacle. The number of led 
 horses that paraded the street, the long lines of carriages 
 on either side, nearly filled the way ; still there reigned a 
 strange, unaccountable stillness among the crowd, who, 
 as if appalled by the very mystery of the scene, repressed 
 their ordinary tumult, and waited anxiously to watch the 
 result. "^ 
 
 Among the most interested spectators were the inhabi- 
 tants of the neighbouring houses, who saw, for the first 
 time in their lives, their quiet quarter tlie scene of such 
 excitement. Every window was filled with faces, all 
 turned towards that portal which so seldom was seen to 
 open in genei-al ; for they who dwelt there had been more 
 remarkable for the retirement and privacy of their habits 
 than for aught else. 
 
 At each arrival the crowd separated to permit the 
 equipage to approach the gate ; and then might be heard 
 the low murmur — for it was no louder — of " Ha ! that's 
 Lasalle. See the mark of the sabre-wound on his cheek ! " 
 Or, " Here comes Augereau ! You'd never think that 
 handsome fellow, with the soft eye, could be such a tiger." 
 "Place there! place for Colonel Savary ! " "Ah, dark 
 Savary ! we all know him." 
 
 Stirring as was the scene without, it was far inferior to 
 the excitement that prevailed witliin the walls. There, 
 every path and avenue that led to the villa were thronged 
 with military men, walking or standing together in 
 groups, conversing eagerly, and with anxious looks, but 
 cautiously withal, and as though half fearing to be over- 
 heard. 
 
 Through the windows of the villa might be seen servants 
 passing and repassing in haste, arranging the preparations 
 for a magnificent dejeuner' — for on that morning the 
 generals of division and the principal military men in 
 Paris were invited to breakfast with one of their most 
 distinguished companions — General Buonapai-te. 
 
 Since his return from Egypt, Buonaparte had been living
 
 830 HORACE TEMPLETON 
 
 a life of apparent privacy and estrangement from all public 
 affairs. The circumstances under which lie had quitted 
 the army under his command — the unauthorized mode of 
 his entry into France, without recall, without even per- 
 mission — had caused his friends considerable uneasiness 
 on his behalf, and nothing short of the unobtrusive and 
 simple habits he maintained had probably saved him from, 
 being called on to account for his conduct. 
 
 They, however, who themselves were pursuing the career 
 of anibition were better satisfied to see him thus, than 
 hazard anything by so bold an expedient. They believed 
 that he was only great at the head of his legions ; and 
 they felt a triumphant pleasure at the obscurity into which 
 the victor of Lodi and the Pyramids had fallen when 
 measured with themselves. They witnessed, then, with 
 sincere satisfaction the seeming indolence of his present 
 life. They watched him in those soirees which Madame 
 Buonaparte gave, enjoying his repose with such thorough 
 delight — those delightful evenings, the most brilliant for 
 all that wit, intellect, and beaaty can bestow ; which 
 Talleyrand and Sieyes, Fouche, Carnot, Lemercier, and a 
 host of others frequented ; and they dreamed that his hour 
 of ambition was over, and that he had fallen into the in- 
 glorious indolence of the retired soldier. 
 
 While the greater number of the guests strolled list- 
 lessly througli the little park, a small group sat in the 
 vestibule of the villa, whose looks of impatience were ever 
 turned towards the door from which their host was 
 expected to enter. One of those was a tall, slight man, 
 with a high but narrow forehead, dark eyes, deeply buried 
 in his head, and overshadowed by long, heavy lashes ; his 
 face was pale, and evinced evident signs of uneasiness, as 
 he listened, without ever speaking, to those about him. 
 This was General Moreau. He was dressed in the uniform 
 of a General of the day : the broad-skirted, embroidered 
 coat, the half-boot, the embroidered tricolour scarf, and a 
 chnpeau with a deep feather trimming — a simple, but a 
 handsome costtime, and which well became his well-formed 
 figure. Beside him sat a large, powerfully-built man, 
 whose long black hair, descending in loose curls on his
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 331 
 
 neck and back, as well as the jet-black bi^illiancy of liis 
 eye and deep olive complexion, bespoke a native of the 
 South. Though his dress was like Moreau's, there was a 
 careless jauntiness in his air, and a reckless abandon in 
 his manner, that gave the costume a character totally 
 diiferent. The very negligence of his scarf-knot was a 
 type of himself; and his thickly-uttered French, inter- 
 spersed here and there with Italian phrases, showed that 
 Muiat cared little'T.o cull his words. At his left was a 
 hard-featured, stern-looking man, in the uniform of the 
 Dragoons — this was Andreossy ; and opposite, and leaning 
 on a sofa, was General Lannes. He was pale and sickly ; 
 he had risen from a bed of illness to be present, and lay 
 with half-closed lids, neither noticing nor taking interest 
 in what went on about him. 
 
 At the window stood Marmont, conversing with a slight 
 but handsome youth, in the uniform of the Chasseurs. 
 Eugene Beauharnois was then but twenty-two, but even 
 at that early age displayed the soldier-like ardour which 
 so eminently distinguished hini in after-life. 
 
 At length the door of the salon opened, and Buonaparte, 
 dressed in the style of the period, appeared ; his cheeks 
 were sunk and thin ; his hair, long, flat, and silky, hung 
 straight down at either side of his pale and handsome 
 face, in which now one faint tinge of colour marked either 
 cheek. He saluted the rest with a warm shake of the 
 hand, and then stooping down, said to Murat, — 
 
 " But Bernadotte — where is he ? " 
 
 "Yonder," said Murat, carelessly pointing to a group 
 outside the terrace, where a tall, fine-looking man, dressed 
 in plain clothes, and without any indication of the 
 soldier in his costume, stood in the midst of a knot of 
 officers. 
 
 " Ha ! General," said Napoleon, advancing towards 
 him ; " you ai'e not in uniform. How comes this ?" 
 
 " I ain not on service," was the cold reply. 
 
 "No, but you soon shall be," said Buonaparte, with an 
 effort at cordiality of manner. 
 
 " I do not anticipate it," rejoined Bernadotte, with an 
 expression at once firm and menacing.
 
 382 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Buonaparte drew liim to one side gently, and wliile lie 
 placed bis arm within his, spoke to him with eagerness 
 and energy for several minutes ; but a cold shako of 
 the bead, without one word in reply, was all that be could 
 obtain. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Buonaparte, aloud, so that even 
 the others beard him — " what ! are you not convinced of 
 it ? Will not this Directory annihilate the Revolution ? 
 have we a moment to lose ? The Council of Ancients 
 are met to appoint me Commander-in-chief of the 
 Army ; — go, put on your uniform, and join me at once." 
 
 " I will not join a rebellion," was the insolent reply. 
 
 Buonaparte shrunk back and dropped his arm, then 
 rallying in a moment, added, — 
 
 " 'Tis well ; you'll at least remain here until the decree 
 of the Council is issued." 
 
 "Am I, then, a prisoner ? " said Bernadotte, with aloud 
 voice. 
 
 " I^o, no ; there is no question of that kind : but pledge 
 me your honour to undertake nothing adverse to me in 
 this aflfair." 
 
 " As a mere citizen, I will not do so," replied the other; 
 " but if I am ordered by a sufficient authority, I warn 
 you." 
 
 " What do you mean, then, as a mere citizen ? " 
 
 '• That I will not go forth into the streets, to stir up the 
 populace ; nor into the barracks, to harangue the soldiers." 
 
 "Enough ; I am satisfied. As for myself, I only desire 
 to rescue the Republic ; that done, I shall retire to Mal- 
 maison, and live peacefully," 
 
 A smile of a doubtful but sardonic character passed 
 over Bernadotte's features as he heard these words, while 
 he turned coldly away, and walked towards the gate. 
 "What, Augereau ! thou here?" said he, as he passed 
 along, and with a contemptuous shrug he moved forward, 
 and soon gained the street. And truly, it seemed strange 
 that he, the fiercest of the Jacobins, the General who made 
 his army assemble in clubs and knots to deliberate during 
 the campaign of Italy, that he should now lend himself to 
 uphold the power of Buonaparte !
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 383 
 
 Meanwhile, tlie salons were crowded in every pnrt, parfy 
 succeeding party at the tables; where, amid tlie clattering 
 of the breakfast and the clinking of glasses, the conver- 
 sation swelled into a loud and continued din. Fouche, 
 Bei'thier, and Talleyrand were also to be seen, distinguish- 
 able by their dress, among the militaiy uniforms; and 
 here now might be heard the mingled doubts and fears, 
 the hopes and dreads of each, as to the coming eveiits ; 
 and many watched the pale, care-worn face of Bourienne, 
 the secretary of Buonaparte, as if to read in his features 
 the chances of success ; while the General himself went 
 from room to room, chatting confidentially with each in 
 turn, recapitulating as he went the phrase, " The country 
 is in danger ! " and exhorting all to be patient, and wait 
 calmly for the decision of the Council, which could not, 
 now, be long of coming. 
 
 As they were still at table, M. Garnet, the deputation of 
 the Council, entered, and delivered into Buonaparte's 
 hands the sealed packet, from which he announced to the 
 assembly that the legislative bodies had been removed, 
 to St. Cloud, to avoid the interruption of popular 
 clamour, and that lie. General Buonaparte, was named 
 Commander-in-chief of the Array, and intrusted with the 
 execution of the decree. 
 
 This first step had been effected by the skilful agency 
 of Sieyes and Roger Duces, who spent the whole of the 
 preceding night in issuing the summonses for a meeting of 
 the Council to such as they knew to be friendly to the 
 cause they advocated. All the others received theirs too 
 late ; forty-two only were present at the meeting, and by 
 that fragment of the Council the decree was passed. 
 
 When Buonaparte had read the document to the end, 
 he looked around him on the fierce, detei'mined faces, 
 bronzed and seared in many a battle-field, and said, "My 
 brothers in arms, will you stand by me here ? " 
 
 "We will ! we will! " shouted they, with one roar of 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "And thou, Lefebvre, did I hear thy voice there ? " 
 
 "Yes, General ; to the death I'm yours." 
 
 Buonaparte unbuckled the sabre he wore at his side, and
 
 334 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 placing it in Lefebvre's hands, said, " I wore this at the 
 Pyramids ; it is a fitting present from one soldier to 
 anothei'. I^ow, then, to horse ! " 
 
 The splendid cortege moved along the grassy alleys to 
 the gate, outside which, now, three regiments of cavalry 
 and three battalions of the 17th were drawn up. Never 
 was a Sovereign, in all his pride of power, surrounded 
 with a more gorgeous staff". The conquerors of Italy, Ger- 
 many, and Egypt, the greatest warriors of Europe, were 
 there grouped around him — whose glorious star, even then, 
 shone bright above him. 
 
 Scarcely had Buonaparte issued forth into the street 
 than, raising his hat above his head, he called aloud, 
 •' Vive la Republique ! " The troops caught up the cry, 
 and the air rang with the wild cheers. 
 
 At the head of this force, surrounded by the generals, 
 he rode slowly along towards the Tuileries, at the entrance 
 to the gardens of which stood Garnet, dressed in his robe 
 of senator-in-waiting, to receive him. Four colonels, his 
 aides-de-camp, marched in front of Buonaparte, as he 
 entered the Hall of the Ancients — his walk was slow and 
 measured, and his air studiously respectful. 
 
 The decree being read, General Buonaparte replied in a 
 few broken phrases, expressive of his sense of the confi- 
 dence reposed in him ; the words came with difficulty, and 
 he spoke like one abashed and confused. He was no 
 longer in front of his armed lej^ions, whose war-worn looks 
 inspired the burning eloquence of the camp — those flashing 
 images, those daring flights, suited not the cold assembly, 
 in whose presence he now stood — and he was ill at ease 
 and disconcerted. It was only, at length, when turning 
 to the generals who pressed on after him, he addressed 
 the following words, that his confidence in himself came 
 back, and that he felt himself once more, — • 
 
 " This is the Republic we desire to have — and this W9 
 shall have ; for it is the wish of those who now stand 
 around me." 
 
 The cries of "Vive la Eepublique!" burst from the 
 officers at once as they waved their cliapeaux in the air, 
 mingled with louder shouts of " Vive le Generall"
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 835 
 
 If the great events of the day were now over with the 
 Council, they had only begun with Buonaparte. 
 
 " Whither now, General ? " said Lefebvre, as he rode to 
 his side. 
 
 "To the guillotine, I suppose," said Andreossy, with a 
 look of sarcasm. 
 
 "We shall see that," was the cold answer ofBuona- 
 parte, while he gave the word to push forward to the 
 Luxembourg. 
 
 This was but th"e prologue, and now began the great 
 drama — the greatest, whether for its interest or its actors, 
 that ever the world has been called to witness. 
 
 We all know the sequel, if sequel that can be called 
 which our own days would imply is bat the prologue of 
 the piece
 
 330 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 Villa Salviati, near Florence. 
 
 I HATE had a nioht of ghostly dreams and horrors ; the 
 imagination of Monk Lewis, or, worse, of Hoffman him- 
 self, never conceived anything so diabolical. H., who 
 visited me last evening, by way of interesting me, related 
 the incidents of a dreadful murder enacted in the very 
 room I slept in. There was a reality oiven to the narra- 
 tive by the presence of the scene itself — the ancient hang- 
 ings still on the wails — the antique chairs and cabinets 
 standing as they had done when the deed of blood took 
 place ; but, more than all, by the marble bust of the 
 murderess herself: for it was a woman, singularly beau- 
 tiful, young, and of the highest rank, who enacted it. 
 The story is this : — 
 
 The Villa, which originally was in possession of the 
 Medici family, and subsequently of the Strozzi's, was 
 afterwards pui-chased by Count Juliano, one of the most 
 distinguished of the Florentine nobility. With every 
 personal advantage — youth, high station, and immense 
 wealth — he was married to one his equal in every respect, 
 and might thus have seemed an exception to the lot of 
 humanity, his life realizing, as it were, every possible 
 element of happiness. Still, he was not happy ; amid all 
 the voluptuous enjoyments of a life passed in successive 
 pleasures, the clouded brow and drooping eye told that 
 some secret sorrow preyed upon him, and that his gay 
 doublet, in all its bravei'y, covered a sad and sorrowing 
 heart. His depression was generally attributed to the 
 fact that, although now married three years, no child had 
 been born to their union, or any likelihood that he should 
 leave an heir to his great name and fortune. Not even
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 337 
 
 to Ms nearest friends, however, did any confession admit 
 this cause of sorrow ; nor to the Countess, when herself 
 lamenting over her childless lot, did he seem to show any 
 participation in the grief. 
 
 The love of solitude, the desire to escape from all 
 society, and pass hours, almost days, alone in a tower, the 
 only admittance to which was by a stair from his own 
 chamber, had now grown upon him to that extent, that 
 his absence was regarded as a common occurrence by 
 the^ guests of the castle, nor even excited a passing 
 notice from any one. If others ceased to speculate on 
 the Count's sorrow, and the daily aversion he exhibited 
 to mixing with the world, the Countess grew more and 
 more eager to discover the source. All her blandishments 
 to win his secret from him were, however, in vain ; vague 
 answers, evasive replies, or direct refusals to be interro- 
 gated, were all that she met with, and the subject was at 
 length abandoned — at least by these means. 
 
 Accident, however, disclosed what all her artifice had 
 failed in — the key of the secret passage to the tower, and 
 which the Count never entrusted to any one, fell from his 
 pocket one day, -when riding from the door ; the Countess 
 eagerly seized it, and guessing at once to what it belonged, 
 hastened to the Count's chamber. 
 
 The surmise was soon found to be correct ; in a few 
 moments she had entered the winding stairs, passing up 
 which, she reached a small octagon chamber at the sum- 
 mit of the tower. Scarcely had her eager eyes been 
 thrown around the room, when they fell upon a little bed, 
 almost concealed beneath a heavy canopy of silk, gorgeously 
 embroidered with the Count's armorial bearings. Draw- 
 ing rudely aside the hangings, she beheld the sleeping 
 figure of a little boy, who, even in his infantine features, 
 recalled the handsome traits of her husband's face. The 
 child started and awoke with the noise, and looking 
 wildly up, cried out, " Papa ; " and then suddenly 
 changing his utterance, said, " Mamma," Almost imme- 
 diately, however, discovering his error, he searched with 
 anxious eyes around the chamber for those be was wont 
 to see beside him.
 
 338 HOE ACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 "Who are you?" said tlie Countess, in a voice that 
 trembled with the most terrible conflict of teri'or and 
 jealousy, excited to the verge of madness. "Who are 
 
 " II Conte Juliano," said the child, haughtily ; and 
 showing at the same time a little medallion of gold em- 
 broidered on his coat, and displaying the family arms of 
 the Julianos. 
 
 " Come with me, then, and see your father's castle," 
 said the Countess ; and she lifted him from the bed, and 
 led him down the steps of the steep stairs into her hus- 
 band's chamber. 
 
 It was the custom of the period that the lady, no 
 matter how exalted her rank, should with her own hands 
 arrange the linen which composed her husband's toilet, 
 and this service was never permitted to be discharged by 
 any less exalted member of the household. When the 
 Count returned, toward night-fall, he hastened to his 
 room — an invitation, or command, to dine at the Court 
 that day compelling him to dress with all speed. He 
 asked for the Countess as he passed up the stairs, but 
 paid no attention to the reply, for as he entered his 
 chamber he found she had already performed the 
 accustomed office, and that the silver basket, with its 
 snow-white contents, lay ready to his hand. With eager 
 haste he proceeded to dress, and took up the embroidered 
 shirt before him. When, horror of horrors ! there lay 
 beneath it the head of his child, severed from the body, 
 still warm and bleeding — the dark eyes glaring as if with 
 but half-extinguished life, the lips parted as if yet breath- 
 ing ! One cry of shrill and shrieking madness was heard 
 through every vaulted chamber of that vast castle ; the 
 echoes were still ringing with it as the maddened father 
 tore wildly from chamber to chamber in search of the 
 murderess. She had quitted the castle on horseback 
 two hours before. Mounting his swiftest horse he fol- 
 lowed her from castle to castle ; the dreadful chase con- 
 tinued through the night and the next day ; a few hours 
 of terrible slumber refreshed him again to pursue her; 
 and thus he wandered over the Apennines and the vast
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 839 
 
 plain byond them, days, weeks, months long, till in a wild 
 conflict of his baffled vengeaucc and insanity he died ! 
 She was never heard of more ! 
 
 Such is the horrid story of the chamber in which I sit ; 
 her bust, that of a lovely and gentle girl, fast entering 
 into womanhood, is now before me; the forehead and the 
 brows are singularly fine ; the mouth alone i-eveals any- 
 thing of the terrible nature within ; the lips are firm and 
 compressed — the under one drawn slightly — very slightly 
 — backward. The head itself is low, and for the comfort 
 of phi'eiiologist's, sadly deficient in " veneration." The 
 whole character of the face is, however, beautilul. and of a 
 classic order. It is horrible to connect the identity with a 
 tale of blood. 
 
 With this terrible tragedy still dwelling on my mind, 
 and the features of her who enacted it, I fell asleep. The 
 room in which I lay had witnessed the deed. The low 
 portal in the corner, concealed behind the arras, led to the 
 stairs of the tower ; the deep window in the massive wall 
 looked out upon the swelling landscape over which she 
 fled, and he, in mad fury, pursued her: these were 
 enough to seize and hold the mind, and, blending the 
 actual with the past, to make up a vision of palpable 
 reality. Oftentimes did I start from sleep. 'Now, it was 
 the fancy of a foot upon the tower stair; now, a child's 
 fairy step upon the terrace ovei-head ; now, I heard, in 
 imagination, the one wild, fearful cry, uttei'ed as if the 
 reeling senses could endure no more! At last I found it 
 better to rise and sit by the window, so overwrought and 
 excited had my brain become. Day was breaking, not in 
 the cold grey of a noi'thern dawn, but in a rich glow of 
 violet-coloured light, which, warmer on the mountain- 
 tops, gradually merged into a faint pinkish hue upon the 
 lesser hills, and became still fainter in the vallevs and 
 over the city itself. A light, gauzy mist tracked out in 
 the air the course of the Arno ; but so trail was this 
 curtain that the sun's i-ays were already rending and 
 scHttering its fragments, giving through the breaches 
 bright peeps of villas, churches, and villages on tho 
 moaiitain sides: the great dome, too, rose up in solemn 
 
 z 2
 
 340 EOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 grandeur ; and the tall tower of Santa Croce stood, 
 sentinel like, over the sleeping' city. Already the low 
 sounds of labour, awakening to its daily call, were heard ; 
 the distant rumbling of the heavy waggon, the crashing 
 noise of branches, as the olive-trees beside the road 
 brushed against the lumbering teams ; and, farther off, 
 the cheering voices of the boatmen, whose fast barques 
 were hurrying along the rapid Arno ; — all pleasant 
 sounds, for they spoke of life and movement, of active 
 minds and labouring hands, the only bulwarks against 
 the corroding thoughts that eat into the sluggi&h soul of 
 indolence. 
 
 For this fair scene — these fresh and balmy odours — this 
 brilliant blending of blue sky and rosy earth, I could 
 unsay all tliat I have said ot Florence, and own that it 
 is beautiful ! I could wish to sit here many mornings to 
 come, and enjoy this prospect as now I do. Vain thought ! 
 as if I could follow my mind to the contemplation of the 
 fair scene, and so rove away in fancy to ail that I have 
 dreamed of, have loved and cared for, have trusted and been 
 deceived in ! 
 
 I must be up and stirring — my time grows briefer. 
 This hand, whose blue veins stand out like knotted cordage, 
 is fearfully attenuated ; another day or two, perhaps, the 
 pen will be too much fatigue ; and I have still '" Good- 
 bye," to say to many — friends ? — ay, the word will serve 
 as well as another, I have letters to write — some to read 
 over once again ; some to burn without reading. This 
 kind of occupation — this " setting one's house in order " 
 for the last time — is like a rapid survey taken of a whole 
 life, a species of overture, in which fragments of cwerj 
 air of the piece enter, the gay and cheerful succeeded by 
 the sad and plaintive, so fast as almost to blend the tones 
 together ; and is not this mingled strain the very chord 
 that sounds through human life ? 
 
 Here, then, for my letter-box. What have we here? — a 
 letter from the Marquis of D , when he believed him- 
 self high in Ministerial favour, and in a position to confer 
 praise or censure :
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 341 
 
 "Carlton Club. 
 
 " Dear Tempt, 
 " Your speech was admirable — first-rate ; the quotation 
 from Horace, the neatest thing I ever heard ; and as- 
 tonishing, because so palpably unpremeditated. Every 
 one I've met is delighted, and all say that, with courage 
 and the resolve to succeed, the prize is your own. I go 
 to Ireland, they s*ay, or Paris. The latter if I can ; the 
 former if I must. In either case, will you promise to 
 come with me? The assurance of this would be a vei'y 
 great relief to 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "D ." 
 
 What have we pinned to ihe back of this? Oh, a few 
 
 lines in pencil from Sir C S -, received, I see, 
 
 the same evening. 
 
 " Dear T., 
 
 " Sir H is not pleased with your speech, although 
 
 he owns it was clever. The levity he disliked, because he 
 
 will not give D any pretence for continuing this 
 
 system of peisonnlities. The bit of Horace had been 
 better omitted ; Canning nsed the same lines once before, 
 and the rechaiijje — if it were such — was poor. The Mar- 
 quis of D was twice at Downing Street, to say that he 
 
 had 'crammed' you. This, of course, no one believes; 
 but he takes the merit of your speech to himself, and 
 claims high reward in consequence. He asks for an 
 
 I.inbassy ! This is what Lord L calls 'too bad.' 
 
 Come over to-morrow before twelve o'clock. 
 
 " Believe me yours, 
 
 " C S ." 
 
 Another of the same date : — 
 
 *' Go in and win, old boy ! You've made capital 
 running, and for the start too — distanced the knowing
 
 342 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 ones, and no mistake ! The odds are seven to four that 
 you're in the Cabinet before the Dtrby day. I've taken 
 equal fii'ties that Tramp wins the Goodwood, and that 
 you're in — double event. So look out sharp, and don't 
 baulk 
 
 " Tours ever, 
 
 " Frank Lushington." 
 
 A fourth, tied in the same piece of ribbon : — 
 
 "Wilton Crescent. 
 •' Dear Friend, 
 " We have just heard of your success. Brilliant and 
 fascinating as it must be, do not forget those who long to 
 share your triumph. Come over here at once. We 
 waited supper till two ; and now we are sitting here, 
 ■watching every carriaoe, and opening tlie window at every 
 noise in the street. Come then, and quickly. 
 
 " Augusta Beverly." 
 
 And here is the last of the batch :— 
 
 " The D of B presents his compliments to Mr. 
 
 Templeton, and begs to inform him that his ' ancestor 
 was not the Marquis of T' who conducted the negotia- 
 tions at Malaga;' neither were 'thirty thousand pounds 
 voted by the last Parliament to the family by way of 
 secret service for parliamentary support,' but in com- 
 pensation for two patent offices abolished — Inspectorship 
 of Grold Mines, and Ordnance Comptrollership. And, 
 lastly, that ' Infiimous speech,' so pathetically alluded to, 
 was made at a private theatrical meeting at Lord Mud- 
 bury 's, in Kent, and not ' on the hustings,' as Mr. T. has 
 asserted." 
 
 So much for one event, and in itself a trivial one ! 
 Who shall say that any act of his life is capable of ex- 
 citing even an approach to unanimous praise or censure? 
 This speech, w-hich on one side won me the adhesion of 
 some half-dozeu clubs, the praise of a large body of the
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 343 
 
 Upper House, the softest words that the "beauty of the 
 season" condescended to utter, brought me, on the other, 
 the coldness of the Minister, the chilling civility of mock 
 admiration, and lost me the friendship — in House of 
 Commons parlance — of the leading member of the Govern- 
 ment ! 
 
 And here is a strange, square-shaped epistle, signed in 
 the corner " Martin Havei-stock." This rough-looking 
 note was my firgt step in Diplomacy ! I was a very 
 young attache to the mission at Florence, when, on re- 
 turning to England through Milan, I was robbed of my 
 trunk, and with it of all the money I possessed for my 
 journey. It was taken by a process very well known ia 
 Italy, being cut off from the back of the carriage, not 
 improbably, with the concurrence of the driver. How- 
 ever that might be, I arrived at the "Angelo d'Oro" 
 without a sou. Having ordered a room, I sat down 
 by myself, hungiy and penniless, not having a single 
 acquaintance at Milan, nor the slightest idea how to act in 
 the emergency. My very passport was gone, so that I 
 had actually nothing to authenticate my position — not 
 even my name. 
 
 I sent for the landlord, who, after a very cold interview, 
 referred me to the Consul ; but the Consul had on that 
 very morning left the city for Verona, so that his aid was 
 cut off. My last resource — my only one, indeed — was to 
 write to Florence for money, and wait for the answer. 
 This was a delay of seven, possibly of eight, days, but it 
 was unavoidable. 
 
 This done, I ordered supper — a very humble one too, 
 and befitting the condition of one who had not where- 
 withal to pay for it. I i^emember still the sense of shame 
 I felt as the waiter, on entering, looked around for my 
 luggage, and saw neither trunk nor carpet-bag — not even 
 a hat-box. I thought — nay, there could be no mistake 
 about it, it was quite clear — he laid the table with a 
 certain air of cai'eless and noisy indifference that bespoke 
 his contempt. The very bang of the door as he went out 
 was a whole narrative of my purselcss state. 
 
 I had been very hungry when I ordered the meal, I
 
 844 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Lad not tasted food for several hours, and yet now I could 
 not eat a morsel; chagrin and shame had routed all 
 appetite, and I sat looking at the table, and almost wonder, 
 ing why the dishes were there. I thought of all the kind 
 friends far away, who would have been so delighted to 
 assist me ; who, at that very hour perhaps, were speaking 
 of me aflPectionately ; and yet I had not one near, even to 
 speak a word of counsel, or say one syllable of encourage- 
 ment. It was not, it may well be believed, the moneyed 
 loss that afflicted me — the sum was neither large, nor did 
 I care for it. It was the utter desolation, and the sense 
 of dependence that galled me — a feeling whose painful 
 tortures, even temporary as they were, I cannot, at this 
 hour, eradicate from my memoiy. 
 
 Had I been left enough to continue my journey in the 
 vei'y humblest way, on foot even, it would have been hap- 
 piness compared with what I felt. I arose at last from 
 the table, where the untasted food still stood, and strolled 
 out into the streets. I wandered about listlessly, not even 
 feeling that amusement the newly seen objects of a great 
 city almost always confer, and it was late when I turned 
 back to the inn. As I entei'ed, a man was standing talk- 
 ing with the master of the house, who, in his broken English, 
 said, as I passed, "There he is!" I at once suspected 
 that my sad adventure had been the subject of conversa- 
 tion, and hurried up the stairs to hide my shame. In my 
 haste, however, I forgot my key at the porter's lodge, and 
 was obliged to go back to fetch it. On doing so, I met 
 on the stairs a large coarse-looking man, with a florid 
 face, and an air of rough but of simple good-nature in his 
 countenance. " You are a countryman, I believe?" said 
 he in English. " Well, I've just heard of what has hap- 
 pened to you. The rascals tried the same trick with me 
 at Modena ; but I had an iron chain around my trunk, 
 and as they were baulked, and while they were rattling at 
 it, I got a shot at one of them with a pistol — not to hurt 
 the devil, for it was only duck-shot ; not a bullet, you 
 know. Where's your room ? — is this it ?" 
 
 I hesitated to reply, strange enough ; though he showed 
 that he was well aware of all my loss. I felt ashamed to
 
 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 845 
 
 show that I bad no baggage, nor anything belonging to 
 me. He seemed to guess what passed in my miud, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Bless your heart, sir, never mind me. I know the 
 rogues have stripped you of all you had ; but I want to 
 talk to you about it, and see what is best to be done." 
 
 This gave me courage. I unlocked the door, and showed 
 him iu. 
 
 " I suspected how it was," said he, looking at the table, 
 where the dishes fftood untouched ; "you could not eat by 
 yourself, nor I either: so come along with me, and we'll 
 have a bit of supper together, and chat over your business 
 afterwards." 
 
 Perhaps I might have declined a more polished invita- 
 tion ; whether or not, it was of no use to reiuse him, for 
 he would not accept an excuse ; and down we went to his 
 chamber, and supped together. Unlike my slender meal, 
 his was excellent, and the wine first-rate. He made me 
 tell him about the loss of my trunk, twice over, I believe ; 
 and then he moralized a great deal about the rascality of 
 the Continent generally, and Italy in particular, which, 
 however, he remembered, could not be wondered at, seeing 
 that three-fourths of the population of every rank did 
 nothing but idle all day long. After that he inquired 
 whether I had any pursuit myself ; and although pleased 
 when I said " Yes," his gratitication became sensibly 
 diminished on learning the nature of the employment. 
 "I may be wrong," said he, "but I have always taken it 
 that you diplomatic folk were little better than spies 
 in gold-laced coats — fellows that were sent to pump 
 sovereigns and bribe their ministers." I took a deal of 
 pains, " for the honour of the line," to undeceive him ; 
 and, whether I perfectly succeeded or not, I certainly 
 secured his favour towards myself, for, before we parted, 
 it was all settled that 1 was to travel back with him to 
 England, he having a carriage and a strong purse, and 
 that he was to be my banker in all respects till I reached 
 my friends. 
 
 As we journeyed along through France, where my 
 knowledge of the language and the people seemed to give
 
 346 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 tlie greatest pleasure to my companion, he informed me 
 that he was a farmer near ISTottingham, and had come 
 abroad to try and secure an inheritance bequeathed to hiai 
 by a brother, who for several yeai-s had been partner in a 
 great silk factory near Piacenza. In this he had only 
 partly succeeded, the Government having thrown all 
 possible obstructions in his way ; still he was carrying 
 back with him nearly twenty thousand pounds — a snug 
 thing, as he said, for his little girl, for he was a widower 
 with an only child. Of Amy he would talk for hours — 
 ay, days long ! It was a theme of which he never 
 wearied. According to him, she was a pai'agon of beauty 
 and accomplishments. She had been for some time at a 
 boarding-school at Brighton, and was the pride of the 
 establishmeni;. " Oh, if I could only show her to you ! " 
 said he. "But why couldn't I? what's to prevent it? 
 When yon get to England and see your friends, what 
 difficulty would there be in coming down to Hodley for a 
 week or two ? If you like riding, the Duke himself at 
 Retton Park has not two better bred ones in his stable than 
 I have ! " No need to multiply his arguments and 
 inducements : I agreed to go, not only to, but actually 
 with, him — the frank good-natui-e of his character won on 
 me at every moment, and long before we arrived at 
 Calais I had conceived for him the strongest sentiments 
 of aflPection. 
 
 From the moment he touched English ground his 
 enthusiasm rose beyond all bounds ; delighted to be once 
 back again in his own. country, and travelling the well- 
 known road to his own home, he was elated like a school- 
 boy. It was never an easy thing for me to resist the 
 infectious influence of any temperament near me, whether 
 its mood was grave or gay, and I became as excited and 
 overjoyed as himself; and I sup])ose that two exiles, 
 returning from years of banishment, never gave themselves 
 up to greater transports than did we at every stage of 
 our journey. I cannot think of this without astonishment, 
 for, in honest truth, I was all my life attached to the 
 Continent — fi^onr my earliest experience I had preferred 
 the habits and customs to our own, and yet, such was the
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 347 
 
 easy and unyielding compliance of my nature, that I 
 actually fancied that my Anglo-mania was as gi'eat as his 
 own. 
 
 At last we reached Hodley, and drove up a fine, trimly- 
 kept gravel avenue, through several meadows, to a long 
 comfortable-looking farmhouse, at the door of which, in 
 expectant delight, stood Amy herself. In the oft-renewed 
 embraces she gave her father I had time to remark her 
 well, and could see that she was a fine, blue-eyed, faii'- 
 haired, handsome g1id — a very flattering specimen of that 
 good Saxon stock we are so justly proud of; and if not 
 all her father's partiality deemed as regarded ladylike air 
 and style, she was perfectly free from anything like pre- 
 tension or any affectation whatever. This was my first 
 impression: subsequent acquaintance strengthened it. In 
 fact, the Brio-hton boarding'-school had done no mischief 
 to her ; she had not learned a great deal by her two years 
 residence, but she had not brought back any toadying 
 subserviency to the more nobly born, any depreciating 
 sense of her former companions, or any contempt for the 
 thatched farmhouse at Hodley and its honest owner. 
 
 If our daily life at the farm was very unvarying, it was 
 exceedingly pleasurable; we rose early, and I accompanied 
 Martin into the fields with the workmen, where we 
 remained till breakfast. After which I usually betook 
 myself to a little brook, where there was excellent fishing, 
 and where, her household duties over. Amy joined me. 
 We dined about two ; and in the afternoon we — that is, 
 Amy and myself — rode out together ; and as we were 
 admirably mounted, and she a capital horsewoman, usually 
 took a scamper "cross country," whenever the fences 
 were not too big and the turf inviting. Home to tea, and 
 a walk afterwards through the green lanes and mossy paths 
 of the neighboui'hood, filled the day; and however little 
 exciting the catalogue of pursuits, when did I feel time 
 pass so swiftly ? Let me be honest and avow that the 
 position I enjoyed had its peculiar flattery. There was 
 through all their friendship a kind of deferential respect 
 — a sense of looking up to me, which I was young enough 
 to be wonderfully taken by : and my experiences at
 
 348 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 Foreign Courts — which Heaven knows were few and 
 meagre enough — had elevated me in their eyes into some- 
 thing hke Lord AVhitworth or Lord Castlereagh j and I 
 really believe that all the pleasure my stories and descrip- 
 tions afforded was inferior to the delight they experienced 
 in seeing the narrator, and occasionally the actor, in the 
 scenes described, their own guest at their own table. 
 
 It was while revelling in the fullest enjoyment of this 
 pleasant life that I received a Foreign ( ffice letter, in reply 
 to ail application I liad made tor promotion, rejecting my 
 request, and coolly commanding my immediate return to 
 Florence. These missives were not thi-:gs to disobej-, and it 
 was in no very joyful mood I broke the tidings to my host. 
 
 " What's it worth ?" said Martin, abruptly. 
 
 " Oh, in point of money," said I, "the appointments 
 are poor things. It is only that there are some good 
 prizes in the wheel, and, whether one is lucky enough to 
 gain them or not, even Hope is something. Mj salary is 
 not quite two hundred a year ! " 
 
 ]\Lirtin gave a long, low whistle, and said, — 
 
 " Why, dang it ! my poor brother George, that's gone, 
 had six hundred when he went out as inspector over that 
 silk factory! Two hundred a year!" mused he ; "and 
 what do you get at your next promotion ? " 
 
 " That is not quite certain. I might be named aifaelie 
 at Vienna, which would, perhaps, give me one hundred 
 more — or, if I had the good fortune to win the Minister's 
 favour, I might be made a secretary at some small lega- 
 tion and have five hundred — that is, however, a piece of 
 luck not to be thought of" 
 
 "Well, I'm sure," sighed Martin; "I'm no judge of 
 the>e matters ; but it strikes me that's very poor pay, and 
 that a man like myself, who has his ten or twelve hundreds 
 a year — fifteen in good seasons — is better off than the 
 great folk dining with kings or emperors." 
 
 "Of course you are," said I; "who doubts it? But 
 we must all do something. England is not a country 
 where idleness is honourable." 
 
 "Why not turn farmer?" said Martin, energetically; 
 " you'd soon learn the crait. I've not met any one this
 
 fiORA.CE TEMPLETON. 849 
 
 many a year picks -up tlie knowledge about it like yourself. 
 Yoa seem to like the life too." 
 
 " If you mean such as I live now, I delight in it." 
 
 " Do you, my dear boy? " cried he, grasping my hand, 
 and squeezing it between both his own. " If so, then 
 never leave us. You shall live with us — we'll take that 
 great piece of land there near the haugh — I've had an eye 
 on it for years back; there's a sheep run there as fine as 
 any in Europe. I'Jl lay down the whole of those two 
 fields into meadow, and keep the green crops to the back 
 altogether. Such partridge-shooting we Avill have there 
 yet. In winter, too, the Duke's hounds meet twice a-week. 
 I've got such a strapping three-yeai'-old — you haven't seen 
 him, but he'll be a clipper. Well, don't say nay. You'll 
 stay and marry Amy. I'll give her twenty thousand 
 down, and leave you all I have afterwards." 
 
 This was poured forth in such a voluble strain that an 
 interruption was impossible; and at last, when over, the 
 speaker stood with tearful eyes gazing on me, as if on my 
 reply his very existence was hanging. 
 
 Surprise and gratitude for the unbounded confidence he 
 had shown in me were my first sensations, soon to be fol- 
 lowed by a hundi-ed other conflicting and jar-ring ones. I 
 should shame — even now, after years have gone by — to 
 own to some of these. Alas ! our very natures are at the 
 mercy of the ordinances we ourselves have framed ; and 
 the savage red man yields not more devotion to the idol 
 he has carved than do we to the fashion we have made 
 our Deity ! I thought of the Lady Georginas and Caro- 
 lines of my acquaintance, and grew ashamed of Amy 
 Haverstock ! If I had loved, this I am sure would not 
 have been the case, but I cannot acquit myself that 
 pi'inciple and good feeling should not have been sufiicient 
 without love ! Whether from the length of time in which 
 I remained without answering, or that in my confusion he 
 read something adverse to his wishes, but Martin grew 
 scarlet, and in a voice full of emotion said, — 
 
 " There, Mr. Templeton, enough said. I see it will 
 not do — there's no need of explaining. I was a fool, 
 that's all ! "
 
 350 HORACE TEMPLETON, 
 
 " Bat will you not let me, at least, reflect ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; not a second. If my oflPer was not as frankly 
 taken as made— ay, and on the instant too — I am only 
 the more ashamed for ever making it : but there's an end 
 on't. If you would be as good friends parting with me as 
 we have been hitherto, never speak of this again." And 
 so saying, Martin turned on his heel and walked hastily 
 away. I followed him after a second, but he waved me 
 bfick with his hand, and I was forced to comply. 
 
 That day Amy and I dined alone together. Her father, 
 she said, " had got a bad headache ; " and this she said 
 with such evident candour, it was clear she knew nothing 
 of our interview. The dinner was to me, at least, a very 
 consti-ained aflf-iir ; nor were my sensations rendered easier 
 as she said, " My father tells me that you are obliged to 
 leave us this evening, Mr. Templeton. I'm very sorry 
 for it ; but I hope we'll meet soon again." 
 
 We did not meet soon again, or ever. I left the farm 
 that night for London. Martin came to the door from his 
 bed to wish me good-bye. He looked vei'y ill, and only 
 Bpoke a few words. His shake-hands was, however, 
 hearty ; and his " God bless you," uttered with kind 
 meaning. 
 
 1 have never seen that neighbourhood since. 
 
 It was about two years after that I received a letter — 
 the very one now befoi'e me — superscribed Martin Haver- 
 stock. It was brief, and to this eft'ect : — The Secretary 
 for Foreign Affairs being a candidate for the representa- 
 tion in Parliament of the county in which Martin held a 
 large stake, had, in acknowledgment of his friend Mr. 
 Haverstock's exertions in his support, been only too happy 
 to consider the application made respecting Mr. H.'s young 
 friend, who, by the next Gazette, would be announced for 
 promotion. 
 
 And thus I was made Secretary of Legation at Studt- 
 gart ! 
 
 There was a postscript to Martin's letter, which filled 
 me with strange and varying emotions : — "Amy is sorry 
 that her baby is a little girl ; she'd like to have called it 
 • Horace.' "
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 851 
 
 This packet I need not open. The envelope is super- 
 scribed, " Hints and Mems for H. T. during his Residence 
 
 at the Court of M ." They were given in a series of 
 
 letters from old Lord H , who had long been a resi- 
 dent Minister there, and knew the people thoroughly. 1 
 followed, very implicitly too, the counsels he gave, and 
 was said to have acquitted myself well, for I was cliarqe 
 d'affaires. But what absurdity it is to suppose that any 
 exclusive information is ever obtainable by a Minister, 
 except when the GFbvernment itself is disposed to aflTord 
 it ! I remember well, the spy we employed was also in 
 the pay of the French Embassy. He was a Sardinian, 
 and had spent some years of bis life an Austrian prisoner 
 in a fortress. We all believed, whatever the fellow's 
 sentiments on other subjects, that he was a profound 
 hater of Austria. Well, it turned out that he sold us all 
 to Metternich. 
 
 Old Sir Robert W used to say to his attaclies, 
 
 *' Never tell me secrets, but whenever anything is publicly 
 discussed in the clubs and cafes, let me hear it." In the 
 same way, he always rejected the authenticity of any 
 revelations where Talleyrand, or Metternich, or Pozzo di 
 Borgo's names appeared. " These men," he always used 
 to say, " were their own confidants, and never leaked save 
 to serve a purpose." It was from Sir Robert T heard a 
 story first, which has since, I believe, been fully corrobo- 
 rated. An under-secretary of Talleyrand, during the 
 Prince's residence as French ambassador at St. James's, 
 informed his Excellency one morning that a very tempt- 
 ing offer had been made to him if he would disclose 
 the contents of his master's writing-desk. He had not 
 accepted nor altogether declined the proposal, wishing to 
 know from the Prince how it might be made available to 
 his plans, and whether a direct accusation of the author, a 
 person of high station, would be deemed advisable. 
 Talleyrand merely said, "Take the money; the middle 
 board of the drawer in my secretary is removable by a 
 very simple contrivance, which I'll show you. I had it 
 made so at Paris. You'll find all the papers you want 
 there. Take copies of them."
 
 352 HOEACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 " But, Monsieur le Prince " 
 
 " Pray make your mind at ease. I'll neither compro« 
 mise myself nor you." 
 
 The Secretary obeyed ; the bai'gain was perfected, and 
 a supposed '* secret correspondence between Talleyrand 
 
 and Arnim," deposited in Lord T 's hands. About a 
 
 week afterwards Lord T ■ invited the Prince to pass 
 
 some days at his seat in Herefordshire, where a distin- 
 guished party was assembled. The ambassador accepted ; 
 and they met like the most cordial of friends. When tho 
 period of the visit drew to its conclusion, they were walk- 
 ing one morning in the grounds together, engaged in a 
 conversation of the most amicable candour, each vying 
 with the other by the frankness and unreserve of his com- 
 munications. 
 
 " Come now, Prince," said Lord T— — •, *' we are, I 
 rejoice to find, on terms which will permit any freedom. 
 Tell me frankly, hov/ do you stand with Prussia ? Are 
 there any understandings between you to which we must 
 not be parties ? " 
 
 " None whatever." 
 
 "You say this freely and without reserve? " 
 
 ** Without the slightest reserve or qualification." 
 
 Lord T seemed overjoyed, and the discussion con- 
 cluded. They dined that day together, and in the evening 
 a large company was assembled to meet the Prince before 
 
 his departure for London. As usual at T House, the 
 
 party contained a great show of distinguished pei'sons, 
 political and literary. Among the subjects of conversa- 
 tion started was the question of how it happened that 
 men of great literary distinction so rarely could shine as 
 statesmen ; and that even such as by their writings 
 evinced a deep insight into political science, were scarcely 
 ever found to combine practical habits of business with 
 this great theoretical talent. 
 
 The discussion was amusing, because it was carried on 
 by men who themselves occupied the highest walks in 
 their respective careers. 
 
 To arrest a somewhat warm turn of the controversy, 
 Lord T , turning to the Prince, said, " I suppose,
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 353 
 
 ]\ronsieur le Prince, you have selJom been able to indulge 
 in imaginative composition? " 
 
 " Pardon me, my lord, I have from time to time dissi- 
 pated a little in that respect ; and, if I must confess it, 
 with a very considerable degree of amusement." 
 
 The announcement, made with a most perfect air of 
 candour, interested at once the whole company, who 
 could not subdue their murmured expressions of surprise 
 as to the theme seleeted by the great diplomatist. 
 
 " I believe," said he, smiling, " I am in a position to 
 gratify the present company ; for, if I mistake not, I 
 have actually with me at this moment a brief manuscript 
 of my latest attempt in fiction. As I am a mere amateur, 
 without the slightest pretension to skill or ability, I feel 
 no reluctance at exposing my efforts to the kind criticism 
 of friends. I only make one stipulation." 
 
 " Oh, pray, what is it ? anything, of course, you desire ! " 
 was heard on every side. 
 
 " It is this. I read very badly, and I would request 
 
 that T , our kind host, would take upon him to read it 
 
 aloud for us," 
 
 Lord T was only too much flattered by the pro- 
 posal, and the Pi-ince retired to fetch his papers, leaving 
 the company amazed at the singularity of a scene which 
 so little accorded with all they had ever heard of the 
 deep and wily Minister; some of the shrewdest persons 
 significantly observing, that the Prince was evidently 
 verging on those years when vanity of every kind meets 
 fewest obstacles to its display. 
 
 " Here are my papers, my lord," said the Prince, enter- 
 ing with his manuscript. " I have only to hope that they 
 may afford to the honourable company any portion of the 
 amusement their composition has given me." 
 
 The party seated themselves round the room, and Lord 
 
 T , disposing the papers on the table before him, 
 
 arranged the candles, and prepared to begin, " The 
 title of the piece is missing," said he, after a pause. 
 
 " Oh, no, my lord ; " you'll find it on the envelope," 
 replied Talleyrand. 
 
 "Ah, very true; here it is!—' Secret Correspon- 
 
 A A
 
 354 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 dence '— — " Lord T stopped — his hands trembled 
 
 — the blood left his face — and he leaned back in his 
 chair almost fainting. 
 
 " You are not ill ! — are you ill ? " broke from many 
 voices together. 
 
 "No; not in the least," said he, endeavouring to 
 smile ; " but the Prince has been practising a bit of 
 plaisanterie on me, -which I own has astounded me." 
 " Won't you read it, my lord ; or shall I explain ? " 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur le Prince," said Lord T , crushing 
 
 the papers into his pocket, " I think you may be satis- 
 fied ; " and with this, to the company, very mysterious 
 excuse, his lordship abruptly retired; while Talleyrand 
 almost immediately set out for London. 
 
 The nature of the mystification was not disclosed till 
 long afterwards ; and it is but justice to both parties to 
 
 say, not by Talleyrand, but by Lord T himself. 
 
 With what facility men whose whole daily life is arti- 
 fice can be imposed on, is a very remarkable feature in 
 all these cases. The practice of deceit would actually 
 appear to obstruct clear-sightedness and dull the ordinary 
 exercise of common sense. Witness that poor Dutch 
 ambassador Fabricius, who, a few years ago, was imposed 
 on at Paris by Boutfe, the comedian, representing himself 
 to be the first Secretary of the Minister for Foreign 
 Affairs, and offering, for a sum of money, to confide to 
 him the secret negotiations between M. Guizot and the 
 Belgian Government! Fabricius, deceived by the great 
 resemblance of Bouffe to the person he represented, 
 agreed, and actually wrote to the King of Holland a 
 triumphant despatch, announcing his own diplomatic 
 dexterity. Every post saw a huge jiacket of letters to 
 the king, containing various documents and papers ; 
 some assuming to be in the handwriting of Guizot 
 — some, of Nothomb — some, of the Duke of Welling- 
 ton — and two or three of King Leopold himself. The 
 task of undeceiving the unhappy dupe was taken by his 
 Majesty Louis Philippe, who having, at an evening recep- 
 tion at Neuilly, exposed his attempted corrugation, coolly 
 turned his back and refused to receive him.
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 355 
 
 Another dive into this chaotic mass of reminis- 
 cence ! A letter from poor Granthorpe, whose sad 
 suicide remains the unexplained and unexplainable 
 mystery of all who knew him. A man whose mind 
 was remarkable for its being so deeply imbued with sen- 
 timents of religious truth — whose whole life was, so to 
 say, devotional— is found dead, the act being by his own 
 hand ! No circumstance of domestic calamity, no pecu- 
 niary difficulty, not even a passing derangement of health, 
 to account for the ferrible event. Here is his note ; we 
 were but new acquaintances at the time, and it begins, — 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 ** From the conversation we held together lately at 
 
 Lord N 's table, I believe I shall not misinterpret 
 
 your sentiments by supposing that any new fact con- 
 nected with Waterloo will interest you strongly. I there- 
 fore enclose you a memoir, drawn up a few evenings back 
 
 at W . It was begun by way of a regular relutatiou 
 
 of Alison, whose views are so manifestly incorrect ; the 
 idea of publication is, however, abandoned, and I am at 
 liberty merely to show it to such of my friends as take a 
 moi"e than common interest in the transaction. 
 
 " Truly yours, 
 
 " S. Granthoepe.'' 
 
 The memoir which accompanied this is curious for two 
 reasons : first, from its authenticity ; and, secondly, from 
 the fact that, being dictated from beginning to end, it is 
 as clear, as consecutive, as free from unnecessary, and as 
 full of all necessary, detail as if the events were of a few 
 days' back, and that no recital of them had yet been given 
 to the world. Two or three anecdotes (new to me, at 
 least) were interspersed here and there, not for themselves, 
 but as circumstantially evidencing facts of some impor- 
 tance. 
 
 One, I remember, alkided to a Prussian statement by a 
 Captain Hahnsfelder, who stated that two British guns, 
 placed on the height above La Haye Saiute, were captured 
 
 A A 2
 
 S56 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 bv the French as early as eleven o'clock. The passage in 
 th.e memoir is this: — "Untrue; these guns were in the 
 lield at seven in the evening, in the same position in which 
 they stood at the beginning of the battle. They are in 
 advance of Adam's left, and were so far unprotected that 
 the artillerymen who served them had to retire after each 
 discharge. The Cuirassiers made several attempts to 
 carry them off. but as orders were given that, after each 
 fire, one wheel should be taken off each gun, the cavalry 
 failed in their object. They tried to lasso them, but this 
 also failed, besides losing them some men." 
 
 Alison's strategy, for he went so far as to plan a cam- 
 paign of his own, is very ably exposed, and tbe necessity 
 of posting troops in particular distiicts clearly explained 
 from circumstances peculiar to the localities, such as 
 stationing the cavalry at Enghein, where alone foraa:e was 
 procurable. The controversy, if it can be so called, is 
 worthless. They whose opinions are alone valuable are 
 exactly the persons who will not speak on the subject. 
 
 A strange-looking letter is this from C , enclosino- 
 
 the proof of a paper I wrote on Irish Educational matters, 
 yery laconic and editorial : — 
 
 " Dear T., 
 "Ton are all wrong:: as blue and vellow, when mixed, 
 form green, so will your Protestant and Papist Leaeue 
 make nothing but rampant infidelity. In any great State 
 scheme of education there must be one grand standard of 
 obedience — the Bible is the only one I've heard of yet. 
 ^eep this one, then, till you hear of betttr. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 "H. C." 
 
 Another of the same hand :— 
 
 ** H ■ desires me to inclose you these two letters : 
 
 Jne I know is an introduction to Guizot ; the other, I 
 suppose, to be * Ein emptehlungs Brief ' to the ' GraSn.' 
 Take care to say as little as possible to the one, and to
 
 HORACE TE.MPLETOJJ. 857 
 
 have, in Irish parlance, as little as possible ' to say ' to the 
 ether. At Paris you want no cruidauce ; and at Vienna 
 the Abbe Discot is your man. Coloredo is out of favour 
 for the moment ; but he can afford to wait, and, waiting, 
 
 to win. Be assiduous in your visits at B y's ; and 
 
 •when the Countess affects ignorance, let us always hear 
 from yon. 
 
 *' Yours ever, 
 
 "H. C." 
 
 This is a very rose-coloured and rose-odoured docu- 
 ment : — 
 
 " Dear Mr. Templeton, 
 " I have to make two thousand excuses ; one each for 
 two indiscretions, I believed I had your box at the 
 Opera for last evening ; and I also fancied — think of my 
 absurdity ! — that the bouquet of camellias left there was 
 meant for me. Pray forgive me ; or, rather, ask the fair 
 lady who came in at the ballet to forgive me. I never cau 
 think of the incident without shame and self-reproach; 
 du reste, it has given me the opportunity of knowing that 
 your taste in beauty equals your judgment in flowers. 
 
 " Tery much yours, 
 
 " Helix Collttos. 
 
 " Sir H bids me say that he expects you on Wed- 
 nesday. We dine earlier, as the Admiral goes on board 
 in the evening:." 
 
 D* 
 
 This was an absurd incident ; and, trivially as it is 
 touched on here, made of that same Lady CoDyton a very 
 
 dangerous enemy to me. 
 
 Tills is not a specimen of caligraphy, certainly :^ 
 
 " IS you promise neither to talk of the Catholic Ques- 
 tion, the Kildare Place Society, nor the ' Glorious 
 Eevolution of 16S8,' P will have no o ejection to
 
 858 HORACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 meet j^oii at dinner. Hammond, you've heard, I suppose, 
 has lost his election ; he polled more voters than there 
 "were freeholders registered on the books : this was proving 
 
 too much, and he must pay the penalty. Y is in, and 
 
 ■will remain if he can ; but there is a hitch in it — ' as the 
 man who lent him his qualification is in gaol at Bruges.' 
 Write and say if you accept the conditions. 
 
 " Tours, 
 
 " riiEDERicK Hamilton." 
 
 There are some memorials of a veiy different kind — 
 they are bound up together; and well may they, they 
 form an episode quite apart from all the events before or 
 after them ! I dare not open them ; for, although yeai'S 
 have passed away, the wounds would bleed afresh if only 
 breathed on ! This was the last I ever received from her. 
 I have no need to open it — I know every line by heart I 
 — almost prophetic, too ! 
 
 " I have no fear of offending you now, since we shall 
 never meet again. The very thought that the whole 
 world divides us, as completely as death itself, will make 
 you accept my words less as reproof than warning. Once 
 more, then, abandon the career for which you have not 
 health, nor energy, nor enduring strength. Brilliant dis- 
 plays, discursive efforts, however effective, will no more 
 constitute statesmanship thati fireworks sufiice to light up 
 the streets of a city. Like all men of quick intelligence, 
 you undervalue those who advance more slowly, forgetting 
 that their gleaning is more cleanly made, and that, while 
 3'ou come sooner, they come more heavily laden. Again, 
 this waiting for conviction — this habit of listening to the 
 arguments on each side, however excellent in general life, 
 is inapplicable in politics. You must have opinions pre- 
 viously formed — you must have your mind made up, on 
 principles very different and much wider than those a 
 debate embraces. If I find the pei'son who guides me 
 through the streets of a strange city stop to inquire here, 
 to ask this, to investigate that, and so on, I at once con-
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 359 
 
 ceive — and very reasonably — a doubt of liis skill and 
 intelligence ; but if he advance with a certain air of 
 assui'ed knowledge, I yield myself to his guidance with 
 implicit trust : nor does it matter so much, when we have 
 reached the desired goal, that we made a slight divergence 
 from the shortest road. 
 
 " Now, if a constituency concede much to your judg- 
 ment, remember that you owe a similar debt to the leader 
 of your party, who jf ertainly — all consideration of ability 
 apart — sees farther, because from a higher eminence, than 
 other men. 
 
 " Again, you take no pleasure in any pursuit wherein 
 no obstacle presents itself; and yet, if the difficulty be one 
 involving a really strong effort, you abandon it. You 
 require as many conditions to your liking as did the 
 commander at Walcheren — the wind must not only blow 
 from a particular quarter, but with a certain degree of 
 violence. This will never do ! The favouring gale that 
 leads to fortune i^ as often a hurincane as a zephyr ; some 
 are blown into the haven half-shipwrecked, but still safe. 
 
 "Lastly, you have a failing, for which neither ability, 
 nor address, nor labour, nor even good luck, can compen- 
 sate. You trust every one — not from any implicit reliance 
 on the goodness of human nature — not that you think 
 well of this man, or highly of that, but simply from 
 indolence. ' Believing ' is so very easy — such a rare self- 
 indulgence ! Think of all the deception this has cost 
 you — think of the fallacies, which you knew to be fallacies, 
 that found their way into your h( ad, tainting your own 
 opinions, and mingling themselves with your matured 
 convictions. Believe me, there is nothing bat a strict 
 quarantine can prevail against error ! " 
 
 Enough of these, — now for an incremation : would that, 
 
 Hindoo-like, I could consume with them the memory to 
 
 which they have been wedded ! 
 
 * " * # * # 
 
 Dr. H has been here again ; he came in just as the 
 
 last flicker was expiring over the charred leaves ; he guessed 
 readily what had been my occupation, and seemed to feel
 
 360 HORACE TEJIPLETON. 
 
 relieved that the sad office of telling bad tidings of my 
 case Avas taken off his hands. Symptoms seem now 
 crowding on each, other — they come, like detached bat- 
 talions meeting on the field of battle when victory is won, 
 only to show themselves and to proclaim how hopeless 
 would be resistance. The course of the malady would, 
 latterly, appear to have been rapid, and yet how reluctant 
 does the spirit seem to quit its ruined temple ! 
 
 I wish that I had more command over my faculties ; 
 the tricks Imagination plays me at each moment ai'e 
 very painful : scai"cely have I composed my mind into 
 a calm and patient frame, than Fancy sets to work 
 at some vision of returning health and strenorth. — of 
 home scenes and familiar faces — of the green lanes of 
 Old England, as seen at sunset of a summer eve, when 
 the last song of the blackbird rings through the clear air, 
 and odours of sweet flowers grow stronger in the heavy 
 atmosphere. 
 
 To start from these, and think of what I am — of what 
 so soon I shall be ! 
 
 What marvellously fine aspirations and noble enter- 
 prises cross the sick man's fancy ! The climate of health 
 is sadly unfavourable to the creatures begot of fancy — one 
 tithe of the strange notions that are now wai-ring in my 
 distracted brain would make matter for a whole novelist's 
 library. Thoughts that are thus engendered are like the 
 wines which the Germans call " Ausgelesene," and which, 
 falling from the grape impressed, have none of the 
 impurities of fabrication about them. After all, the 
 things that have been left undone by all of us in this life, 
 would be far better and greater than those we have done. 
 
 Oh, the fond hearts that have never been smitten, 
 And all the hot tears that have never been shed ! 
 
 Not to speak of the books that have never been written ; 
 And all the smart things that have never been said ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 "Weaker and weaker ! — the senses fail to retain 
 
 impressions, and, like cracked vases, let their contents 
 
 ooze out by slow degrees. Objects of sight become 
 
 commingled with those of sound; and I can half
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 3G1 
 
 ■understand the blind man Locke tells us of, who 
 imagined " the colour scarlet to be like the sound of a 
 trumpet." 
 
 Mesmerism. aflPects the power of transferring the 
 operations of one sense to the organs of another ; can it 
 be that, in certain states of the brain, the nervous fluids 
 become intermixed ? 
 
 It is night — calm, still, and starlit ! How large are the 
 stars compared with what they appear in noi'thern 
 hititudes ! And the moonlight, too, is pale as silver, and 
 has none of the yellow tint we see with us. Beautifully it 
 lies along that slope of the mountain yonder, where the 
 tall dark yew-trees throw their straight shadows across 
 
 the glittering surface. It is the churchyard of St. M 
 
 and now in the church I can perceive the twinkle of lights 
 — they ai'e the candles arounl the coffin of him whose 
 funeral I saw this morning. The custom of leaving the 
 body for a day in the church before consigning it to the 
 grave is a touching one. The dimly-lighted aisles, and 
 the solemn air of the place, seem a fitting transition from 
 Life to the sleep of Death. 
 
 I have been thinking of that very old man, who came 
 past the window yesterday, and sat down to rest himself 
 on the stone-benc-h beside the door. Giordano never took 
 a finer head as a studj^ : lofty and massive, with the 
 temples deeply indented ; and such a beard, snow-white 
 and waving^ ! How I lono-ed for strens^th enouo-h to have 
 wandered forth and seated myself beside him ! A strange 
 mysterious feeling was on me — that I should hear words of 
 comfort from his lips ! This impression gi^ew out of his own 
 remarkable story. Yes, poor and humble as his dress, 
 lowly as his present condition maj seem, he was a " Cap. 
 tain of the Imperial Guard" — a proud title once! He 
 was taken prisoner during the retreat from Moscow, and, 
 with hundreds more, sent away to eternal exile in Siberia 
 At that period he was in all the pride of manhood, a true 
 specimen of his class — gay, witty, full of daring, and a 
 sceptic ; a Frenchman of the Revolution grafted on a 
 gentleman of the old regime! The Fatalism that sus- 
 tained them — it was their only faith — through long years
 
 362 HOKACE TEMPLETON. 
 
 of banishment, bi'ou gilt many in sadness to the grave! 
 It was a gloomy religion, whose hope was but chastened 
 despair! He himself lived on, the reckless spirit of a 
 bold heart hardening him against grief as elfectually as 
 it excluded memory. When, at length, as time went on, 
 and his companions dropped off around him, a severe and 
 cheerless melancholy settled down upon him, and he lived 
 on in a state of dreamy unreality, less like sleep than 
 death itself! And yet, through this dense cloud a ray of 
 light pierced and fell upon his cold and darkened spirit, 
 like day descending into some cleft between the moun- 
 tains ! 
 
 He was sitting at the door of his hut one evening, to 
 taste the few short moments of sunset, when, unwrapping 
 the piece of paper which surrounded his cigar — the one 
 sole luxury the prisoners are permitted — he was proceed- 
 ing to light it, when a thought occurred that he would 
 read the lines, for it was a printed paper. He opened the 
 bit of torn and ragged paper, and found there three verses 
 from the Gospel of St. John. Doubtless he had often sat 
 in weariness before the most heart-stirring appeals and 
 earnest exhortations; and yet these few lines did what 
 years of such teaching failed to do. The long-thirsting 
 heart was refreshed by this one drop of clear water! He 
 became a believer, firm and faithful ! His liberation, 
 which he owed to the clemency of the Emperor Alexander, 
 set him free to wander over the world as a missionary, 
 and this he has been "ever since. How striking are his 
 calm and benevolent features among the faces which pass 
 you in every street ! — for ^ve live in times of eager and 
 insensate passion. The volcano has thrown forth ashes, 
 and who knows how soon the flame may follow ! 
 
 How long this night appears ! I have sat, as I believe, 
 for hours here, and yet it is but two o'clock ! The dreary 
 vacuity of weakness is like a wide and pathless waste. I 
 see but one great spreading moorland, with a low, dark 
 horizon : no creature moves across the surface — uo light 
 glimmers on it. It is the plain before the Valley of the 
 Shadow of Death. 
 
 Poor Gilbeit ! —how soundly he sleeps, believing that I
 
 HORACE TEMPLETON. 3G3 
 
 am also sunk to vest ! The deep-drawn breathings of his 
 strong chest are strange beside the fluttering hurry of 
 my respiration. He was wearied out with watching — 
 wearied, as I feel myself: but Death comes not the 
 sooner for our weariness ; we must bide our time, even 
 like the felon whose sentence has fixed the day and the 
 hour. 
 
 Three o'clock !-^ What a chill is on me ! The fire no 
 longer warms me, nor does the great cloak with which I 
 braved the snows of Canada. This is a sensation quite 
 distinct from mere cold — it is like as though my body 
 were itself the source from which the air became chilled. 
 I have tried to heap more wood upon the fire, but am too 
 weak to reach it. I cannot bear to awaken that poor fel- 
 low. It is but enduring a little — a very little longer — and 
 all will be over ! 
 
 There was a man upon the terrace below the window, 
 walking slowly back and forwards. What can it mean, 
 so late ? It has made me nervous and irritable to watch 
 his shadow as it crosses before me. There! — how strange! 
 — he has beckoned to me ! Is this real ? Now I see no 
 one I Some trick of imagination ; but how weak it has 
 left me ! My hand trembles, too, with a sti^ange fear. 
 
 It has struck again ! It must be four ; and I have slept. 
 What a Ions: night it has been ! Life ! Life ! how little 
 your best and highest ambitions seem to him who sits, 
 like me, waiting to be released ! Now and then the heart 
 beats full and strong, and a momentary sense of vigour 
 flashes across my mind ; and then the icy current comes 
 back, the faint struggle to breathe shaking the frame as a 
 wrecked vessel trembles with each crashing wave ! 
 
 Day breaks at length — that must be the dawn ! But 
 my eyes are failing, and my hands are numbed. Poor 
 Gilbert ! how sound is his sleep ! He has turned — and 
 now he dreams ! What is he muttering? Good night! 
 good night ! Even so — good night ! 
 
 *^ A% ^ ^ 
 
 Tt* •JV" •W •«• 
 
 *^ Jb 4E, ^ 
 
 TP TP ^ TP 
 
 How cold — how very cold I feel ! I thought it had 
 been over ! Oh, for a little longer of this dalliance here !
 
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