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THE 



BEAUTIES 



ow 



J. T. HEADLEY. 



WITM 



▲ SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 



^m^ 



NEW-YORK: 
JOHN S. TAYLOR, 

143 NASSAU. STREET. 
1851. 



^ ' ^'B^-^ff* PMM^N 



II 



thenewvorkJ, 
PUBLIC LIBRARY 

150545 

TlLOtN PJUNOaTiONS. 

1b99. 



I ; 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, 

BY JOHN S. TATLOR, 

•a the Glerlc's Office of the District Court of the United State«, foi 
the Southern District of New- York. ^ 



; 



lUtt0tratxdn0. 



Portrait of J. T. Headley—Frontiftpieee 1 

Napoleon 75 

Marat 92 

Macdonald 100 

Marshal Ney Ill 



CI 
K 
it 
t€ 



** 



■ i--' 




PUBLISHER'S PBEFACR 



The object of this work will appear suf- 
ficiently obvious from its title. The pub- 
lisher, at the same tjine, deems it advisable 
to state the considerations that have led to 
the publication. 

Elegant extracts have been in all ages a 
fisivorite recreation to readers of taste. But 
in no era of literature could such extracts be 
so interesting, or so necessary, as at present 
— and surely none more acceptable than the 
classic Beahties of the Rev. J. T. Headley. 

In selecting from an author, whose style 
is characterized by such elegance and taste, 



VI PREFACE. 

it has not been easy to determine what to 
reject and what to select ; each part being 
80 highly finished, and touched with so deli- 
cate a hand. 

The Beauties of Shakspeare, Goldsmith, 
Scott, Byron and More, have been justly 
celebrated by the literati of the world. But 
whatever may be affirmed of these authors, 
or indeed of the writers of any former age, it 
it believed that none will be more highly 
appreciated hereafter, than the productions 
of the Rev. Joel Tyler Headley. 

Of him it may not only be said that he 
^^ is a man of such variety of powers and 
such felicity of performance, that he always 
seems to do best what he is doing" — ^but it 
may be added, that he always does that 
which he is doing, better than any other 
man of our age. 

As a historian or a romancer, Mr. Headley 



PREFACE. Vll 

certainly has no equal, and he has seldom oi 
never had a superior. 

'*A mind in whose gigantic grasp 

All science lives enrolled; 
A memory whose tenacious clasp 

Can all the past nnfold. 
A soul whose blazing genins breaks 

In visions from on high, 
And ever thinking fimcy wakes 

Her world of ecstacy." 

How far the editor has evinced taste and 
judgment in these selections the public only 
can determine. From the critics he has 
nothing to fear ; and, like other great authors, 
little to hope. They are still, as is their 
usual wont, debating the question whether 
Mr. Headley shall rank with the first wri- 
ters, or above them ; while with the people 
that question long since is decided. 



\* ^ 



I. 



zT ' • 



CONTENTS. 



Publisher's Preface » 5 

Biographical Sketch 13 

ThePlood 91 

The Passage of the Red Sea 96 

Moses— Character and Death.- .«• ^. 35 

The Voice of Gk)d 49 

The Character of Paul 48 

TheCmsade 54 

The Battle of Salabertrann 69 

The French Revolution 63 

Napoleon *tb 

Napoleon and Christ 84 

Mnrat 99 

The Passage of the Splngen 100 

The Retreat from Russia. Ill 

Rome 118 

The Battle of Monmouth 131 

Geaeral Qreene^s Retreat, 146 



X CONTENTS. 

Democracy 162 

Ascent of Mount Tahawns 1G9 

The Indian and his Daughter 176 

The Influence of Nature 179 

The Music of theSeii 185 

The American Eagle 187 

True Standard of Moral ity 183 



A BIOGBAPHIOAL SKETCH 

OV 

J. T. HEADLEY. 



The first American ancestor of Mr. 
Headley was the eldest son of an English 
baronet, who came to this country in conse- 
quence of a domestic quarrel, and ultimately 
refused the family estate, which is now held 
by Sir Francis Headley, the author of a work 
of some note on chemistry. Mr. Headley 
was bom on the 30th of December, 1814, at 
Walton, in New York, where his father was 
settled as a clei^jrman. It is a wild and 
fomantic spot on the banks of the Delaware, 
and his early fanuliarity with its scenery 
doubtless occasicmed much of his loye of 
mountain climbing, and indeed his descrip- 
tive power. He commenced his studifio with 



14 BIOGBAPHICAL SKETCB 

Ihe lav in view, but changed his plan ; and 
aAer graduating, at Union College, became 
a student of theol<^7, at Aubum. He was 
licensed in New-Xork, and a church was 
offered him In that city, but his health was 
feeble, and his physician dissuaded him from 
attempting to preach. Unwilling, however, 
Id abandon his profession without an effort) 
he took chaige of a small church in Stock- 
Inidge, in Massachusetts, where he thought 
be could give himself die most favorable 
trial, but after two years and a half, broke 
down completely, and planned a European 
tour and residence for his recovery. He 
went to Italy in the summer of 1842, intend- 
ing to spend the winter there, the summer 
in Switzerland, and the next winter in the 
East. The state of his health, however, led 
to some modification of his design; he 
remained in Italy only about eight months, 
travelled some time in Switzerland, passed 
.through Oermany and the Netherlands, went 
into Belgium, thence to France, then over 
^igland and Wales, and finally home, haT< 



OF J. T. HEADLBT. 16 

ing been absent less than two years. His 
health being worse than when he went 
abroad, he gave up all idea of following his 
profession, and turned his attention to Utera- 
ture. 

His first publication was a translaticm 
firom the German, which appeared anony- 
mously, in 1844. In the following year, he 
gave to the press Letters from Italy and the 
Alps and the Rhine ; and in 1846, Napoleon 
and his Marshals, and The Sacred Moun- 
tains. 

Mr. Headley is one of the most promising 
of the youthful writers of this country. He 
has shown his capacity to write an agreea- 
ble book, and to write a popular one. His 
Letters from Italy is a work upon which a 
man of taste will be gratified to linger. It 
possesses the unfatiguing charms of perfect 
simplicity and truth. It exhibits a thous- 
and lively traits, of an ingenuous nature, 
which, formed in a sincere and imsophisti- 
cated society, and then brought into the 
midst of the old world, retains all its freshness 



/ 



16 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

and disdnctiveness, and observes with 
native intelligence everything that is striking 
in the life and manners and scenery around 
it There is a graceful frankness pervades 
the composition, which engages the interest 
of th^ reader in the author as well as in the 
sulgect We meet, everyivhere, the eviden- 
ces of manly feeling, pure sjrmpathies, and 
an honorable temper. In many of the passa* 
ges there is a quiet and almost imconscious 
humor, which reminds us of the delicate 
railery of the Spectator. The style is de- 
lightfully free from every thing bookish and 
commonplace ; it is natural, familiar, and 
idiomatic. It approaches, as a work of that 
design ought to do, the animation, variety, 
and ease, of spoken language. 

The work called Napoleon and his Mar 
flihals was written to be popular. The 
author obviously contemplated nothing but 
eSecX. In that point of view, it displays 
remarkable talent for accomplishing a pro- 
posed object The figures and scenes are 
deUneated with that freedom and breadth of 



OF J. T. HBADLST. 17 

ootline, and in that vivid and strongly con- 
trasted style of coloring, which are well 
calculated to attract and delight the people. 
If it were regarded as a work written to 
satisfy his own ideas of excellence, and as 
the measure of his best abilities, it could not 
be considered as adding anything to his repu- 
tation. He has taken the subject up with 
aidor, but with little previous preparation : 
the work therefore indicates imperfect infor* 
mation, immature views of character, and 
many hasty and unconsidered opinions. 
The style has the same melodramatic 
exaggeration which the whole design of the 
work exhibits. Tet unquestionably there is 
power manifested even in the faults of these 
brilliant sketches. There is that exuber- 
ant copiousness of imagination and passion, 
which, if it be not admirable in itself, is 
interesting as the excess of youthful genius. 
We accept it as a promise, but are not satis- 
fied with it as a production. If it be true, 
however, as has been stated, that some five 
ttiousand copies of this book have been dis- 



18 BIOOBAFHICAI. BKSTCB 

posed of in the few montha that have elapsed 
aince its publicatioD, Mr. Headley has many 
motives to disn^ard the wamingB which may 
he mingled with his triumph. 

I am unwilling to trust myself in a detailed 
criticism of Mr. Headley's latest wotk — The 
iSacred Mountains. He may readily be ac- 
quitted of intentional iireveience ; but he has 
displayed a most unfortunate want of judg- 
ment, and a singular, insrasibility to the 
character of the subjects which he undertook 
to handle. The attempt to approximate 
and familiarize the incidents of the Deluge, 
to illustrate the TiansfiguraticHi by histori- 
cal contrasts, and to heighten the agony aad 
awe of the Crucifixion by the extravagan- 
cies of rhetoric, has produced an effect that is 
purely displeasing. As events in the annals 
of the world, diose august occurrences 
" stand solitary and sublime," and are only 
to be viewed through the passionless ether of 
the inspiied nomUive. As mysteries of 
fiutb) and symbols of a truth Wore which 
oar Dotuia bowB down, they recede into the 



BIOGRAPHICAL BUXVCB 19 

infinito distance of sanctity and worship. 
In a litorary point of view, Mr. Headley's 
design has much the same success that 
would attend an effort to represent the 
stars of heavmi, the horror of an eclipse, or 
the roseate beauty of an cycling sky, by the 
whiz and crackle of artificial fireworks. 

We think so highly of Mr. Headley's 
natural powers, that we feel a concern in 
Aeir proper direction and deyelopment. 
The &8cination of strong writing, the love 
of rhetorical effect, have proved the ^Horvavo- 
luptasP by which American genius has of- 
ten been betrayed and sacrificed. It is to 
be hoped that Mr. Headley will recover in 
time fiK>m the dangerous intoxication. He 
riiould remember that the siHritof literary 
art is essentially natural, simple, and calm ; 
that it is advanced, not by sjrmpathy with 
die passions of the multitude, but by lonely 
ecmmiunion with that high ideaof excellence, 
which is pure, permanent, and sacred : that 
it dwells not in excitement, and the fervent 
endeavor after an outward result, but in the 



90 or J. T. BK4DLXT. 

qni^ yet earnest derelojanent of those in- 
waid instiDcts of grace and beauty vhich 
ate the cteatire ene^y- of genius. Mr. 
Headley'B fiist more in literature vaa a 
commendable and successfiil one, and he 
could not do better for his true fame than to 
retrace his stepa, and recovei the line of hi« 
earliest efforts. 

Besides the works alwve menticmed, tSx. 
Headley has published Baveral oradoiu and 
many able articles in the tsriews. 



THE FLOOD. 

Tbb rain continued day after day, and 
fell fiiftter and fiercer on the drenched earth, 
and the swollen streams went sui^g by — 
men cursed the storm that seemed determined 
never to break up. The lowlands were de- 
luged ; the streams broke over their banks, 
bearing houses and cattle away on their 
maddened bosoms. But still it rained on. 
Week after week it came pouring from the 
clouds, till it was like one falling sheet of 
water, and the inhabitants could no l<mger 
stir fix>m their doors. The rich valleys that 
lay along the rivers were flooded, and the 
peasants sought the eminences around for 
safety. Tet still the water rose around 
them, till all throt^h the valleys nothing 
but little black islands of human beings were 
seen on the surface. Oh, then what fierce 
struggles there were for life among them ! 
The mother lifted her infimt above her head. 



28 THE FLOOD. 

while she strove to maintain her uncertain 
footing in the sweeping waters ; the strong 
crowded off the weak as each sought the 
highest point ; while the living mass slowly 
crumbled away till the last disappeared and 
the swift water swept smooth and noiselessly 
above them all. • # # • 

Stretching from horizon tfi horizon, as &r 
as the eye could reach — losing itself like a 
limitless wall in the clouds above, it came 
pouring its green and massive waters on- 
ward, while the continual and. rapid crash of 
falling forests and crushed cities and uptom 
mountains, that fell one after another under 
its awful footsteps, and the successive shrieks 
that pierced the heavens, rising even above 
the deafening roar of the onrushing ocean, 
as city after city and kingdom after kingdom 
disappeared, made a scene of terror and hor« 
rorinconceivable,inde8cribable. ^' TT^/oun. 
taina of the great deep were broken up.^ 

Oh, what a wreck was there ! the wreck 
of two thousand years, with their cities, cul- 
fields and mighty population. Not 



THK FLOOD. 23 

shivered masts and broken timbers, the re- 
mains of some gallant vessel, were seen oo 
that turbulent sitrface, but the firagments of a 
crushed and broken world. It was a noUe 
wreck — splendid cities and towers, gorgeous 
palaces, gay apparel, the accumulated wealth 
and luxury of twenty centuries strewing the 
bosom of die deluge, like autumn leaves the 
snr&ce of some forest stream. 

Upborne on the flood, the heaven-proiected 
ark roee over the buried cities and mountains, 
and floated away on a shoreless deep. * * 
* * As it rose and fell on the long-pro- 
tracted swell, massive ruins would go thun- 
dering by, whole forests sink and rise with 
the billows, while ever and anon an uptom 
hill, as borne along by the resistless tide it 
struck a buried mountain, would loom for a 
moment like some black monster over the 
waves, then plunge again to the fathomless 
bottom. Amid this wreck and these sights, 
the ark sailed on in safety. How often in 
imagination have I pictured it in the deluge 
at midnight To a spectator what an object 



84 THE fXOOD. 

of interest it would have been. Hound the 
wide earth the light fiom its solitary window 
was the only indication of life that remained. 
One UKunent it would be seen fiur up on the 
crest of the billow, a mere speck of flame 
amid the limitless darkness that environed 
it, and then disappear in the gulfis below as 
if extinguished forever. Thus that gentle 
light would sink and rise on the breast of the 
deluge, the last, the only hope of the humar 
race. Helmless, and apparently guidelesr 
its wreck seemed inevitaUe, but the sea ne vi 
rolled that could extinguish the star-li) 
beam that told where the ark still floated. 
Not even the strong wind that the Almig) 
sent over the water to dry it up, drivia* 
into billows that stormed the heavens, cc 
sink it Thot^h it shook like a reed in f 
Btrong grasp^ and floundered through 
deep goibf it passed uneiringly on t 
sommit of that mountain on which it ^ 
tesi ; and at length struck ground and f 
ilB tnrbolent motioiL 



THE PASSAGE OP THE RED SEA. 

It was midnight ; and, as the last hour 
strnck, a deep silence rested on the vast city. 
The tamult of the day and evening was over 
— the crowd had forsaken the streets, across 
which dim lights were swinging, and nought 
broke the solitude save the measured tread 
of the sentinel walking his nightly roundsr 
or the rumbling of a chariot, as some late 
reveler returned to his home. Here and 
Aere a light was seen in a solitary sick- 
chamber, giving to the gloom a sadder aspect, 
and out from a narrow alley would now and 
ibeh burst the sounds of folly and dissipa- 
tion. All else was still, for the mighty popu- 
latkm slumbered as the sea sometimes sleeps 
in its strength. But suddenly, just as the 
« All's welP of the drowsy sentinel echoed 
along the empty streets, piercing shrieks 
reot the silence ; and passing raind as light- 



26 PASBAQK OF THE BSD SXA. 

ning from bouse to house, and blending in 
with each other, rung out on the night air 
with strange and thrilling distinctness. And 
thea came a wail, following heavily after, 
and, rolling up around the palace, suited 
back over the trembling city. Unseen by 
mortal eye, the angel of death was treading 
with noiseless step the silent avenues and 
lanes, putting out one light in each house- 
hold, and dismissing one spirit thence to its 
loog home. Id a moment the city was in an 
uproar ; lights danced to and fro ; the rapid 
tread of urgent messengers made the streets 
echo ; the rattling of wheels was heard on 
every aide ; but still Ibe wail of desolated 
houses rose over all, like the steady roar of 
the su^e above the crash of the wreck. 

In the midst of this scene of excitement 
and terror, the children of Israel took their 
flight. Nearly a million of them, their 
muffled tread shaking the earth, streamed 
through Uie darkness, and emerged into the 
open coonby. And when the mDroing 
diawiied io the east, there lay the city before 



P4«8AaS OF THS BED SKA. 97 

tfaem, its towffli and domes flashing back 
the beain9 of the rising sun in redoubled 
spl^idor. But what a change had passed 
OT0r it since that sun last looked upon its 
magnifieence. Sobs and cries arose from 
erery door, for the dead lay in every dwelling. 
In solid ranks the hundreds of thousands 
of Israel took up their line of march, and 
night found their tents spread on the edge of 
the wilderness. Far as the eye could reach, 
they dotted the open country around, and 
fringed, like a ridge of foam, the dark forest 
beyond. And when night fell on the scene, 
suddenly a solitary colimm of fire shot into 
the heavens, lighting up with strange bril- 
liancy the forest and the encampment. — 
There it stood, lofty as a tower that beetles 
oiver the sea, and inherent with light from 
base to summit. The white tents grew 
raddy in its blaase, and the upturned counte- 
nances of the innumerable host, that gazed 
awe-struck on its splendor, shone as if they 
were standing under a burning palace. All 
nig^ loogi it blazed there in their midst and 



28 PASM.OB OF THB BID BCA. 

ahoTfl ttiem, iUtuning Ae desert, and shed- 
dmg unearthly glory on hill, valley, and 
forest 

And, when the morning came, it turned 
into a column of snowy whiteness, levolviag 
within itself like a cloud, yet distinct and 
firm as marble. No voice shook its thick 
foldings, yet it had a language more potent 
than that of Moses, and its silent command 
of " Forward," caused every tent to be struck, 
and set the vast host in motion. Over the 
vide plain it moved in advance of the army, 
and through the deep gorges it rose far above 
the mountains — the strangest leader that a 
host ever followed. When the sun struck i^ 
its long shadow fell across the massive col- 
imms in one unbroken beam, filling every 
heart with fear and dread. At n^ht it stop- 
ped and stood still, like a single marble shaft, 
till darkness came down, and then it became 
again a shall of fire. 

Thus, day after day, they continued their 
march, plunging deeper and deeper in the 
wildemess, imtil at length word was brought 



PiUMA«S OF THB RED 8£A« 39 

tbat the enraged Pharaohi with his entire 
aimy— chosen chariots and all — ^was in full 
pursuit Consternation then filled every 
hearty and each eye turned anxiously to that 
mjrsterious pillar. But no change passed 
ovei its silent form; steady and calm as 
ever, it moyed majestically forward, heedless 
of the thunder and tumult that were gather- 
ing in the rear. Perchance at night it did 
not stop as before, but moved on in the dark- 
ness, blazing along the desert, lighting it up 
with more, than noontide splendor. On, on 
swept the weary host, while every moment 
nearer and louder roared the storm on its 
track. Still hoping, yet fearing and trem- 
bling, they followed that calmly-moving 
column, untU, at last, it stopped on the shore 
of the sea. As they pressed up, despair 
seized every heart, for tax away nought but 
a wide waste of water met their gaze, while 
the unchecked billows broke heavily along 
its bosom ; and behind, rushing on, came 
the tens of thousands of their foes, panting 
for the slaughter. That fearful pillar of 



"""^ !^^. u it 8«""^ %^ Still it ■«<» 

«^'°*'I^^>"Cp'Si^ 



PA88AOE OF THE RED SEA. 31 

hand. ^ Forwaid,'' spoke the cloud, and the 
stem command rolled in startling accents 
along the mighty column, and it descended 
slowly into the fearful depths. Like an 
army of insects they moved below, while the 
billows that broke along the surface of the 
de^p, crested over the edge of the watery 
cUffis above them, as if looking down on the 
strange spectacle, and the spray that fell on 
their heads was the ^' baptism of the sea." 
The pursuers plunged into the same watery 
gorge, and as their rapid chariots drew near 
the fugitive host, it seemed for a while that 
the sea had been opened on purpose to entrap 
them, and make them fall easier victims to 
their foes. But at this critical moment, that 
strange cloud rose up, and moving back over 
the long line, planted itself in &ont of the 
Egjrptian host. Its solemn aspect and mjrs- 
terious form troubled the monarch and his 
' followers — ^the wheels rolled from the axle- 
tiees of the chariots — the solid ranks became 
disordered and broken, and tenor and tumult 
took the place of confidence and strength. 



32 PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. 

At length the fugitives, with their bleatin 
flocks and lowing herds, ascended the opp( 
site shore, and when the last one steppe 
upon the beach, that dripping cloud alfi 
moved up after Ihem — and then, like a da 
of thunder, the sea smote together, and tb 
wave rolled smoothly on as before. Swif 
circling eddies and whirlpools, and hug 
bubbles of air bursting on the surface, aloe 
told where the mighty host was buried, an 
where and how they struggled in the depth 
At length the wreck began to heave upwan 
and, oh ! what an overthrow it revealed.- 
Chariots and horses, and spears and shield 
and myriads of corpses, darkened the sea s 
&! as the eye could reach. 

But what a spectacle that shore presented 
the beach, the rocks, the hills, were all blac 
with the living masses, as they stood, tren 
bling and awe-struck, and looked back o 
the deep. For a long time not a sound brok 
the deathlike silence that reigned throughoi 
the vast throng. Each heart was full ( 
dread and awe, as the heavy swells fell s 



PA8BAOB 09 THE RBD 8BA. 33 

feety casting on the beach, with every 
daiih, broken chariots, whole ranks of men, 
now pale in death, and horses and weapons 
ci war: There, too, stood the cloud, and 
looked' on the scene, while on its white and 
lofty form, the eyes of the multitude ever 
and anon turned reverently &om the piles of 
the dead below. But at last, joy and grati- 
tude, and triumph at their great deliverance, 
gave way to the terror that had oppressed 
them; and suddenly there arose a shout 
louder than the thunder of the sea : " Sing 
imto the Lord, for he hath triumphed glori- 
ously : the horse and his rider hath he thrown 
into the sea. The Lord is my strength and 
song, and he is become my salvation. — ^Who 
is like imto thee, O Lord, among the gods ? 
who is like unto thee, glorious in holiness, 
fearful in praises, doing wonders ?" From 
rank to rank — from ten times ten thousand 
dips, rolled on the mighty anthem, till the 
shore shook with the glorious melody, and 
the heavens were filled with the strain. — 
And Miriam, with her prophetic face and 



3i PAB8A0B OP TBB HBD 8BA. 

eye of fire, separated herself from the miilti' 
tode, followed by a throng of dark-haired 
maidens, on whose cheeks the gloW of joy- 
bad usurped the pallor of fear ; and as they 
moved in shining groups and graceful dances, 
tbeir silvery voices rung out over the clash 
<^ timbrels and jtiar of the waves in triumph- 
ant bursts of music, and " Sing ye to the 
Lofd, far ho hath trituuphed gloiiously : tbe 
horse and his rider hath he thrown into tlu 
sea," arose and fell like melody along ibe 
lireiB of Paradise. 



MOSES.— CHARACTER AND DEATH. 

HosBs was one of those rare characters in 
history which seem to live in the past, pre- 
sent, and future. Reverencing the good that 
has beeli — ^understanding the full scope and 
drift of the present, he at the same time com- 
prehends and lives in the future. Such a 
man the ardor of hope never beguiles into 
scorn of the past, nor over-reverence of the 
present Like those mountain summits which 
first catch the sunlight, he rises out of the 
darkness and prejudice below him, heralding 
the day that is approaching. 

In whatever relations we behold Moses, 
he is ever the same sublime and majestic 
character. Noble by nature, great by his 
Qulssion, and greater still by the manner in 
which he accomplished it, he ever maintains 
his ascendency over our feelings. We see 
Ae fiery promptings of the heart that could 



36 MOSES. 

not brook oppression, in the bloody vengean 
he took on the Egyptian who would tramp 
on his brother. Preferring the desert wi 
fireedom to the court of Pharaoh in sight 
injustice, he led the life of a fugitive. Call 
by a voice from heaven to go back to deliv 
his people, he again trod the courts of t] 
king of Egypt. 

But not in the presence of Pharaoh wh< 
he withstood the monarch to his face, ai 
brought down the thunders of heaven on h 
throne — ^not on the beach of the sea, wi 
one arm upfaised toward heaven, and t] 
other stretched out over the water, while tl 
waves that went surging by stopped ai: 
crouched at his feet — ^not in the midst of tl 
raining manna — ^not in the lifting of tl 
brazen symbol in the midst of the flying s( 
pents, while the moan of suffering and tl 
cries of the dying struggled up from t] 
crowded encampment — not when, betwe< 
the mountains, his stately form shone in tl 
light of the blazing fiery pillar, while tl 
tread of the mighty multitude shook tl 



MOSES. 37 

earth behind him — nor even when he stood 
on shaking Sinai, his guard the thunder and 
his vesture the lightning, and talked with 
the Eternal as friend talketh with friend — 
not in all these awful relations does he ap- 
pear to me so majestic and attractive as in 
the last event of his life. 

Behold the white tents of Israel scattered 
over the plain and swelling knolls at the foot 
of Mount Nebo. It is a balmy, glorious day. 
The sun is sailing over the encampment, 
while the blue sky bends like Grod in love 
over all things. Here and there a fleecy 
cloud is hovering over the top of Pisgah, as 
if conscious of the mysterious scene about to 
transpire there. The trees stand green and 
fresh in the sunlight ; the lowing of cattle 
rises through the still atmosphere, and nature 
, is lovely and tranquil, as if no sounds of 
grief were to disturb her repose. 

Amid this beauty and quietness, Moses 
assembled the children of Israel for the last 
time, to take his farewell look, and leave his 
farewell blessing. He cast his eye over the 



38 MOSES. 

leaders beside him, and over the host, while 
a thousand contending emotions struggled 
for the mastery in his bosom. The past, 
with its toils and sufferings, rose up before 
him, and how could he part with his chil- 
dren — ^murmuring and ungrateful though 
they had been, whom he had borne on his 
brave heart for more than forty years ? Self- 
collected and calm, he stood before them, 
and gave them his last blessing. He made 
no complaints — never spoke of his hardships 
in their behalf ; made no allusion to his an- 
guish in leaving them on the very verge of 
Canaan, the object for which he had toiled 
so long. He did not even refer to his death. 
In the magnanimity of his great heart, for- 
getful of himself, or else not daring to trust 
his feelings in an allusion to his fate, he 
closed his sublime address in the following 
touching language: ''The eternal God is 
thy refuge, and underneath are the everlast- 
ing arms ; and he shall thrust out the enemy 
before thee : Israel then shall dwell in safety 
alone. Happy art thou, O Israel : who is 



MOSES. 39 

like unto thee, O people saved by the Lord, 
the shield of thy help, and who is the sword 
of thy excellency !" Noble language — noble 
heart ! Carried away in the contemplation 
of his children's happiness, he burst forth 
into exclamations of joy in the moment of 
his deepest distress. * * He looked back 
on the desert : it was passed. He looked 
forward on Canaan : it was near. He turn- 
ed to the people, and they were weeping. — 
He cast his eye up Nebo, and he knew he 
must die. Although no complaint escaped 
his lips, lio regret fell from his tongue, a 
deeper paleness was on his cheek, and a 
sterner strife in' his heart than he had ever 
felt before. Though outwardly calm, his 
stem nature shook for a moment like a cedar 
in a tempest, and then the struggle was over. 
His farewell was echoed in melancholy tones 
firom lip to lip through the vast host, as he 
turned to ascend the mountain. As he ad- 
vanced from rock to rock, the sobbing of the 
multitude that followed after, tore his heart- 
strings like the suffering cry of a child its 



40 MOSES. 

parent's, and it was long before he dare trust 
himself to turn and look below. But at 
length he paused on a high rock, and gazed 
a moment on the scene at his feet. There 
were the white tents of Jacob glittering in 
the sunlight, and there the dark mass ^ 
Israel's host as they stood and watched the 
form of their departing leader. Those tents 
had become familiar to him as household 
scenes, and as he gazed on them now, far, 
far beneath him, and saw the cloud over- 
shadowing the mysterious ark, a sigh of 
unutterable sadness escaped liim. He thought 
of the bones of Joseph he had carried for forty 
years, that were to rest with his descendants, 
while he was to be left alone amid the moun- 
tains. Again he turned to the ascent, and 
soon a rock shut him from view, and he 
passed on alone to the summit. 

There God miraculously spread before him 
all the land of Canaan. He stood a speck 
on the high crag, and gazed on the lovely 
scene. Jordon went sweeping by in the glad 
sunlight. Palm trees shook their green tops 



M0SB8. 41 

in the summer wind, and plains and cities 
and vineyards spread away in endless beauty 
before him. 

The scene vanished from his sight, and 
with the rock for his couch and the blue sky 
for his covering, he lay down to die. Oh, 
who can tell what the mighty law-giver felt, 
left in that dreadful hour alone ! The myB- 
tery of mysteries was to be passed. No 
friend was beside his couch to soothe him ; 
no v(Mce to encourage him in that last, dark- 
est of all human struggles. No one was 
with him but God ; and though with one 
hand He smote him, with the other be held 
his dying head. * * And God buried him. 
There he slept alone ; the mountain cloud 
which night hung round him was his only 
duoud, and the thunder of the passing storm 
his only dirge. Tliere he slept while centu- 
ries rolled by, his grave unknown and un- 
visited, until at length he is seen standing oa 
Mount Tabor, with Christ, in the Transfig- 
uration. Over Jordan at last-^n Canaan 
ai lasi. 



THE VOICE OF GOD: 

ELIJAH ON HOREB. 

Before he reached the entrance of his 
cave, he heard a roar louder than the sea, 
that arrested his footsteps and sent the blood 
back to his heart The next moment there 
came a blast of wind, as if the last chain 
that bound it had suddenly been thrown off 
and it had burst forth in all its unrestrained 
and limitless energy. In the twinkling of 
an eye the sun was blotted but by the cloud 
of dust, and the fragments that filled the air 
as it whirled them in fierce eddies onward. 
It shrieked and howled around the mouth of 
the cave, while the fierce hissing sound of 
its steady pressure against the heart of the 
mountain was more terrible than its ocean- 
like roar. Before its fury and strength rocks 
were loosened from their beds and hurled 



THE VOICE OF GOD. 43 

through the gloom — the earth rent where it 
passed, and so boundless seemed its strength 
that the steady mountain threatened to lift 
from its base and be carried away. Amid 
this deafening uproar and confusion and 
darkness and terror,. the stunned and awe- 
struck Elijah expected to see the form of 
Jehovah moving ; but that resistless blast, 
strewing the sides of Horeb with wreck and 
chaos was not God in motion : 

*' 'Twas but the whirlwind of his hreath, 
AnnounciDg danger, wreck, and death." 

The hurricane passed by, and that wild 
strife of the elements ceased ; but before the 
darkened heavens could clear themselvesj 
the prophet heard a rumbling sound in the 
bowels of the mountain, and the next mo- 
ment an earthquake was on the march. — 
Stem Horeb rocked to and fro like a vessel 
in a storm, and its bosom parted with the 
sound of thunder before the convulsive throbs 
that seemed rending the very heart of nature. 
Fathomless abysses opened on every side, 



44 THB VOICE OF GOD. 

and huge precipices, toppling over the chasms 
at their base, went thundering through the 
darkness. The fallen prophet lay on the 
floor of his cavern and listened to the grind- 
ing, crushing sound around and beneath 
him, and the steady shocks more terrible than 
all that ever and anon shook the heights, 
thinking that Jehovah at last stood before 
him. Surely it was his mighty hand that 
laid on that trembling, tottering mountain, 
and his strong arm that rocked it so wildly 
on its base. No, ''God was not in the 
earthquake." 

«/Twas but (he thundering of his car, 
The trampling of his steeds from far." 

The commotion ceased, and Nature stood 
'' and calmed her ruffled frame ;" but in the 
deep, ominous silence that followed, there 
seemed a foreshadowing of some new terror, 
and lo ! the heavens were suddenly on fire, 
and a sheet of flame fell like falling light- 
ning from the sky. Its lurid light pierced 
to the depths of Elijah's cavern tUl it glowed 



THIS VOICE OF OOD. 45 

like an oven, and from base to summit of 
Mount Horeb there went up a vast cloud of 
smoke, fast and furious, while the entire 
sides flowed with torrents of fire. The 
mountain glowed with a red heat, and stood 
like a huge burning furnace under a burn- 
ing heaven, and groaned on its ancient seat 
as if in torture. But God was not in the 
fiery storm. 

" Twas but the lightning of his eye" 

that had kindled that mountain into a blaze 
and filled the air with flame. 

But this too passed by, and what new 
scene of terror could rise worthy to herald 
the footsteps of God — what greater outward 
grandeur could surround his presence ? The 
astonished prophet still lay upon his face, 
wrapped in wonder and filled with fear at 
these exhibitions of Almighty power, wait- 
ing for the next scene in tliis great drama, 
when suddenly, through the deep quiet and 
breathless hush that had succeeded the 
earthquake and the storm, there arose ''a still 



46 TOE VOICE OP GOD. 

small voice," the like of which had ne^ 
met his ear before. It was "small aud still 
but it thrilled the prophet's frame with ele 
trie power, and rose so sweet and clear, 

"That all in heaven and earth might hear; 
It spoke of peace — it spoke of love ; 
It spoke as angels speak above." 

And God was in the voice. The proph 
knew that he was nigh, and, rising u 
wrapped his mantle about his face, and we 
to the mouth of the cave, and reverent! 
stood and listened. Oh, who can tell tl 
depth and sweetness of the tones of th 
voice which the Lord of love deemed wort! 
to announce his coming ! A ransom( 
spirit's harp — an angePs lute — a serapl 
song, could not have moved the prophet s 
But while his whole being, soul and bod 
trembled to its music, a sterner voice m 
his ear, saying, " What dost thou hei 
Elijah?" The pmphet again poured tl 
tale of his woes and of Israel's sin into tl 



THB VOICE OF GOD. 47 

te bosom. His wrongs were promised 
ts, and Israel deliverance ; and the 
d exile went boldly back to his people, 
loreb again stood silent and alone in 

sseri. 



THE CHARACTER OF PAUL, 

Paul, in his natural character before his 
conversion, resembles Bonaparte more than 
any other man — I mean both in his intellec- 
tual developments and energy of will. He 
had the same inflexibility of purpose, the 
same utler indifference to human suflfering 
when he had once determined on his course, 
the same tireless, unconquerable resolution, 
the same fearlessness both of man's power 
and opinions, and that calm self-reliance and 
mysterious control over others. But the 
point of greatest resemblance is in the union 
of a strong, correct judgment, with rapidity 
of thought and sudden impulse. They 
thought quicker, yet better than other men. 
The power, too, which both possessed was 
all practical power. There are many men 
of strong minds, whose force nevertheless 
wastes itself in reflection, or in theories for 



THE CHARACTER OP PAUL. 49 

Others to act upon. Thought may work out 
into language, but not into action. They 
will plan better than they can perform. But 
these two men not only thought better, but 
they could work better than all other men. 
The same self-control and perfect subjec- 
tion of his emotions — even terror itself — to 
the mandates of his will, are exhibited in his 
conduct when sipitten to the earth, and 
blinded by the light and voice from heaven. 
John, when arrested by the same voice on 
the Isle of Patmos, fell on his face as a dead 
man, and dared not stir or speak till encour 
aged by the language, " Fear not." But 
Paul (or Saul), though a persecutor, and 
violent mart, showed no symptoms of alarm 
or terror. The voice, the blow, the light, the 
glory, and the darkness that followed, were 
sufficient to upset the strongest mind ; but 
he, master of himself and his emotions, in- 
stead of giving way to exclamations of terror, 
simply said : " Lord, what wilt thou have 
me to do ?" With his reason and judgment 
as steady and strong as ever, he knew at 

3 



50 THE CHARACTER OP PAUL. 

once that something was wanted of him, and, 
ever ready to ^t, he asked what it was. 

From this time on, his track can be distin- 
guished by the commotions about it, and the 
Ught above it. Straight back to Jerusalem, 
from whence he had so recently come with 
letters to legalize his persecutions, he went, 
to cast his lot in with those he had followed 
with violence and slaughter. His strong 
heart never beat one quicker pulsation 
through fear, when the lofty turrets of the 
proud city flashed on his vision. Neither 
did he steal away to the dark alleys and 
streets, where the disciples were concealed, 
and tell them secretly his faith in the Son of 
Qod. He strode into the synagogues, and 
before the astonished priests preached Christ 
and him crucified. He thundered at the 
door of the Sanhedrim itself^ and shaking 
Jerusalem like an earthquake, awoke a tem- 
pest of rage and fury on himself. With 
assassins dogging his footsteps, he at length 
left the city. But, instead of going to places 
where he was unknown, and where his feel- 



THE CHARACTER OF PAUL. - 61 

ings would be less tried, he started for bis 
native city, bis fatber's bouse, tbe home of 
his boyhood,' for his kindred and friends. — 
To entreaties, tears, scorn, and violence, he 
was alike impervious. To Antioch and 
Cyprus, along the coast of Syria to Greece 
and Rome, over the known world he went 
like a blazing comet, waking up the nations 
of the earth. From the top of Mars' Hill, 
with the gorgeous city at his feet, and the 
Acropolis and Parthenon behind him; on 
the deck of his shattered vessel in tbe inter- 
Tals of the crash of billows, in the gloomy 
walls of a prison, on the borders of the eter- 
nal kingdom, he speaks in the same calm 
and determined tone. Deterred by no dan- 
ger, awed by no presence, and shrinking 
firora no responsibility, he moves before us 
like some grand embodiment of power. The 
nations heave around him, and kings turn 
pale in his presence. Bands of conspirators 
swear neither to eat nor drink till they have 
slain him ; rulers and priests combine against 
him; the people stone him: yet, over the 



52 THE CHARACTER OF PAUL. 

din of the conflict and storm of violence, his 
voice of eloquence rises clear and distinct as 
a tnimpet-call, as he still preaches Christ 
and hini crucified. The whip is laid on his 
back till the blood starts with every blow, 
and then bis mangled body is thrown into a 
dungeon ; but at midnight you hear that 
same calm, strong voice which has shaken 
the world, poured forth in a hymn of praise 
to God, and lo ! an earthquake rocks the 
prison to its foundations ; the manacles fall 
from the hands of the captives, the bolts 
withdraw of themselves, and the massive 
doors swing back on their hinges. 

One cannot point to a single spot in his 
whole career, where he faltered a moment, 
or gave way to discouragement or fear. — 
Through all his perilous life, he exhibited 
the same intrepidity of character and lofty 
spirit With his eye fixed on regions beyond 
the ken of ordinary mortals, and kindling on 
glories it was not permitted him to reveal, he 
pressed forward to an incorruptible, crown, a 
fadeless kingdom. And then his death, how 



THE CHARACTER OF PAUL. 53 

iadescribably sublime ! Napoleon, dying in 
the midst of the midnight storm, with the 
last words that fell from his lips a battle cry, 
and his passing spirit watching in its deU- 
rium the torn heads of his mighty columns, 
as they disappeared in the smoke.of the con- 
flict, is a sight that awes and startles us. — 
But behold Paul also, a war-worn veteran, 
battered with many a scar, though in a 
spiritual warfare, looking back, not with 
alarm, but transport; gazing not on the 
earth, but on heaven. Hear bis calm, serene 
voice ringing over the storms and commo- 
tions of life : " I am now ready to be offered, 
and the time of my departure is at hand. I 
have fought a good fight, I have finished my 
course, there is laid up for me a crown of 
righteousness." No shouts of foemen, nor 
smoke or carnage of battle surrounded his 
spirit stniggUng to be free,* but troops of 
shining angels, the smile of Ood, and the 
songs of the redeemed, these guarded him 
and welcomed him home. 



THE CRUSADE. 

At the preaching of Peter the Hermit, 
Christendom was moved as it never before 
had been. A crusade was set on foot to re- 
deem that sepulchre, and in a year six mil- 
lions of souls had volunteered for the Holy 
War. Old men, women, and children, the 
rich and poor, were seen streaming by tens 
of thousands towards the sacred spot. — 
Kings and princes, and warriors of renown, 
buried their feuds, forgot their career of 
worldly glory, and, striking hands together, 
swore that the sword should never return to 
the scabbard till the tomb of Christ was de- 
livered from the hands of the infidel. One 
desire animated every heart, one purpose 
filled every bosom ; the contagion spread 
from house to house and kingdom to king- 
dom. " It became an enthusiasm, a passion^ 
a madness." Nearly a quarter of a million 



THE CBUSADE. 66 

fell on the very threshold of the undertaking. 
Yet an army of six hundred thousand men 
at length stood in gorgeous array on the 
plains of Asia, and, with waving banners 
and pealing trumpets, began to hew their 
way to the tomb of Christ. Swept away by 
famine, pestilence, and the sword, they still 
pressed on till but half of their number was 
left to fling themselves on the walls of Jeru- 
salem. Behold them at length approaching 
Bethlehem. A deputation of Christians go 
forth to meet them, and in a moment that 
weary, wasted army is moved like the forest 
by a sudden wind. Bethlehem is before 
them, the place where the Saviour was born. 
The name awoke a thousand touching asso- 
ciations, and thrilled every heart with strange 
rapture. That night the excited host could 
not sleep ; and at midnight took up their 
line of march for Jerusalem. In dead silence 
— many with bare feet and uncovered heads 
— ^pressed tremblingly on through the dark- 
ness. At length, the sun, with that sudden- 
ness which always accompanies an eastern 



56 THE CRUSADE. 

dawn, rushed into the heaviens, and there 
lay Jerusalem before them. The object of 
all their toils, for which they had endured 
femine and pestilence, and been mowed 
down by the sword of the infidel, the one 
bright object of their lives, smiling in sunny 
beauty at their feet. There was Mount Olivet, 
there Mount Calvary, and there, too, the 
sepulchre of the Saviour. Oh ! who can des- 
cribe the emotion^ that then swept through 
that Christian host. Some knelt down and 
prayed, others leaped, shouting, into the air ; 
the mailed knight sobbed like an infant ; 
until at length the murmur, 'Jerusalem!' 
arose at first faint and low, like the far off 
sound of the sea, but gradually swelling to 
the full-voiced thunder, till " Jerusalem ! 
Jerusalem !" filled all the air, and rolled glo- 
riously to the heavens. Then, taking fire 
at the thought that the holy city and sacred 
tomb were in the hands of unbelievers, they 
raised the battle-cry and went pouring for- 
ward on the walls, like the inroUing tide of 
the sea. 



THE BATTLE OF SALABERTRANN. 

• • It was the eighth day of their march, 
and, weary and hungry, they inquired of a 
peasant if they could obtain provisions at the 
village. "Go on," he replied, "and they 
will give you all that yoil desire, and are 
now preparing a wami supper for you." — 
The Waldenses understood the hint, but 
kept on until within a mile and a half of a 
bridge that crossed the Doria, when they 
descried in the depth of the valley nearly 
forty camp fires burning. The Christians 
were in need of rest and food ; but, before 
they could obtain either, a fierce and unequal 
battle must be fought. They kept on, how- 
ever, until the vanguard fell into an ambus- 
cade, and a sharp firing of musketry awoke 
the echoes of the Alps. The intrepid Am- 
aud saw that a crisis had indeed come. — 
Before him was a well-appointed French 




58 BATTLB Of BALABEBTAAITK. 

army, two thousand five hundred strong, 
and commanding a narrow bridge. Halting 
his tired column, he ordered them all to 
kneel, and there, in the still evening, he 
(^ered up prayer to the God of battles that 
he would save them from the destruction 
that seemed inevitable. Scarcely had the 
solemn prayer died away upon the evening 
air, before the rattling of arms was heard, 
and in one dense column, the exiles pressed 
straight fot' the bridge. 

As they approached, the sentinels on the 
farther side cried out, " Qui vive !" to which 
the Waldenses replied, " Friends, if they are 
suffered to pass on !" Instantly the shout, 
" Kill them ! kill them !" rang through the 
darkness, and then the order, " fire !" was 
heard along the ranks. In a moment, more 
than two thousand muskets opened on the 
bridge, and it rained a leaden sionn its whole 
Ifli^th and breadth. They expected, and 
rightly, that, under such a well-directed fire, 
the little band of exiles would be annihilated ; 
and m thev 'wmild havo heen hut for tha 



BATTJLV OF SALABERTBANN. 59 

orudence and foresight of their pastor and 
sader, Amaiid. Expecting such a reception, 
le had given orders that his followers, the 
Qoment they heard the word "fire" from the 
memy, should fall on their faces. They 
obeyed him, and that fiery sleet went drift- 
Qg wildly over their heads. For a quarter 
f an hour did these heavy volleys continue, 
nveloping thfit bridge in flame ; yet, during 
he whole time, but one Waldensian was 
mounded. At length, however, a firing was 
leard in the rear : the troops that had let 
hem pass on the mountain in the morning, 
lad followed after, on purpose to prevent 
heir escape from the snare that had been set 
Tor them. Crushed between two powerful 
bodies of soldiers, with two thousand muskets 
blazing in their faces, and a narrow bridge 
before them, the case of the wanderers seemed 
hopeless. Seeing that the final hour had 
come, Amaud ordered his followers to rise 
and storm the bridge. Then occurred one 
of those fearful exhibitions sometimes wit- 
nessed on a battle field. With one wild and 



60 BATTLB OF BAI^BERTBAITN. 

thrilling shout, that little band precipitated 
itself forward. Through the devouring fire 
over the rattling, groaning bridge, up to tht 
intrenchments, and up to the points of thf 
bayonets, they went in one resistless wave. 
Their deafening shouts drowned the roar in 
musketry, and, borne up by that lofty eiitho- 
Biasm which has made the hero in every age, 
they forget the danger before them. On the 
solid ranks they fell with such terror and 
suddenness, that they had not time even tti 
flee. The enraged Waldenses seized them 
by the hait, and trampled them under foot ; 
and with their heavy sabres cleaved them to 
the earth. The terrified French undertook 
■ to defend themselves with their muskets, 
and, as they interposed them between theit 
bodies and the foe, the Waldensian sabres 
struck fire on the ban-els till the sparks flew 
in every direction. The Marquis of Larry 
strove for a while to bear up against this 
overpowering onset; but, finding all was 
lost, he cried out, " Is it possible I have losi 
the batfle and my honor!" and then ex 



BATTLE OF 8ALABSBTRANN. 61 

claiming '^ Sauve qiii peut !" turned and fled. 
That anny of two thousand five hundred 
men then became a herd of fugitives in tlie 
darkness, mowed down at every step by the 
sword of the Waldensian. The slaughter 
was terrible, and the victory complete : all 
the baggage and stores were taken ; and at 
length when the bright moon rose over tlie 
Alps, flooding the strange scene with light, 
Amaud called his Uttle band from the pur< 
suit. Having supplied themselves with all 
the powder they wished, they gathered the 
lest together, and set fire to it. A sudden 
blaze revealed every peak and crag, and the 
entire field of death, with the brightness of 
noonday — followed by an explosion like the 
bursting of a hundred cannon, and which 
was heard nearly thirty miles in the moun- 
tains. A deep silence succeeded this strange 
uproar, and then Arnaud ordered all the 
trumpets to sound, then every man threw 
his hat into the air, and shouted, " Thanks 
to the Eternal of Armies, who hatli given us 
the victory over our enemies !" That glori- 



62 BATTLE OF SALABERTRANN. 

ous shout was taken up and prolonged 

j the fleeing foeman heard it in the far mc 

tain gorges. 

■ 1 The entire loss of the Waldenses in 

bloody engagement did not reach thirty n 

I i whild the ground was cumbered with 

dead bodies of the French. The latter 1 
refused to destroy the bridge, and thus ef 
tually arrest the progress of the exiles, 
cause they wished to destroy them. ] 
God had given them the victory, and tl: 
shout recalled to mind the ancient shout 

i Judah in battle. 



I 



I 

I 



I 



[•HE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

I visited the Hotel de Ville, and I was 
:ain in the midst of the Revolution. I fol- 
wed the street leading from it to the Church 
the Carmelites, calling to mind the Sab- 
th morning of the 2d of September, 1792. 
wo days before the domiciliary visits had 
en made. For forty-eight hours the bar- 
srs of the city had been closed, and every 
or shut in the streets. The sound of the 
isy population had suddenly died away — 
e promenades were empty, the rattling of 
rriages was hushed, and the silence and 
litude of the sepulchre reigned throughout 
le vast city, save when the fearful echoes 
ere heard of the rapid tread of the blood- 
)unds of the anarchists, and the tap of 
eir hammer on every door, as they moved 
ong on their mission of death. The pale- 



64 THE FKEXCH REVOLUTION. 

ness of despair sits on every coiinler 
and the tlirobbing heart stops beatit 
that hammer-strolte is heard on the dc 
their dwelling. The suspected are 
arrested for the safety of the state, an 
teen thousand are seized and commiti 
But what is to be done with Ibis ar: 
prisoners? They cannot be tried separ 
No, their execution is to be as sudder 
summary as their arrest, and the Sabb: 
the 3d of September is selected as the ( 
their slaughter. The bright sun rose 
the city, and nature smiled, as she al 
will, despite the actions of man ; but in 
of the church-bells calling the worship 
the house of God, there gees pealing ov 
city the terrible tocsin, and the wild h 
the generale, and the rapid alarm-gi 
making that Sabbath morning as awf 
the day of judgment. Through every 
came pouring the excited multitude, T\ 
foiu* priests, moving along the street, or 
way to the Church of the Abbaye, are s 
and butchered. Tarennes is at the he 



THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 66 

the mob, and trampling over the corpses and 
spattering the blood over his shoes, kindles 
into ten-fold fury the ferocity he has awak- 
ened in the maddened populace. Maillard, 
who led the mob of women that stormed 
Versailles, is heard shouting over the tumult, 
" To the Carmelites !" and " To the Carme- 
lites !" is echoed in terrific responses from the 
crowd around him. " To the Carmelites" 
they go, and surge iip like the maddened sea 
around the devoted church. Two himdred 
priests are within its wall. Finding their 
hour has come, they rush into each other's 
embrace, aijd, kneeling, prayed together to 
that God, who seems to have withdrawn his 
restraining power from man. They are 
butchered around the very altar, and their 
blood flows in streams over the pavement of 
the church. In the intervals of the infuri- 
ated shouts the voice of prayer steals on the 
ear, but the next instant it is hushed in 
death. The Archbishop of Aries stands 
amid this wild scene, calm as the Ma* 
donna that looks down from the altar 



66 THK FAEMCH RETOLCTION. 

above bim. Thrice the angrord smites fail 
fece, inflicting three horrible gashes befon 
he falls, and then he dies at the very foot of 
tbe cross of Christ. The massacre being 
completed, " To Abbaye I" is the next shou^ 
and the turbulent mass rolls towards the 
Abbaye. The brave Swiss Guards are first 
broi^ht out and pierced by a thousand pikes. 
The inhuman yells penetrate to the inner- 
most chambers of the prisoners, and each one 
prepares himself to die. The aged Som- 
breuil, governor of the Invalides, is brought 
out, and, just as the bayonet is lifted to 
pierce him, his lovely, daughter falls on his 
neck, and pleads in such piteous accents and 
tears for her father's life, that even these 
monsters are moved with compassion, and 
promise that his life shall be spared on con- 
dition she will drink the blood of aristocrats 
A goblet filled with the warm blood is pro 
sented to his lips, and she drains it at d 
draught. ThS half-naked murderers around 
bespattered with brains and blood, shout h*. 
peidon. The Princess of Lamballe, thi< 



THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 67 

friend of the unfortunate queen, and the 
beauty of the court, is next led forth, and 
faints again and again at the horrible spec- 
tacle that meets her gaze. Arising from hex 
swoon, a sword-cut opens her head behind, 
and she faints again. Recovering, she is 
forced to walk between two blood-covered 
monsters over a pavement of dead bodies, 
and then speared on a heap of corpses. The 
raging fiend within them still unsatisfied, 
they strip the body ; and, after exposing it to 
every indecency and insult that human de- 
pravity can invent, one leg is rent away and 
thrust into a cannon, and fired off in honoi 
of this jubilee of hell. The beautiful head, 
borne aloft on a gory pike, with the auburn 
tresses clotted with blood and streaming 
down the staff, is waved over the crowd, 
and made to nod in grim salutation to the 
fiends that dance in horrid mirth around it. 
" Ca iraf^ yes, that will do, but God is not 
yet dead, nor his laws destroyed. A thou- 
sand are butchered, but, Robespierre, thou 
i^alt yet acknowledge, in other ways than 



68 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

by a magnificent fete and pompous declam* 
ation, there is a God in heaven that rules 
over the afGsiirs of men ! Thou hast awak- 
ened elements thou canst not control, and 
raised a storm thou canst not lay again ! — 
And I was standing on the very spot where 
these scenes had been enacted. The tread 
of hasty feet were around me, and all the 
hurry and bustle of city life. I looked on 
the pavements, but they were not bloody ; 
and on the passing throng, and they were 
not armed. Nay, no one but myself seemed 
conscious they were treading over such fear- 
ful ground. They had been born, and lived 
here, and hence could see only common 
walks and pavement around them ; while I, 
a stranger, could think of nothing but that 
terrible earthquake that shook France and 
tha world. 

Oh ! how impotent does man and his 
strifes appear after the tumult is over, and 
the Divine laws are seen moving on in their 
accustomed way. Like the Alpine storm 
and cloud that wrap the steadfast peak, do 



THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 69 

the passions and conflicts of men hide the 
truth of heaven till it seems to have been 
carried away for ever ; but like that Alpine 
peak when the storm is over, is its clear 
summit seen to repose as calmly against the 
blue sky as if perpetual sunshine had rested 
on its head. 

As I passed over to the " Place du Car- 
rousel," where the artillery was placed that 
Robespierre endeavored in vain to make fire 
on the Convention that voted his overthrow 
by acclamation, I could plainly see how 
naturally every thing proceeded, from the 
abrogation of the Sabbath, and the renuncia- 
tion of the Deity, to that awful Reign of 
Terror. Cut a nation loose from the re- 
straints of Divine law, and there is nothing 
short of anarchy. Release man from the 
tremendous sway of obligation, and he is a 
fiend at once Take conscience from him, 
and put passion in its place, and you hurl 
him as far as Satan fell when cast out of 
heaven. The course of Robespierre was 
necessarj'^ after he had commenced his Jaco- 



70 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

binical career. He had destroyed all ll 
means by which rulers secure their safe 
except fear. But fear could not be kept 
without constant deaths. Besides, he thoue 
to reUeve himself from his enemies by di 
troying them, forgetting that cruelty mail 
foes faster tha)i power can slay them. £ 
the hour which mnM sooner or later con 
finally arrived, and Paris awoke to her cc 
dition. The guillotine, which had here 
fore chopped off only the heads of tlie upj 
classes, began now to descend on the citizc 
and conmion people. There seemed no e 
to this indiscriminate slaughter, and the wa 
that had been sent so far, now began to b 
ance for its backward march. Robespie 
had slain aristocrats, and finally his c 
companions in blood ; and now saw t 
storm gathering over his own head. Ma: 
had gone to his account long before — Ds 
ton, Camille, and Des Moulins had follow 
their murdered victims to the scaflfold, a 
now, when Robespierre should fall, the see 
would change. It is sometimes singular 



THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 71 

see the coincidence of events as if on puri)ose 
to make the truth thev would teach more 
emphatic. After " Down with the tyrant !" 
which thundered on the eairs of the doomed 
man from the whole Convention, till he had 
to flee for his life, he went to this very Hotel 
de Ville, where the awful massacre of the 
2d of September commenced. After defend- 
ing himself with his friends in vain, against 
the soldiery, the building was surrendered, 
and the room of the tyrants, entered. There 
sat Robespierre, with his elbows on his knees 
and his head resting on his hands. A pistol- 
shot fired broke his under jaw, and he fell 
under the table. Couthon made feeble efforts 
to commit suicide, while Le Bas blew out 
his own brains. Robespierre and Couthon, 
supposed to be dead, were dragged by the 
heels to the Seine, and were about to be 
thrown in, when they were discovered to be 
alive, and carried to the Committee of Gen- 
eral Safety. There, for nine hours, he lay 
stretched on the very table on which he used 
to sign the death-warrants of his victims. — 



72 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

What a place and what time to ponder, 
suits and curses were heaped on him, a 
lay there bleeding and suffering — the 
act of humanity extended to him beir 
wipe the foam from his mouth. As i 
purpose to give more impressiveness tc 
terrific scene, he had on the very blue 
he had worn in pomp and pride at the 
' val of the Supreme Being. It was 

stained with his own blood, which he 
in vain to stanch. Poor man ! writhin 
torture on the table where he signec 
death-warrants, in the very blue coat 
made him conspicuous when he atten 
to re-enthrone the Deity, what a lesso 
furnishes to infidel man to remotest gei 
tions. But this was not all ; the guilk 
which had been removed, was rolled ba 
the Place de Revolution, so that he an< 
companions might perish on the very 
where they themselves had witnesse 
many executions of their own comman< 
Led by my own feelings, I slowly wane 
back to the Place de Revolution to wii 



THE FBENCH REVOLUTIOir. 78 

a imagination the closing up of the great 
ragedy. As Robespierre ascended the scaf- 
bld, the blood burst through the bandages 
hat covered his jaw, and his forehead be- 
came gh astly pale. Curses and imprecations 
imote his ear; and one woman, breaking 
hrough the crowd, exclaimed, " Murderer 
rf all my kindred, your agony fills me with 
oy ; descend to hell, covered with the curses 
)f every mother in France !" As the execu- 
ioner tore the bandage from his face, the un- 
ler jaw fell on his breast, and he uttered a 
ell of terror that froze every heart that heard 
with horror. The last sounds that fell on 
s dying ear, were shouts of joy that the 
rant was fallen. The people wept in joy, 
len they saw that the monsters that had 
ik France in blood were no more, and 
vded round the scaffold embracing each 
tr in transport. One poor man came up 
le lifeless body of Robespierre, and after 
ig in silence on it for some time, said, 
lemn accents, " Yes, Robespierre, there 
God !" There is a God ! was the 

4 



74 THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 

shriek France sent up from round that scof- 
fbld, and its echo has not since died away 
on the nations of Europe, ^nd shall not till 
remotest time — for ever uttering in the ears 
of the infidel ruler, " Beware !" 

I have gone over these scenes of the Revo- 
lution just as they were suggested to me as 
I looked on the places where they occurred. 
I never before was so impressed with the 
truth, that an irreligious nation cannot long 
survive as such. Especially in a republican 
government — where physical force is almost 
powerless, and moral means, or none, can 
restrain the passions of men — will the remo- 
val of religious restraints end in utter anar- 
chy. Men, governing themselves, are apt to 
suppose they can make Divine laws as well 
as human, and adopt the blasphemous senti- 
ment '* Vox populi, vox Dei /' a sentiment 
which, long acted upon, will bury the bright- 
est republic that ever rose to cheer the heart 
of man. Rulers may try the experiment of 
ruling without a God, if they like ; but the 
nation will eventually whisper above their 
forms, "There is a God P • • 



NAPOLEON. 

One morning as I strolled from the 
Hotel de Meurice (the Astor House of Paris), 
in search of rooms, I stumbled on an object 
which for a moment held me by a deeper 
spell than anything I had seen in France. 
In the Rue Victoire, close beside the princi- 
pal baths of the city, stands a small house 
several rods from the street, and approached 
by a narrow lane. It is situated in the 
midst of a garden, and was the residence of 
Josephine when the young Napoleon first 
yielded his heart to her charms. The young 
soldier had then never dreamed of the won- 
drous destiny that awaited him, nor had 
surrendered his soul to that wasting ambi- 
tion which consumed every generous quality 
of his nature, and every pure feeling of his 
heart. Filled with other thoughts than 
those of unlimited dominion, and dlreaming 



76 NAPOLEON. 

of Other things than fierce battle-fields, he 
would turn his footsteps hither, to pour 
the tale of his affections in Josephine's ear. 
His heart throbbed more violently before a 
single look and a single voice, than it ever 
did amid the roar of artillery and the sound 
of falling armies. The eye before which 
the world qyailed at last, and the pride of 
kings went down, fell at the gaze of a single 
woman, and her flute-like voice stirred his 
youthful blood wilder than the shout of 
" Vive V Empereur /" from the enthusiastic 
legions that cheered him as he advanced. 
Those were the purest days of his existence, 
and we believe the only happy ones he ever 
passed. When the crown of an emperor 
pressed his thoughtful forehead, he must 
have felt that it was better to be loved by 
one devoted heart, than feared by a score of 
kings. As I stood before the humble dwell- 
ing, and thought of the monuments of 
Bonaparte's fame that covered France and 
the world, I could not but feel how poor a 
choice he made after all. Surrendering the 



NAPOLEON. 77 

pure joy that springs from affection, and the 
heaven of a quiet home for the tumult of 
armies and the crown of thorns which 
imholy ambition wears, he wrecked his own 
happiness and soul together. He made life 
one great battle-field, and drove his chariot 
of war over heaps of slain, and up to the 
axletrees in human blood, to gain at last — a 
grave. He could have had thcU without 
such labor, and one, too, over which does 
not hang such darkness and gloom as rest 
on his. How often, in the midst of his power, 
must that voice of singular melody, whose 
tones, it is said, would arrest him in the 
midst of the gayest assembly, have fallen on 
his ear like a rebuking spirit, telling him of 
his baseness, and bringing back faint echoes 
of that life he never could live again. 

The Christian cannot muse over his 
many fields of blood without the deepest exe- 
cration of Bonaparte's character. The war- 
rior may recount the deeds wrought in that 
mighty conflict, but the Cliristian's eye looks 
f^u^er— to the broken hearts it has made, 



78 NAPOLEON. 

and to the fearful retributions of the judg- 
ment We will not speak of the physical 
suffering crowded into this one day, fox we 
cannot appreciate it. The sufferings of one 
single man with his shattered bones pier- 
cing him as he struggles in his pain ; his 
suffocation, and thirst, and bitter prayers 
drowned amid the roar of battle ; his men- 
tal agony as he thinks of his wife and chil- 
dren ; his last death-shriek, are utterly in- 
conceivable. Multiply the sum of this man's 
suffering by twenty thousand, and the ag- 
gregate who could tell ? Then charge all 
this over to one marfs ambition, and who 
shall measure his guilt, or say how dark and 
terrible his doom should be? Bonaparte 
was a man of great intellect, but he stands 
charged with crimes that blacken and tor- 
ture the soul for ever, and his accusers and 
their witnesses will rise from almost every 
field in Europe and come in crowds from 
the banks of the Nile. He met and con- 
quered many armies, but never stood face to 
face with such a terrible array as when he 



NAPOLEON. 79 

be summoned from his grave to meet 
host of witnesses. The murderous 
ery, the terrific charge, and the head- 
courage will then avail him nothing, 
h, and Justice, and Mercy, are the only 
rs there, and they cannot help him. 
od them down in his pride and fury, 
hey shall tread him down for ever, 
ssaulted the peace and happiness of the 
, and the day of reckoning is sure, 
ut his glory above all human good oi 
id drove his chariot over a pathway of 
m hearts, and the God of the human 
shall avenge them and abase him. I 
not what good he did in founding in- 
ions and overturning rotten thrones; 
was not his object, but personal glory, 
es, this sacking and burning down 
to build gteater, has always been a 
ite measure with conquerors and the 
ite apology with their eulogizers. It 
3e in fact, and false if true in the infer- 
irawn from it. It is not true that im- 
ment was his purpose, nor does it ex- 



80 NAPOLEON. 

culpate him if it was. Grod does not permi/ 
man to produce happiness this way without 
a special command. When he wishes a cor- 
rupt nation or people to be swept away, he 
sends his earthquake or pestilence, or if man 
is to be his anointed instrument, he anoints 
him in the presence of the world. He may, 
and does, allow one wicked thing to scourge 
another, but the scourger is a criminal while 
he fulfils the design, for he acts not for the 
Deity, but for himself. The grand outline 
of Bonaparte's mental character^ — the great 
achievements he performed — the mighty 
power he wielded, and the awe with which 
he inspired the world, have blinded men to 
his true character, and he remains half 
apotheosised to this day, while the sadness 
of his fate — ^being sent to eat out his heart 
on a solitary rock in mid ocean — ^has cre- 
ated a morbid sympathy for him, anything 
but manly or just. The very manner ol 
his death we think has contributed to this 
wi*ong feeling. Dying amid an awful storm, 
while trees were falUng and the sea flinging 



NAPOLKCJN. 81 

6lf as if in convulsions far up on the island, 
ive imparted something of the supematu- 
I to him. And then his fierceness to the 
St, for though the night was wild and 
rrible, a wilder uight was over his heart, 
id his spirit in its last fitful struggle, was 
sitchins: the current of a heavy fight, and 
s last dying words were tete dParmee^ 
lead of the army.' He has gone, and his 
ighty armies with him, but the day shall 
me when the world shall read his his- 
ry as they read that of CsBsar Borgia, and 
lint to his tomb with a shudder. 
Condemn as we may the character of 
apoleon, and who does not ? — read the re- 
rd an outraged world has written against 
m, till he stands a criminal before heaven 
id earth, still, one cannot find himself be- 
ie the form that once shook Europe with 
i tread, without the profoundest emotions. 
It the arm that ruled the world lies still, 
id the thoughtful forehead on which na- 
»ns gazed to read their destiny, is now 
ly a withered skoll, and the bosom that 



82 M^POLEON. 

was the home of such wild ambition, is ful7 
of ashes. 

The grave is a reckless leveller, and he 
who * met at last God's thunder,' is only one 
of the thousands he left on his battle-fields. 
His fierce onsets, and terrible passages, and 
wasting carnage, and Waterloo defeats arc 
all over. Crumbling back to dust amid a 
few old soldiers, left as a mockery of the 
magnificent legions he was wont to lead to 
battle, he reads a silent, most impressive 
lesson on ambition to the world. I turned 
away in the deepening twilight, feeling that 
[ would not sleep in Bonaparte's grave for 
Bonaparte's fame. 



'fAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 

PoRTY-sEVEN ycais ago, a fonn was 
•een standing on Mount Tabor with which 
the world has since become familiar. It 
was a bright spring morning, and as he sat 
on his steed in the clear sunlight, his eye 
^ted on a scene in the vale below, which 
^as sublime and appalling enough to quick- 
^^ the pulsations of the calmest heart. That 
form was Napoleon Bonaparte, and the 
scene before him the fierce and terrible 
"Battle op Mount Tador." From 
Na-zarelh. where the Saviour once trod, 
Kleber had marched with three thousand 
''^I'ench soldiers forth into the plain, whfii 
^^j at the foot of Mwnt Tabor he saw the 
^^hoje Turkish aifi|[^ drawn up in order ol 
battle. Fifteen ^^^p)iisand infantry and 
twelve thoiTsajid splendid cavalry nu)vcd 
f*own in majestic strength on this hand ot* 
^nree thousand French. Kleberhad st-ixice- 



84 NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 

ly time to throw his handful of men into 
squares, with the cannon at the angles, 
before those twelve thousand horse, making 
the earth smoke and thunder as they came, 
burst into a headlong gallop upon them. 
But round those steady squares rolled a 
fierce devouring fire, emptying the saddles 
of those wild horsemen with frightful rapid- 
ity, and strewing the earth with the bodies 
of riders and steeds together. Again and 
again did those splendid squadrons wheel, 
re-form and charge with deafening shouts, 
while their uplifted and flashing scimitars 
gleamed like a forest of steel through the 
smoke of battle, but that same wasting fire 
received them; till those squares seemed 
bound by a girdle of flame, so rapid and 
constant were the discharges. Before their 
certain and deadly aim, as they stood fight- 
ing for existence, the JMegrging squadrons 
fell so fast that a ramp4ibf dead bodies was 
soon formed around tKem. ' Behind this 
embankment of dead men and horses this 
band of warriors stood and fought for six 



NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 85 

dreadful hours, and was still steadily thin- 
ning the ranks of the enemy, when Napoleon 
debouched with a single division on Mount 
Tabor, and turned his eye below. What a 
scene met his gaze. The whole plain was 
filled with marching columns and charging 
squadrons of wildly galloping steeds, while 
the thunder of cannon and fierce rattle of 
musketry, amid which now and then was 
heard the blast of thousands of trumpets, and 
strains of martial music filled all the air. 
The smoke of battle was rolling furiously 
over the hosts, and all was confusion and chaos 
in his sight. Amid the twenty-seven thous- 
and Turks that crowded the plain and en- 
veloped their enemy like a cloud, and amid 
the incessant discharge of artillery and mus- 
ketry, Napoleon could tell where his own 
brave troops were struggling, only by the 
steady sinmltaneous volleys which showed 
how discipline was contending with the 
wild valor of overpowering numbers. The 
constant flashes from behind that rampart 
of dead bodies were like spots of flame on 



86 NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 

the tumultuous and chaotic field. Napokor 
descended from Mount Tabor with his little 
band, while a single twelve-pounder, fired 
from th.e heights, told the wearied Kleber 
that he was rushing to the rescue. Then 
for the first time he took the oflfensive, and 
pouring his enthusiastic followers on the foe? 
carried death and terror over the field. — 
Thrown into confusion, and trampled undei^ 
foot, that mighty army rolled turbulentiy 
back toward the Jordan, where Murat wa.s 
anxiously waiting to mingle in the figh't* 
Dashing with his cavalry among the disoxr- 
dered ranks, he sabred them down withou^^ 
mercy, and raged like a lion amid the 
This chivalric and romantic warrior 
that the remembrance of the scenes th^ ^^ 
once transpired on Mount Tabor, and ^■dd 
these thrice consecrated spots, came to h"Sff^ 
in the hottest of the fight and nerved h- ^m 
with tenfold courage. 

As the sun went down over the plaini^ of 
Palestine, and twilight shed its dim ray o^ver 
the rent and trodden and dead-covered fi^^M 



NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 87 

a sulphurous cloud hung around the sum- 
rait of Mount Tabor. The smoke of battle 
had settled there where once the cloud of 
glory rested, while groans and shrieks and 
cries rent the air. Nazareth, Jordan and 
Mount Tabor ! what spots for battle-fields ! 
Roll back twenty centuries, and again 
view that hill. The day is bright and beau- 
tiful as then, and the same rich oriental land- 
scape is smiling in the same sun. There is 
Nazsureth with its busy population — the 
same Nazareth from which Kleber marched 
his army : and there is Jordan rolling its 
bright waters along — the same Jordan along 
wfaflKse banks charged the glittering squad- 
mont of Murat's cavalry : and there is Mount 
Tabor — the same on which Bonaparte stood 
^ith his cannon; and the same beautiful 
plain where rolled the smoke of battle, and 
struggled thirty thousand men in mortal 
combat. But how different is the scene that 
is passing there. The Son of God stands 
%n that height, and casts his eyes over the 
quiet valley through which Jordan winds its 



88 NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 

silver current. Three friends are beside 
him : they have walked together up the 
toilsome way, and now the four stand, mere 
specks on the distant summit. Far away to 
the north-west shines the blue Mediterranean 
— all around is the great plain of Esdraelon 
and Galilee — eastward, the lake of Tiberias 
dots the landscape, while Mount Carmel 
lifts its naked summit in the distance." But 
the glorious landscape at their feet is forgot- 
ten in a sublimer scene that is passing be- 
fore them. The son of Mary — the carpen- 
ter of Nazareth— the wanderer with whom 
they have ate and drank and travelled on 
foot many a weary league, in all the intima- 
cy of companions and friends, begins to 
change before their eyes. Over his soiled 
and coarse garments is spreading a strange 
light, steadily brightening into intenser beau 
ty, till that form glows with such splendor 
that it seems to waver to and fro and dissolve 
the still radiance. 

The three astonished friends gaze on it in 
speechless admiration, then turn to that fa- 



NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 89 

miliar face. But lo, a greater change has 
passed over it. The man has put on the 
God, and that sad and solenm countenance 
which has been so often seen stooping over 
the couch of the dying, and entering the 
door of the hut of poverty, and passing 
through the streets of Jerusalem, and paus- 
ing by the weary wayside — aye, bedewed 
with the tears of pity — now burns like the 
sun in his mid-day splendor. Meekness has 
given way to majesty — sadness to daz- 
zling glory — the look of pity to the grandeur 
of a God^ The still radiance of heaven sits 
on that serene brow, and all aroimd that 
divine form flows an atmosphere of strange 
and wondrous beauty. Heaven has poured 
its brightness over that consecrated spot, and 
on the beams of light which glitter there, 
Moses and Elias have descended; and 
wrapped in the, same., shining vestments, 
stand beside him. Wonder follows wonder, 
for those three glittering forms are talking 
with each other, and amid the thrilling ac- 
cents are heard the words, " Mount Olivet," 



90 NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 

" Calvary," the agony, and the death of the 
crucifixion. Peter, awe-struck and over- 
come, feeling also the influence of that heav- 
enly atmosphere, and carried away by a 
sudden impulse, says to Jesus, in low and 
tremulous accents : " It is good to be here ; 
let us build three tabernacles ; one for thee, 
one for Moses, and one for Elias." Confu- 
sed by the scenes and dazzled by the splen- 
dor, he was ignorant what he was saying. 
He knew not the meaning of this sudden 
appearance, but he knew that heaven was 
near and God revealing himself, and he 
felt that some sacred ceremony would be 
appropriate to the scene ; and while his be- 
wildered gaze, was fixed on the three forms 
before him, his unconscious lips mvumured 
forth the feelings of his heart. No wonder 
a sudden fear came over him, that paraljrzed 
his tongue and crushed him to the earth 
when in the midst of his speech he saw • 
cloud fall like a falling star from heavei 
and, bright and dazzling, balance itself ov 
those forms of light Perhaps his indiscre 



NAPOLEON AND CHRIST. 91 

intemiption had brought this new messen- 
ger down, and from its bosom the thunder 
and flame of Sinai were to burst ; and he 
fell on his face in silent terror. But that 
cloud was only a canopy for its God, and 
from its bright foldings came a voice, say- 
ing, " This is my beloved Son, in whom I 
am well pleased, hear ye him." 

Oh, how different is heaven and earth ! 
Can there be a stranger contrast than the 
Battle and Transfiguration of Mount Tabor ? 
One shudders to think of Bonaparte and the 
Son of God on the same mountain : one 
with his wasting cannon by his side, and 
the other with Moses and Elias just from 
heaven. 



MURAT. 

Murat's three distinguishing characterise 
tics were, high chivalric courage, great skill 
as a general, and almost unparalleled cool- 
ness in the hour of extremest peril. Added 
to all this, Nature had lavished her gifts on 
the mere physical man. His form was tall 
and finely proportioned — his tread like that 
of a king — ^his face striking and noble, while 
his piercing glance few men could bear.— 
This was Murat on foot, but place him on 
horseback, and he was still more imposing. 
He never mounted a steed that was not 
worthy of the boldest knight of ancient days, 
and his incomparable seat made both horse 
and rider an object of universal admiration. 
The English invariably condemn the theat- 
rical costume he always wore, as an evidence 
of folly, but we think it is all in keeping with 
his character. He was not a man of deep 



MURAT. 93 

It and compact mind, but he was an 
il in his tastes, and loved every thing 
us and imposing. He usually wore 
Polish dress, with the collar oma- 
i with gold brocade, ample pantaloons, 
; or purple, and embroidered with gold; 
Df yellow leather, while a straight dia- 
hilted sword, like that worn by the 
t Romans, hanging from a girdle of 
rocade, completed his dashing exterior, 
ore heavy black whiskers, and long 
locks, which streamed over his shoul- 
id contrasted singularly with his fiery 
sye. On his head he wore q, three^ 
3d chapeau, from which rose a magni- 
white plume that bent under the pro- 
of ostrich feathers, while beside it, 
the same gold band, towered away e 
id heron plume. Over all this brii- 
jostume he wore, in cold weather, a 
of green velvet, lined and fringed 
le costliest sables. Neither did he for- 
horse in this gorgeous appareling, but 
m adorned with the rich Turkish stir- 



94 MUBAT. 

rup and bridle, and almost covered with 
azure-colored trappings. Had all this finery 
been piled on a din^inutive man, or an indif- 
ferent rider like Bonaparte, it would have 
appeared ridiculous ; but on the splendid 
chai^er and still more majestic figure and 
bearing of Murat, it seemed all in place and 
keeping. This dazzling exterior always 
made him a mark for the enemy's bullets in 
battle, and it is a wonder that so conspicu- 
ous an object was never shot down. Per- 
haps there never was a greater contrast be- 
tween two men than between Murat and 
Napoleon, when they rode together along the 
lines previous to battle. The square figure, 
plain three-cornered hat, leather breeches, 
brown surtout, and careless seat of Napo- 
leon, were the direct counterpart of the mag- 
nificent display and imposing attitude of his 
chivalric brother-in-law. To see Murat 
decked out in this extravagant costume at a 
review, might create a smile ; but whoever 
once saw that gayly-caparisoned steed with 
its commanding rider in the front rank of 



MURAT. 96 

battle, plunging like a thunderbolt through 
the broken ranks, or watched the progress of 
that towering white plume, as floating high 
over the tens of thousands that struggled 
behind it — a constant mark to the cannon- 
balls that whistled Uke hailstones around it 
— never felt like smiling again at Murat. — 
Especially would he forget those gilded trap- 
pings when he saw him return from a Charge, 
with his diamond-hilted sword dripping with 
blood, his gay uniform riddled with balls 
and singed and blackened with powder, 
while his strong war-horse was streaked with 
foam and blood, and reeking with sweat. — 
That white plume was the banner to the 
host he led, and, while it continued flutter- 
ing over the field of' the slain, hope was 
never relinquished. Many a time has Napo- 
leon seen it glancing like a beam of light to 
the chaise, and watched its progress like the 
star of his destiny, as it struggled for awhile 
in the hottest of the fight, and then smiled 
in joy as he beheld it burst through the thick 



rallies of iofantry, scattering them &om his 
path like chaff before the wind. 

We said the three great distinguishing 
tiaits of Murat were high chiTalric courage, 
great skill as a general, and wonderful cool- 
ness in the hour of danger. Napoleon once 
■ said, that in battle he was probably the bra- 
vest man in the world. There was some- 
thing more than mere success to him in a 
battle. He invested it with a sort of glory 
in itself — threw an air of romance about it 
all, and fought frequently, we believe, almost 
in an imaginary world. The device on his 
sword, so like the knights of old — his very 
costume, copied from those warriors who 
lived in more chivalric days, and his heroic 
manner and bearing as be led his troops into 
battle, prove him to be wholly imlike all 
other generals of that time. 

None could appreciate this chivalrous bear- 
ing of Murat more than the wild Cossacks. 
In the memorable Russian campaign, he was 
called from his throne at Naples to take com- 
mand of the cavahy, and performed prodi- 



MUBAT. 9T 

es of valor in that disastrous war. When 
le steeples and towers of Moscow at length 
»se on the sight, Murat, looking at his soiled 
ad battle-worn garments, declared thein 
nbecoming so great an occasion as the tri- 
mphal entrance into the Russian capital, 
nd retired and dressed himself in his most 
lagnificent costume, and thus appareled 
Kie at the head of his squadrons into the 
3serted city. The Cossacks had never seen 
man that would compare with Murat in 
le splendor of his garb, the beauty of his 
Drsemanship, and, more than all, in his in- 
•edible daring in battle. Those wild chil- 
ren of the desert would often stop, amazed^ 
ad gaze in silent admiration, as they saw 
im dash, single-handed, into the thickest of 
leir ranks, and scatter a score of their most 
snowned warriors from his path, as if he 
ere a bolt from heaven. His eflfect upon 
lese children of nature, and the prodigies 
B wrought among them, seem to belong to 
le age of romance rather than to our prac- 
cal times. They never saw him on his 

6 



98 MURAT. 

magnificent steed, sweeping to the charge, 
his tall white plume streaming behind him, 
without sending up a shout of admiration 
before they closed m conflict. 

In approaching Moscow, Murat, with a 
few troops, had left Gjatz somewhat in ad* 
vance of the grand army, and finding him* 
self constantly annoyed by the hordes of 
Cossacks that hovered around him, now 
wheeling away in the distance, and now 
dashing up to his columns, compelling them 
to deploy, lost all patience, and obeying one 
of those chivalric impulses that so often 
hurled him into the most desperate straits, 
put spurs to his horse, and galloping *all alone 
up to the astonished squadrons, halted right 
in front of them, and cried out in a tone of 
command, *' Clear the way, reptiles !" Awed 
by his manner and voice, they immediately 
dispersed. — During the armistice, while the 
Russians were evacuating Moscow, these 
sons of the wlderness flocked by thousands 
around him. As they saw him reining his 
high-spirited steed towards them, they sent 



MVRAT. 99 

Lip a shout of applause, and rushed forward 
to gaze on one they had seen carrying such 
terrors through their ranks. They called 
him their "hetman/' — the highest honor they 
could confer on him — and kept up an inces- 
sant jargon as they examined him and his 
richly caparisoned horse. They would now 
point to his steed — now to his costume, and 
then to liis white plume, while they fairly 
recoiled before his piercing glance. Murat 
was so much pleased by the homage of these 
simple-hearted warriors, that he distributed 
simong them all the money he had, and all 
lie could borrow from the oflBcers about him, 
uid finaHy his watch, and then the watches 
>f his friends. He had made many presents 
to them before ; for often, in battle, he would 
select out the most distinguished Cossack 
wrarrior, and plunging directly into the midst 
3f the enemy engage him single-handed, and 
take him prisoner, and afterwards, dismiss 
liim with a gold chain about his neck, or 
itome other rich ornament attached to his 
person. 



1505^^ 



THE PASSAGE OF THE SPLUGEN. 

** It was on the 20th of November when 
Macdonald commenced his preparations. A 
constant succession of snow-storms had filled 
lip the entire path, so that a single man on 
foot would not have thought of making the 
attempt. But, when he had made up his 
mind to do a thing, that was the end of all 
impossibilities. The cannon were dismount- 
ed, and placed on sleds, to which oxen were 
attached — the ammunition divided about on 
the backs of mules, while every soldier had 
to carry, besides his usual arms, fiive packets 
of cartridges and five days' provisions. The 
guides went in advance, and stuck down 
long black poles, to indicate the course of the 
path beneath, while, behind them, came the 
workmen, clearing away the snow, and, be- 
hind them still, the mounted dragoons, with 
the most powerful horses of the army, to beat 



PASSAGE OF THE SPLUGEN. lOi 

down the way. The first company had ad- 
vanced in this manner nearly half-way to 
the summit, and were approaching the hos- 
pice, when a low moaning was heard among 
the hills, like the voice of the sea hefore a 
storm. The guides understood too well its 
meaning, and gazed on each other in alarm. 
The ominous sound grew louder every mo- 
ment, till suddenly the fierce Alpine blast 
swept in a cloud of snow over the breast of 
the mountain, and howled like an unchained 
demon through the gorge below. In an in- 
stant, all was confusion, and blindness, and 
uncertainty. The very heavens were blot- 
ted out, and the frightened cohimn stood and 
listened to the raving tempest, that threaten- 
ed to lift the rock-rooted pines that shrieked 
above them from their places, and bring 
down the very Alps themselves. But sud- 
denly another still more alarming sound was 
heard amid the storm — * An avalanche ! an 
avalanche !" shrieked the guides, and the 
next moment an awful white form came 
leaping down the mountain, and, striking 



102 PASSAGE OF THE SPLUGEN. 

the column that was struggling along the 
path, passed straight through it into the gulf 
below, carrying thirty dragoons and their 
horses along with it in its wild plunge. The 
black form of a steed and its rider was seen 
for one moment suspended in mid-heavens, 
and the next disappeared among the ice and 
crags below. The head of the column im- 
mediately pushed on, and reached the hos- 
pice in safety ; while the rear, separated 
from it by the avalanche, and struck dumb 
by this sudden apparition crossing their path 
with such lightning-like velocity, and bear- 
ing to such an awful death their brave com- 
rades, refused to proceed, and turned back 
to the village of Splugen. For three days 
the storm raged amid the mountains, filling 
the heavens with snow, and hurling avalan- 
ches into the path, till it became so filled up 
that the guides declared it would take fifteen 
days to open it again so as to make it at all 
passable. But fifteen days Macdonald could 
not spare. Independent of the urgency of 
his commands, there was no way to provision 



PASSAGE OF THE SPLUOEN. 103 

his army iu these savage solitudes, and he 
must proceed . He ordered four of the strong- 
est oxen that could be found to be led in ad- 
vance by the best guides. Forty peasants 
followed behind, clearing away and beating 
down the snow, and two companies of sap- 
pers came after, to give still greater consis- 
tency to the track, while on their heels 
inarched the remnant of the company of the 
dragoons, part of which had been borne 
away by the avalanche, three days before. 
The post of danger was given them at their 
own request. They presented a strange 
sight amid those Alpine solitudes. Those 
oxen, with their horns just peering above the 
snow, toiled slowly on, pushing their un- 
wieldy bodies through the drifts, while the 
soldiers, up to their armpits, struggled be- 
hind. Not a drum nor bugle-note cheered 
the solitude, or awoke the echoes of those 
snow-covered peaks. The footfall gave back 
DO sound in the soft snow, and the words of 
command seemed smothered in the very 
atmosphere. Silently, noiselessly, the mighty 



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PASSAGE OF THE SPLUGEN. 105 

>n a huge block of ice and a newly fallen 
ilanche, that entirely filled up the way. 
le guides halted before these new obsta- 
s, and refused to proceed, and the head of 
{ column wheeled about and began its 
rch down the mountain. Macdonald im- 
diately hastened forward, and, placing 
aself at the head of his men, walked on 
t, with a long pole in his hand, to sound 
! treacherous mass he was treading upon, 
ile he revived the drooping spirits of the 
iiers with words of encouragement. — 
oldiers," said he, "your destinies call you 
3 Italy ; advance and conquer, first the 
untain and the snow, then the plains and 

armies." Ashamed to see their general 
warding his life at every step, where they 
i refused to go, they returned cheerfully 
their toil. But, before they could effect 

passage, the voice of the hurricane was 
lin heard on its march, and the next mo- 
nt a cloud of driving snow obliterated 
ry thing from view. The path was filled 

and all traces of it swept utterly away. 



106 PASSAGE OF THE SPLUOEN. 

Amid the screams of the guides, the confa- 
sed commands of the officers, and the howl- 
ing of the storm, came the rapid thunder- 
crash of avalanches. 

Then commenced again the awful strug- 
gle of the army for life. The foe they had 
to contend with was not one of flesh and 
blood. To sword-cut, bayonet-thrust^ and 
the blaze of artillery, the strong Alpine storm 
was alike invulnerable. On the serried 
column and straggling line, it thundered 
with the same reckless power, while, over 
all, the sifted snow lay like one vast wind- 
ing-sheet. No one, who has not seen an 
Alpine storm, can imagine the fearful energy 
Avith which it rages through the mountains. 
The light snow, borne aloft en its bosom, is 
whirled and scattered like an ocean of mist 
over all things. Such a storm now piled 
around them the drifts, which seemed to 
form instantaneously, as by the touch of a 
magician's wand. All was mystery and 
darkness, gloom and terror. The storm had 
sounded its trumpet for the charge, but na 



PASSAGE OF THE SPLUQEN. 107 

te of defiance replied* The heroes of so 
iny battle-fields stood in still terror before 
is new and mightier foe. Cro^-'ding to- 
ther, as though proximity added to their 
fety, the disordered column crouched and 
ivered to the blast, that seemed to pierce 
eir very bones with its chilling cold. But 
e piercing cold, and drifting snow, and 
ging storm, and concealed pitfalls, were 
it enough to complete this scene of terror, 
iralanches fell in rapid succession from the 
> of the Splugen. Scaling the breast of 
\ mountain with a single leap, they came 
h a cmsh on the shivering column, bear- 
it away to the destruction that wailed 
eath. The extreme density of the atmos- 
•e, filled as it was with snow, imparted 
ite terror to these mysterious messengers 
Bath, as they came down the mountain 
nty. A low, rumbling sound would be 
amid the pauses of the storm, and, as 
ixt shriek of the blast swept by. a nish- 
of a counterblast smote the ear, and, 
the thought had time to change, a 



/ 



109 PASSAGE OF THE SPL0GEK. 

rolling, leaping, broken mass of snow burst 
through the thick atmosphere, and the next 
moment rushed with the sound of thunder, 
farj far below, bearing away a whole com- 
pany of soldiers to its deep, dark resting- 
place. 

On the evening of the 6th of December, 
the greater part of the army had passed the 
mountains, and the van had pushed on as 
far as Lake Como. From the 26th of Nov- 
ember to the 6th of December, or nearly two 
weeks, had Macdonald been engaged in this 
perilous pass. Nearly two hundred men had 
perished in the undertaking, and as many 
more mules and horses. We do not believe 
there was another general, except Ney, that 
could have succeeded in the face of such 
obstacles as Macdonald was compelled to 
struggle against. And we never in imagi- 
nation see that long straggling line,, winding 
itself like a huge anaconda over the lojfty 
snow-peak of the Splugen, with the indomi- 
table Macdonald feeling his way in finont 
covered with snow, while ever and anon 



PASSAGE OF THE SPLubsN. 109 

huge avalanches sweep by him, and the 
blinding storm covers his men and the path 
from his sight, and hear his stem, calm, clear 
voice, directing the way, without feeUngs of 
supreme wonder. There is nothing like it 
in modem history, unless it be Suwarrow's 
passage of the Glarus in the midst of a supe- 
rior enemy. Bonaparte's passage over the 
St. Bernard — so world-renowned — was mere 
child's play compared to it. That pass was 
made in pleasant weather, with nothing but 
the ruggedness of the ascent to obstract the 
progress. Suwarrow, on the contrary, led! 
his mighty army over the Schachenthaly 
breast-deep in snow, with the enemy on 
every side of him, mowing down his ranks 
without resistance. Macdonald had no ene- 
my to contend with but nature — ^but it was 
nature alive and wild. The path by which 
he led his army over the Splugea was nearly 
as bad in summer, as the St. Bemasd at the 
time Napoleon crossed it. But in midwinter 
to make a path, and lead an army of fifteen 
thousand men through hurricanes and aval- 



110 PASSAGE OF TH£ SPLUGEN. 

anches, where the foot of the Chamois scarce 
dared to tread, was an undertaking from 
which even Bonaparte himself would have 
shrunk. And Napoleon never perpetrated a 
greater falsehood, or one more unworthy of 
r him, than when he said, " The passage of 
the Splugen presented, without doubt, some 
difficulties, but winter is by no means the 
season of the year in which such operations 
are conducted with most difficulty ; the snow 
is then firm, the weather settled, and there 
is nothing to fear from the avalanches, which 
constitute the true and only danger to be ap- 
prehended in the Alps." Bonaparte would 
have us suppose that no avalanches fall in 
December, and that the passage of the Splu- 
gen in the midst of hurricanes of snow, was 
executed in " settled weather." What the 
must we think of his passage of the St. Ber — 
nard, in summer time, without a foe to m(^ - 
lest him, or an avalanche to frighten him ? 



THE RETREAT FROM RUSSIA. 

The soldiers, exhausted and despairing, 
threw their muskets from them into the snow 
drifts, and lay down by thousands to die. — 
Cold, benumbed, and famine-struck, this 
ghost of an army straggled on through the 
deep snow, with nothing but the tall pines 
swaying and roM^g mournfully in the blast 
for landmarks to the glazing eye, while an 
enraged and well-disciplined army was press- 
ing in the rear. Clouds of ravens, whose 
dusky forms glanced like spirits through the 
snow -filled air, croaked over the falling col- 
umns, while troops of dogs, that had followed 
the army from Moscow, fell on the prostrate 
forms before life was wholly extinct. The 
storm howled by as the soldiers sunk at 
night in the snow to rest, many to rise no 



( 



113 RETREAT FROM RUSSIA. 

more, while the morning sun, if it shone at 
all, looked cold and dimly down through the 
flying clouds of a northern sky. There were 
long intervals when not a drum or trumpet 
note broke the muflled tread of the stagger- 
ing legions. On the rear of such an army, 
and in sight of such horrors, did Ney com- 
bat. Nothing but a spirit unconquerable as 
fate itself could have sustained him, or kept 
alive the flagging courage of his troops. — 
Stumbling every moment over the dead bo- 
dies of their comrades who had marched but 
a few hours in advance of them, thousands 
threw away their arms hi despair, and wan- 
dered off" into the wilderness to die with cold, 
or be slain by the Cossacks. Yet Xey kept 
a firm band around him, that all the power 
of Russia could not conquer. Now ordering 
his march with the skill of a general, and 
now with musket in hand fighting like a 
common soldier, the moral force of his ex- 
ample accomplished what authority alone 
never could have done. At length, the brave 
and heroic commander seemed to have reach- 



RETREAT FROM RUSSIA. 113 

the crisis of his fate, and there was no 
'Ape from the doom that hung over him. 
le Russians had finally placed themselves 
:ween the French army and that rear- 
ard, now dwindled to a few thousand. — 
lorant of his danger, Ney was leading 
( columns through a dense fog to the banks 
the Lossmina, on which were strewed the 
id bodies of his countrymen, when a bat- 
y of forty cannon suddenly poured a des- 
ctive storm of grape-shot into the very 
irt of his ranks. The next moment, the 
ghts before him and on either side appear- 
lined with dense columns of infantry and 
illery. Ney had done all that man could 
and here his career seemed about to close. 

was ordered to capitulate. He replied, 
w marshal of France never surrenders," 
1 closing his columns marched straight 
m the batteries. Tain valor. His noble 
1 devoted followers proved themselves 
rthy of their heroic leader, but after a loss 
lalf their number they were compelled to 
re. Finding the army gradually extend- 



114 RETREAT FROM RUSSIA. 

ing itself on every side to hem him in, he 
turned back towards Smolensko for an he 
then, forming a body of four thousand m 
turned north towards the Dnieper. Hav 
reached the stream in safety, he arrauj 
his fragment of an army so as to march o 
the ice at a moment's warning, and tl 
waited three hours before crossing to all 
the weak and wounded stragglers to come 
Pressed by the most appalling dangers, 
still yielded to the dictates of mercy. Th 
on the banks of the frozen river, and diur 
this time of intense anxiety, did this strai 
indomitable man lie down with his man 
cloak around him, and sleep. Bonapa 
far in advance, struggling forward on i 
with a birch stick in his hand to keep t: 
from falUng on the ice, surrounded by 
few exhausted yet faithful followers, \ 
pressed with anxiety for the fate of Ne] 
his now last remaining hope. But the m 
shal, with only three thousand men, had & 
a wilderness between him and his empe] 
and that wilderness was filled with Cossac 



RETREAT FROM RUSSIA. 116 

For sixty mQes he struggled on with his 
weary columns amid six thousand of these 
wild warriors. At one time they got in ad- 
Tance of him, and fell unexpectedly upon 
his advanced posts, which were immediately 
driven in, and all was given up as lost But 
Ney ordered the trumpets to sound the 
charge, and with the cheering words, ''Com- 
rades, now is the moment; forward, they 
are ours," rallied their courage to the assault, 
and fhe (Cossacks fled. Thinking their gen- 
eral saw what they did not see, and that the 
enemy were cut off, the soldiers pressed for- 
ward where otherwise they would have 
yielded and fled. At length, with only^- 
teen hundred men out of the forty thousand 
with which he had started, he arrived near 
Orcha, and near the French army. When . 
Bonaparte heard of it, he exclaimed, '' I have 
three hundred millions in my coffers in the 
Tuileries, I would willingly have given them 
to save Marshal Ney." Well he might, and 
half his empire with it, for without him he 
had been a throneless emperor. The meet* 



116 RETREAT FROM RUSSIA. 

ing of Bonaparte and his brave marshal 
shows the profound impression the conduct 
of the latter had made on him. As his eye 
fell on the worn yet still proud miconquera- 
ble veteran, he exclaimed, " What a man, 
what a soldier !" But words failed to ex- 
press his admiration, and he clasped the stem 
warrior to his bosom, and embraced him 
with all the raptmre one hero embraces an- 
other. * * * * 

His last moments did not disgrace his life. 
He was called from his bed to hear his sen- 
tence read. As the preamble went on enu- 
merating his many titles, he hastily broke in 
— "Why cannot you simply call me Michael 
Ney — now a French soldier and soon a heap 
of dust ?" The last interview with his wife 
and children shook his stem heart more thaa 
all the battles he had passed through, or his^ 
approaching death. This over, he resimied^ 
his wonted calmness. In reply to one of hi^ 
sentinels, who said, " Marshal, you shouldL 
now think of death," he replied, " Do you* 
suppose any one should teach me to die ?^^ 
But recollecting himself, he added in a mildeir 



BETREAT FROM RUSSIA. 117 

ae, " Comrade, you are rigtit, send for the 
irate of St. Sulpice : I will die as becomes 
Christian !" The place is still shown in 
e gardens of the Luxemborg where he was 
:eciited. As he alighted from the coach, 
j advanced towards the file of soldiers 
•awn up as executioners, with the same 
ilm mien he was wont to exhibit on the 
jld of battle. An officer stepping forward 
bandage his eyes, he stopped him with 
6 proud interrogation, " Are you ignorant 
at for twenty-five years I have been accus- 
med to face both ball and bullets ?" He 
en took off his hat, and with his eagle eye, 
iw subdued and solenm, turned towards 
laven, said, with the same calm and de- 
led voice that had turned the tide of so 
smy battles, ^* I declare, before God and 
in, that I have never betrayed my country ; 
iy my death render her happy, Vive la 
"ance P\ He then turned to the soldiers, 
d gazing on them a moment, struck one 
nd upon his heart a|^d said, '^ My com- 
ics, fire on me." Ten balls entered him, 
d he fell dead« 



ROME. 

Let us start from the Pincian Hill on the 
northern side of Rome, and walk around its 
ruined sides, and view the corpse of this 
once mistress of the world. The features 
are here, though " Decay's effacing fingers" 
have left few of the lines of beauty. De- 
scending the magnificent flight of steps, and 
turning to the right, we are in a few mo- 
ments at the *• Piazza del Popolo," or place 
of the people. Here the gate opens tha."^ 
leads towards Florence. Turning back l>"5 
a parallel street we come down to Oorso, tfc*^® 
Broadway of Rome, and once the old Appic^^ 
Way. Having traversed a third of ite leng'^h 
we turn to the right, and after half a miL^s 
walk reach the Tiber, where the famc^i'us 
bridge of Michael Angelo crosses it to ttlie 



HOME. 119 

5astle of St. Angelo, once Adrian's Tomb, 
^assing on, the noble form of St. Peter's 
ursts on the view with its glorious front, 
nd still more magnificent double rows of 
olonnades sweeping down in a bold semi- 
ircle from either extremity. From the top 
f this church you have Rome, and the whole 
lampagna, in one coup (TobU. On the north 
nd west stretch away the Volscian, Sabine, 
nd Albanian hills ; on the south, flows the 
?iber through the low flat land to the Medi- 
3rranean, which sleeps placidly in the dis- 
ince. Around the city, on every height, 
tand magnificent villas; while,. nearer down, 
lome IS spread out like a map. The spleu- 
lor of a noonday sun is on it all, and the 
ountains before the church are sending their 
howers of diamonds towards the sky; while 
fie old Egyptian obelisk that once stood in 
nis very spot, then Nero's Circus, is dwin- 
led to a miniature shaft from this height, 
keeping along the outskirts of the city, mov- 
ig on towards the east, we ascend another 
I ill to the Convent of San Onofrio. Hero is 



120 ROME. 

another beautiful view of Rome. Beside an 
oak tree that has lately been shivered by the 
tempest, Tasso was wont to sit of an even- 
ing and look down on the queen city. He 
had been summoned there to be crowned 
with the laurel wreath, but driven by sick- 
ness to this airy and salubrious spot, he 
would here sit for hours and gaze on Rome. 
But the hour of his triumph never came, and 
he sank away and died on this hill, while 
the wreath woven for his brow was hung on 
his tomb. Sleep quietly, thou bold-hearted 
poet, for the city whose praise thou didst 
covet is a ruin, and the hall where thou didst 
expect to hear the acclamations of the great, 
has disappeared from the knowledge of man! 
Keeping on our circuit, we pass the Temple 
of Vesta, and the pjnramidal tomb of Caius 
Cestus. Turning partly back on our route, 
and keeping still on the outskirts of the city, 
we come to the "Capitol." Having ascend- 
ed its flight of steps, at the foot of which 
stands an old Roman milestone marking the 
first mile of the Appian Way, the noble area 



ROME. 121 

is before us, with the equestrian statue of 
Aurelius — the finest in the world — in the 
centre. Here Rienzi, " The last of the Tri- 
bunes," fell, in his struggle for liberty. At 
the further end, is the Palace of the Senators 
of Rome. What a mockery ! Rome has no 
senators but in name. The ancient Repub- 
lic is gone— substance and shadow ; then 
why keep alive the name ? Descending on 
the farther side, lo ! the Forum is before us ! 
Can this be Rome, and this her ancient Fo- 
rum? The Arch of Septimus Severus, cov- 
ered with its disfigured but still beautiful 
bas-reliefs, is sunk at our feet, as we lean 
against one of the remaining columns of 
** Jupiter, the Thunderer," and look away 
towards the solitary Arch of Titus at the 
farther end. The Palatine, bereft of all the 
xnagnificence the Caesars piled on its top, 
irises on the right, weighing down the heart 
Xvith its great associations ; while farther on, 
the gray old Coliseiun draws its circular 
siunmit on the sky. Here, for the first time, 
"the traveler comprehends what it all means. 

6 



122 ROME. 

The Past gives up its dead, and the dead 
rear again their palaces around him. Fancy 
calls back the Caesars — the Golden House ot 
Nero on that desolate hill, and philosophers 
slowly promenade before him along the 
shaded walks of the Forum. The steep 
Tarpeian is near by, and although its top is 
now a garden, yet, like Byron, the wanderer 
asks and answers the question the same 
moment — 

"Is this the rock of triumph— the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes 7 This the steep 
Tarpeian-^fittest goal of Treason's race 1 
The promontory where the traitor's leap 
Cured all ambition 1 Yes ! and in yon field below 
A thousand silenced factions sleep— 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloijaent air breaths, bums with Cicero." 

Yes, it is immortal ground. Here Horace 
used to walk and muse, as he himself says : 

" n>am forte via sacra, sicut meus est mos, 
Nescio quid meditans nugarum ; totus in illis.'* 

" Via Sacra /" where is it ? Buried many" 



ROME. 123 

a foot beneath the grouncL Yet, right there 
where stands the modern Capitol, once stood 
The Capitol to which the Roman orators 
so often pointed to give effect to their appeals ; 
there Caius Gracchus directed the eyes of his 
hearers; and, in the language of despair, 
asked if he could find refuge there, while the 
blood of his brother still smoked on its pave- 
ment. Thither Cicero turned, when, raining 
his accusations on Catiline, he burst forth 
into thanks to the gods that presided on that 
hill, and exclaimed, Ita presentes his tempo- 
ribus opem et auaHium nobis tulervnt, tit eos 
pome oculis videri possimus ! " So palpably 
have they been with us in these times, bring- 
ing aid and succor, that we can almost see 
them with our eyes P' So musing, the hill 
assumes its olden splendor, when the airy 
marble glittered along its summit, and stat- 
ues of gods seemed guarding its Capitol; 
and silver, and gold, and precious stones 
made it the admiration of the world. But 
the structure which the imagination reared 
melts away — the Caesars are shadows — the 



124 ROME. 

lizard crawls over their ancient palaces, and 
the night bird sits and whistles in the old 
Forum. It is true that here Catiline trod, 
urged on by his fiery ambition — ^here Cicero 
thundered and grave senators listened. But 
how changed has every thinfg become ! — 
There still bends the Arch of Titus, reared 
to grace his return from the conquest of Jeru- 
salem. Then the haughty victor marched 
to the sound of music along the way, with 
the spoils of the Holy City carried before 
him, and the weeping train of Judah's cap- 
tives following his triumphal chariot. Then 
the Palace of the Caesars rose in its glory 
over the Forum, and the Capitol looked 
down upon them laden with the trophies of 
a hundred battles. Now, solitary and lone- 
ly, it stands amid the surrounding ruins. — 
Stretched away from its triumphal ciurve are 
rape waUcs, with the unconscious spinners 
leisurely weaving their lines in the setting 
sun. Titus and the Jewish captives rest to- 
gether. The triumph of the one and the 
suffermgs of the other are alike forgotten. — 



ROME. 125 

The rope-spinner owns the Via Sacra, and 
the Forum is a Cow-market ! What a satire 
on human pride and human ambition ! The 
seats of grave senators of Rome usurped by 
cows from the Campag^ial and the eloquence 
of Cicero superseded by the wrangling of a 
cattle-market! while, instead of schemes that 
involved the fate of a world in their comple 
tion, the simple-minded peasant weaves his 
line of flax for some Greek fishing-smack. — 
Thus the centuries go silent by, carrying 
with them man and his achievements. 

A short distance beyond the Forum stands 
the Coliseum, the grandest of all earthly 
ruins. The moon is sailing along the quiet 
heavens, casting its pale light over all, while 
the arches open like caverns in every direc- 
tion, and the clambering ivy glistens and 
rustles in the passing night wind. Arch 
above arch, seat above seat, corridor within 
corridor, the mighty structure towers away, 
bringing back the centuries over the weak 
and staggering memory, till the spirit bows 
in silent reverence of the awful Past. The 



126 ROME. 

moonbeams glimmer on the pebbly arena 
that had so often swam before the eye of the 
dying combatant, as voices smote his ear, 
" hie habeV^ But what a slight impression 
the earth takes from the scenes enacted upon 
it ! The red bricks look the same as ever, 
and yon old column stands in the same place 
it. stood nearly two thousand years ago.-r 
Here anger had raged, and fear fallen, and 
faith soared upward, and tyranny and perse- 
cution mocked — ^but they had not left even 
their mark on the sand. 

"And thou, bright rolling moon, didst shine upon 
All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
Making that beautiful which still was so." 

■ 

A Uttle farther on, as you return to the 
city, are the ruins of the Basilica of Ck)nstan- 
tine, through which the fragments of immense 
columns are strewn just as they fell, as time 
slowly pushed them one. after another finom 
their places. Stand here, and hear the night- 
bird whistle amid the shrubbery that waves 
along the Palatine. Darkness and night 



ROME. 127 

make these ruins awful ; and that solitary 
cry, swelling upon the warm south wind, 
soimds like the ghost of Rome shrieking out 
amid the desolation. 

Passing into the city, Trajan's lonely col- 
unm and Forum, filled with standing frag- 
ments of beautiful columns, bid a sort of 
farewell to the wanderer as he again enters 
the streets of modem Rome. Hatters' shops, 
tobacco stores, French finery, and Parisian- 
dressed belles, fill Rome of the nineteenth 
century. A weak and imbecile Pope tells 
his beads " and patters prayer" where the 
Caesars trod ! and the triumphal processions 
of the Empire are changed into long trains 
of superstitious monks, as they go to say 
prayers for dead men's souls. 

Starting from the Piazza Spagna, at the 
Pincian Hill, from which we first set out, let 
us go in an opposite direction towards the 
gate that opens the road to Naples. Passing 
by ihe magnificent church of Marie Mag- 
giore, we come to St John in Laterano, 
standing near the city walls. Thia \% tVv^ 



128 ROME. 

mother church of Rome. It is older than 
St. Peter's, and hence, according to the cus- 
tom of the Roman Catholic Chiurch, should 
be the residence of the Pope. But the Yati- 
can and its splendor please His Holiness 
better. Still the Cardinals of St. John iu 
Laterano assert their right of precedence im- 
mediately on the death of the Pope, and ex- 
ercise the chief authority not only as spiritual 
but temporal rulers. They issue new laws, 
and do all His Holiness might do were he 
alive. It is a glorious structure, wrought of 
the richest material, and finished with elab- 
orate skill. A beautiful Baptistry stands on 
one side, in which all the converts from the 
ranks of heretics are publicly baptized. On 
the other side is an edifice built over the 
marble staircase, declared to have beea 
brought from Pilate's house in JerusaleiOi 
and up which our Savioiu: trod when he 
went to be tried. Men and women are con- 
stantly ascending this on their kneesi, mat' 
tering prayers as they go ; because it grants 
them indulgence for someVvxmdteds of years, 



ROME. 129 

rid gives to the prayer they repeat power to 

ive them in the direst extremity ! Such 

rowds of devotees climb this staircase that 

; has been found necessary to cover the 

ard marble with boards to preserve it from 

eing worn out by the knees of those who 

scend. But let us turn aside a moment, as 

^6 return, to the semicircular Theatjidium 

f the Baths of Diocletian. These magnifi- 

ent baths were built in 302, by Diocletian 

nd Maximian. Forty thousand Christians 

rere once employed upon them — ^the slaves 

f a haughty and Pagan despot. The fol- 

wers of Christ were a broken and scattered 

nd, and the tyrant then little thought that, 

IT the ruins of all that was once so glori- 

\ in Rome, the Cross would be erected in 

mph, and that what was once the symbol 

hame and reproach would be the stand- 

af the Empire. This Theatridium still 

Is, but it is ncfw a cotton mill ! Yes, 

I Diocletian, thy forty thousand Chris- 

whom thy haughty spirit humbled to 

sk of erecting a stnicture to satisfy thy 



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THE BATTLE OP MONMOUTH. 

The English army, ten thousand strong, 
had evacuated Philadelphia, and was pass- 
ing through New Jersey, on its way to New 
York. The whole country was filled with 
the marching columns — the baggage-train 
alone stretching twelve miles along the rood* 
On the rear of this army, in order to cut it 
and the baggage-train from the main bodyi 
Washington determinedito fall, and sent for- 
ward five thousand men to commence the 
attack. The command of this belonged to 
Lee, but, he refusing to accept it, it was 
given to Lafayette. The former, however, 
thinking it would have an ugly look, to de- 
cline serving in such an important battle as 
lUs promised to be, changed his mind and 
asked for the post assigned him, which was 
generously granted by Lafayette. The morn- 
ing of the S^th of June, was one of the sul- 



132 BATTLE OF MONMOtTTH. 

triest of the year ; yet at an early hour, Lee, 
who was but five miles from Monmouth, 
where the British army had encamped that 
night, put his troops in motion. Pushing 
rapidly on, through the broken and wooded 
country, he at length emerged on the plain 
of Monmouth, which, like that of Marengo, 
seemed made on purpose for a battle-field. 
Forming his men in the woods, to conceal 
them from the enemy, he and Wayne rode 
forward to reconnoitre, and lo ! all the ample 
plain below them was dark with the moving 
masses. To the stirring sound of music, the 
steady columns of the grenadiers moved 
sternly forward, their bayonets glittering ir 
the morning sunlight, while far as the ey 
could reach, followed after the immense trai 
— ^horses and wagons toiling through tl 
sand and filling the air with dust. 

Wayne descended like a torrent upon t 
line of march, and soon the sharp rattle 
musketry, and roar of cannon, and he 
smoke, told where he was pouring his tr 
to the charge. Lee^ in the mean time, 



BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 133 

\ rest of his division, took a circuitous 
ich to fall on the head of the corps with 
ich Wayne was engaged, when he learn- 
that the whole British amiy had wheeled 
)ut and was hurrying back to protect the 
r. That plain then presented a magnifi- 
It appearance. Far away the cloud of 
*ses and wagons was seen hurrying fix)m 
field, while nearer by, the glittering coi- 
ns fell, one after another, in the order of 
tie — the artillery opened like a sudden 
iflagration on the plain — the cavalry went 
thing forward to the charge, and amid the 
.ling of trumpets, unrolling of standards^ 
I shouts of men, the battle commenced. 
}ut at this moment, Lee, who had not ex- 
ted Co meet a strong force, and not liking 
lavd a heavy battle thrown on him, with 
lorass in his rear, ordered a retreat ; and 
brave Wayne, grinding his teeth in rage, 
s compelled to fall back, and came very 
J being cut off in the attempt. Across 
morass, and over the broken country, the 
ision kept retreating, with the victorious 



134 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 

columns of the British in full pursuit In 
the mean time Washington, ignorant of this 
shameful retreat, was marching up with 
the other division of the army. As the sound 
of the first cannonade broke dull and heavy 
over the woods, the troops were hurried for- 
ward, and the soldiery, eager for the encoun- 
ter, threw aside their knapsacks, and many 
of them their coats, and with shouts pressed 
rapidly on. It was a terrible day — ^the ther- 
moniieter stood at ninety-six — and as that 
sweltering army toiled through the sand and 
dust, many sunk in their footsteps overpow- 
ered by the heat. Washington had dis- 
mounted where two roads met, and stood 
with his arm thrown over the neck of his 
white steed that was reeking with sweat, 
listening to the cannonading in the distance, 
and watching bis eager colmnns as they 
swept along the road. Far in advance, ho 
heard the thunder of artillery that was mow- 
ing down his ranks, while before him flut- 
tered the flag of his country, socm also to be 
enveloped in the smoke of battle. A shade 



BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 135 

of anxiety was seen on that calm, noble 
countenance ; but the next moment it grew 
dark as wrath. A horseman, bursting into 
his presence, cried out that Lee was in full 
retreat, bearing down with his divided ranks, 
full on his own advancing colunms. The 
expression of his face at that moment was 
dreadful, and with a burst of indignation 
that startled those around him, he sprang to 
the saddle, and, plunging the rowels in his 
steed, launched like a thunderbolt away. A 
cloud of dust alone told where he and his 
suite sped onward, and those who looked on 
him then, with his usually pale face flushed, 
and his blue eye emitting fire, knew that a 
storm was soon to burst somewhere. He 
swept in a headlong gallop up to the van of 
the retreating army, and the moment his 
white horse was seen, the brave felbws, who 
had not been half beaten, sent up a shout 
that was heard the whole length of the lines, 
and ^^Long live Washington^^^ rent the air. 
Flinging a hasty inquiry to Osgood, as to 
the reason of this retreat, who replied, with 



{ 



136 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 

a terrible oath, " Sir, we are fleeing from a 
shadow /' he galloped to the rear, and rein- 
ing up his horse beside Lee, bent on him a 
face of fearful expression, and thundered in 
his ear as he leaned over his saddle-bow, 
" Sir, I desire to know what is the reason^ 
and whence arises this disorder and confu- 
sion.^^ It was not the words, but the smoth- 
ered tone of passion in which they were ut- 
tered, and the manner which was severe as 
a blow, that made this rebuke so terrible. — 
Wheeling his steed, he spurred up to Oswald's 
and Stewart's regiment, saying, " On you I 
depend, to check this pursuit ;" and riding 
along the ranks he roused their courage to 
the highest pitch by his stirring appeals, 
while that glorious shout of "Long live 
Washington,^^ again shook the field. The 
sudden gust of passion had swept by ; but 
the storm that ever slumbered in his bosom 
was now fairly up, and galloping about on 
his splendid charger, his tall and command- 
ing form towering above all about him, and 
his noble countenance lit up with enthusiasm, 



BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 137 

he was the impersonation of all that is great 
and heroic in man. In a moment, the aspect 
of the field was changed — the retreating 
mass halted — ofiicers were seen hurrying 
about in every direction, their shouts and 
orders ringing above the roar of the enemy's 
guns. The ranks opened, and under the 
galling fire of the enemy, the steady batal- 
ions wheeled,, and formed in splendid order. 
Washington then rode back to Lee ; and 
pointing to the firm front he had arrayed 
against the enemy, exclaimed, " Will you^ 
sir, command in thai place ?" He replied, 
Yes. ^' Welly then,^^ said he, *•' Jcarpcc^yoti 
to check the enemy im^nediately.^^ "Your 
orders shall be obeyed," replied the stung 
commander ; " and I will not be the first to 
leave the field." The battle then opened 
with renewed fury, and Washington hurried 
back to bring his own division into action. 

It was a glorious triumph of discipline, 
and the power of one master mind, to see 
how those retreating troops recovered their 
confidence, and formed under the very fire 



138 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 

of their pursuers, before the panic had been 
communicated to the other portion of the 
army. 

But the danger had only just commenced ; 
the few regiments which had been throwu 
forward, could not long withstand the heavy 
shock to which they were exposed. Swept 
by the artillery and enveloped in fire, they 
were gradually forced back over the field.— 
They fought bravely, as if they knew the 
fate of the battle rested on thieilr firmness, yet 
the advanced corps finally fell back on the 
reserve. On this, too, the victorious legions 
of the enemy thundered with deafening 
shouts — the grenadiers pressed furiously for- 
ward — ^the cavalry hung like a cloud on our 
flanks, while the steadily advancing cannon 
galled tlj^e ranks with a most destructive fire. 
Our whole line of battle began to shake- 
Washington, with the rear division, was not 
yet up, and every moment threatened to 
throw Lee's, whole shattered corps back in 
disorder upon it. Every thing quivered in 
the balance, but at this terrible crisis, the 



BATTLE OP MONMOUTH. 139 

noble, the chivalric Hamilton, with his hat 
off, and his hair streaming in the wind, was 
seen crossing the field in a sweeping gallop, 
making straight for Lee. Knowing that the 
fate of the battle rested on his firmness, and 
fearing he might shrink again under the 
heavy onsets of the enemy, he flew to his 
relief. Reining up his foam-covered steed 
beside him, he exclaimed in that lofty enthu- 
siasm, which that day saved the army, " I 
will stay with you, my dear general, and die 
with you. Let us all die here rather than 
retreat." Nobly said, brave Hamilton ! — the 
firmest prop of American liberty stands fast 
in this dreadful hour. 

In this critical moment, Washington ap- 
peared on the field, and rapidly formed his 
division in firont of the enemy. Casting his 
eye over the battle, he saw at a glemce the 
whole extent of the danger, and strained 
every nerve to avert it. His orders flew like 
lightning in every direction, while full on 
his centre came the shouting, headlong bat- 
talions of the enemy. Both his right and 



140 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 

left flank were threatened almost simultan- 
eously ; yet calm and collected he sternly 
surveyed the steadily advancing colunms, 
without one thought of retreating. Never 
did his genius shine forth with greater splen- 
dor than at this moment Ordering up Sterl- 
ing with the artillery on the left, and the 
other portion of the army to advance, he 
watched for an instant the effect of the move- 
ments. Sterling came up on a furious gallop 
with his guns, and unlimbering them, pour- 
ing such a sudden fire on the chasing col- 
umns, that they recoiled . before it. At the 
same time, the veteran Knox hurried up his 
heavy guns on the right, and began to thun- 
der on the dense masses of the enemy, while 
the gallant Wayne, at the head of his chosen 
infentry, charged like fire full on the centre. 
The battle now raged along the whole lines, 
and the plain shook under the uproar. But 
nothing could withstand the unpetuosity of 
the Americans, and the fierce fire of our 
artillery. The hotly worked batteries of 
Knox and Sterling were like two spota of 



BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 141 

flame on either side ; while the head of 
Wayne's column, enveloped in smoke and 
flame, pressed steadily forward, bearing 
down every thing in its passage, and sweep- 
ing the field with shouts that were heard 
above the roar of the artillery. Every step 
had been contested with the energy of des- 
pair, and under the oppressive heat, scores 
of brave fellows had fallen in death, unsmit- 
ten by the foe. 

The whole English army retreated, and 
took up a strong position on the ground Lee 
had occupied in the morning. Almost im- 
penetrable woods and swamps were on either 
side, while there was nothing but a narrow 
causeway in front, over which an army could 
advance to the attack. The battle now 
seemed over; for under that burning sun 
and temperature of ninetj'^-six degrees, the 
exhausted army could hardly stir. Even 
Washington's powerful frame was overcome 
by the heat and toil he had passed through ; 
and, as he stood begrimed with dust and the 
smoke of battle, and wiped his brow, the 



142 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 

perspiration fell in streams from his horse, 
which looked as if it had been dragged 
through a muddy stream, rather than rode 
by a living man. The tired hero gazed long 
and anxiously on the enemy's position, and, 
notwithstanding its strength, and the heat of 
the day and the state of his army, determin- 
ed to force it. His strong nature had been 
thoroughly roused, and the battle he sought 
thrown unexpectedly upon him, and well- 
nigh lost, and he now resolved to press it 
home on the foe. All around him lay the 
dead, and the cry for water was most piteous 
to hear; while those who bore back the 
wounded, were ready themselves to sink 
under the heat. The eye of Washington, 
however, rested only on the English army ; 
and ordering up two brigades to assail it, one 
on the right flank and the other on the left, 
he brought the heavy guns of Knox forward 
to the front. In a few minutes these tre- 
mendous batteries opened, and the English 
cannon replied, till it was one constant peal 
of thunder there over the hot plain. In the 



BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 143 

mean time, the burning sun was stooping to 
the western hills, and striving in vain with 
its level beams to pierce the smoke and dust- 
filled atmosphere, that spread like a cloud 
over the field. Still that heavy cannonade 
made the earth groan^ and still those gallant 
brigades were forcing their way onward 
through the deep woods and over the marshes 
to the attack. But the almost insurmounta- 
ble obstacles that crossed their path, so de- 
layed their march, that night came on before 
they could reach their respective positions. 
The firing then ceased, and darkness shut in 
the scene. For awhile, the tread of the bat- 
talions taking up their positions for the night, 
the heavy rumbling of artillery wagons, and 
the moans of the wounded, and piteous prayer 
for water, disturbed the calmness of the Sab- 
bath evening, and then all was still. The 
poor soldiers, overcome with heat and toil, 
lay down upon the ground with their arms 
in their hands, and the two tired armies slept 
Within sight of each other they sunk on the 
field, while the silent cannon, loaded with 



144 BATTLE OF MONMOUTH. 

death, still frowned darkly from the he 
upon the foe. The young moon just gla 
a moment on the slumbering hosts, thei 
behind the hills. The stars, one aftei 
other, came out upon the sky like i 
watchers, while the smoke of the co: 
hung in vapory masses ovei the woods 
plain. Washington, determined with 
dawn of day to renew the battle, wra 
his military cloak around him, and, thio 
himself on the ground beneath a tree, 
amid his followers. So did Bonapart 
the first night of the battle of Wagram, 
by the Danube, lulled by its turbulent wi 
But at midnight, the English comma 
roused his sleeping army and quietly i 
drew, and before morning was beyond 
reach of Washington's arm. So profi 
were the slmnbers of our exhausted tr< 
that no intimation of the departure oi 
enemy was receii/^ until the morning 
revealed their deserted camp. The prey 
escaped him, and so Washington slowly 
lowed on, moving his army by easy mar 
to the Hudson. • • • * 



GENERAL GREENE'S RETREAT. 

To understand the ground over which 
this remarkable retreat was performed, it is 
necessary only to glance at a map. Three 
lai^ rivers rise in the north-west parts of 
South and North Carolina, and flow in a 
south-easterly direction into the Atlantic. — 
The lower, or more southern one, is the Cat- 
awba, which empties into the Santee. The 
next, north of it, and nearly parallel, is the 
Yadkin, emptying into the Pedee. The last, 
and more northern, is the Dan, which soon 
leaves its south-easterly direction, and winds 
backwards and forwards across the Virginia 
line, and finally falls into the Roanoke. — 
Greene was now on the Catawba, or most 
southern river, and directed his steps north 
— ^his line of progress cutting the Yadkin 
and Dan. To place a deep river between 

7 



146 GEN. Greene's retreat. 

two armies, elSectually separates them foi 
Home time, while a retreating army between 
one and a powerful adversary, is almost sure 
to be ruined. Therefore, iJie great effort ol 
Comwallis was to overtake his weak enemy 
somewhere between the rivers, while the 
latter strained every nerve to keep a deep 
stream dividing him and his foe. Greene 
was now across the Catawba, which, swollen 
by the recent rains, prevented Comwallis 
from crossing. But at length it began to 
subside, and the latter determined, by a 
night march to a private ford near Salisbury, 
to deceive his antagonist, and cross without 
opposition. But Greene had been on the 
alert, and stationed a body of militia there 
to dispute the passage. At day break the 
British column was seen silently approach- 
ing the river. A deep hush was on every 
thing, broken only by the roar of the swollen 
waters, and not a living thing was to be seen 
on the shore. Twilight still rested on the 
forest, and the turbid foam-covered stream 
ilooked doubly appalling in the gloom. The 



GEN. grbene's retreat. 147 

rain was falling in torrents, and the British 
commander, as he reined np his steed on the 
slippery banks, looked long and anxiously 
on the farther side. There all was wild and 
silent ; but faint flashes of the American 
fires, in the woods, told too well that he had 
been forestalled. Still, the order to advance 
was given, and the column boldly entered 
the channel. With muskets poised above 
their heads to keep them dry, and leaning 
against each other to steady their slippery 
footing, the grenadiers pushed forward. As 
they advanced the water deepened, until it 
flowed in a strong, swift current, up to their 
waists. The cavalry went plunging through, 
but the rapid stream bore many of them, both 
horses and riders, downward in the darkness. 
The head of the column had already reached 
the centre of the river, when the voices of 
the sentinels rung through the darkness, and 
the next moment their guns flashed through 
the storm. The Americans, five hundred in 
number, immediately poured in a destructive 
volley, but the British troops pressed steadily 



148 GEN. Greene's retreat. 

forward. Soldier after soldier rolled over in 
the flood, and Cornwallis' horse was shot 
under him ; but the noble animal, with a 
desperate effort, carried his rider to the bank 
before he fell. The intrepid troopjs at length 
reached the shore, and routed the militia. — 
Cornwallis was now on the same side of the 
river with his antagonist, and prepared to 
follow up his advantage with vigor. But 
the latter no sooner heard that the enemy 
had passed the Catawba, than he ordered 
the retreat to Yadkin. Through the drench- 
ing rain and deep mud, scarcely halting to 
eat or rest, the ragged troops dragged their 
weary way, and on the third day reached 
the river and conunenced crossing. In the 
meantime, the recent rains had swollen this 
river also, so that by the time Greene had 
safely eflected the passage, the current was 
foaming by on a level with its banks. He 
had urged every thing forward with the ut- 
most speed, and at midnight, just as the last 
of the rear-guard were embarking they were 
sahited with a volley from the advanced 



GEN. Greene's retreat. 149 

guard of the British. When the morning 
light broke over the scene, there lay the two 
armies within sight of each other, and the 
blessed Yadkin surging and roaring in 
threatening accents between, as if on pur- 
pose to daunt the invaders from its bosom. 
Stung into madness at this second escape of 
their enemy, the English lined the shore 
with their artillery, and opened a fierce can- 
nonade on the American camp. But the 
army, protected by an elevated ridge, rested 
quietly and safely behind it. In a little 
cabin, just showing its roof above the rocks, 
Greene took up his quarters, and while his 
troops were reposing, commenced writing his 
despatches. The enemy suspecting the Ame- 
rican general had established himself there, 
directed his artillery upon it, and soon the 
rocks rung with the balls that smoked and 
bounded from their sides. It was not long 
before the roof of the cabin was struck, and 
the shingles and clapboards began to fly 
about in every direction — ^but the stem war- 
rior within never once looked up, and wrote 



160 GEN. Greene's retreat. 

on as calmly as if in his peaceful home. — 
Four days the British general tarred on 
the shores of the Yadkin, and then, as the 
waters subsided, again put his army in mo- 
tion. Moving lower down the river, he 
crossed over, and started anew after his ad- 
versary. But the latter, ever vigilant, was 
already on his march for Guilford, where he 
resolved to make a stand, and strike this bold 
Briton to the heart. But on reaching Guil- 
ford, he learned, to his dismay, that the re- 
inforcements promised him had not arrived. 
The English army was nearly double that 
of his own, and all well-tried, disciplined 
soldiers ; and he knew it would be madness 
to give battle on such disadvantageous terms. 
There was, therefore, no remedy but retreat, 
and this had now become a difficult matter. 
In the hope of being able to sustain himself 
at Guilford, he had suffered his enemy to 
approach so near, and block him in so -effec- 
tually, that there was but one possible way 
of escape. C!omwallis at last deemed his 
prey secure. 



OEN. Greene's retreat. 161 

On the 10th of February, this battle of 
mancBuyres again commenced, and the two 
armies, now only twenty-five miles apart, 
stretched forward. Cornwallis supposed his 
adversary would make for the upper fords of 
the Dan, as there was nothing but ferries 
below, and hence put his army in such a 
position that he could crush him at once ; 
but Greene quietly withdrew towards the 
Lower Dan, where he ordered boats to be 
congregated, in which he could transport his 
troops over. His object in this was two-fold ; 
first, to place a deep instead of a fordable 
river between him and his formidable adver- 
sary, and, secondly, to be in a situation to 
efiect a junction with the reinforcements he 
expected from Virginia. Discovering at once 
the error under which Cornwallis labored, he 
added to it by sending a large detachment to 
manoBuvre in front, as if the upper fords were 
indeed the object of his efforts. Col. Wil- 
liams commanded this chosen body of men, 
and marched boldly against the entire Eng- 
lish army. The British commander, think- 



152 GEN. Greene's retreav. 

ing it to be the advanced guard of Hxe Ame- 
ricans, began hastily to contract his lines, 
and make preparations for a fierce resistance. 
This detained his march, and allowed Greene 
to get a start, without which he must inevit- 
ably have been lost. The English were 
without baggage ; indeed, the whole army 
had been converted into light infantry,which 
enabled it to move with much more alacrity 
than that of the Americans. It was now the 
dead of winter — ^the roads of to-day were 
filled deep with mud, and to-morrow frozen 
hard, presenting a mass of rugged points to 
the soldiers' feet, through which or over 
which they were compelled to drag them- 
selves, urged on by the fear of destruction. 
In the meantime Comwallis, apprized of his 
error, began the pursuit in good earnest — 
But that gallant rear-guard of Williams kept 
between the two armies, slowly retreating, 
but still present — ever bending like a brow 
of wrath on the advancing ^txemy. The 
fate of the American army rested on its firm* 
ness and skill, and every officer in it seemed 



d£N. Greene's retreat. 153 

to feel the immense trust committed to his 
care. There were Lee's gallant legion, and 
Washington's heavy mounted, desperate 
horsemen, heroes every one. Vigilant, un- 
tiring, brave, they hovered with such a 
threatening aspect around the advancing 
colmnns, that they were compelled to march 
in close order to prevent an attack. The 
least negligence, the least oversight, and the 
blow would fall like lightning. Never did a 
rear-guard behave more gallantly. The men 
were allowed only three hours' sleep out of 
the twenty-four, and but one meal a day. — 
By starting and pushing forward three hours 
before day-light, they were enabled to get a 
breakfast, and this was the last repast till 
next morning. Yet the brfive fellows bore 
all without a murmur ; and night after night, 
and day after day, presented the same deter- 
mined front to the enemy. Comwallis, be- 
lieving for a while that he had the whole 
American force in front, rejoiced in its prox- 
imity,, knowing that when it reached the 
river it must perish — ^then Virginia would 



154 OEN. Greene's retreat. 

lie open to his victorious aims, and the whole 
South be prostrate. But when he at length 
discovered his mistake, he strained forward 
with desperate efforts. 

In the meanwhile, that fleeing army pre- 
sented a most heart-rending spectacle. Half 
clad, and many of them barefoot, with only 
one blanket for every four men, they toiled 
through the mire, or left their blood on the 
frozen ground — ^pressing on through the win- 
try storm and cold winds in the deqperate 
struggle for life. At night when Aey snatch- 
ed a few moments' repose, three soldiers 
would stretch themselves oa the damp 
ground under one blanket, and the fourth 
keep watch : and happy were those who 
had evea this scanty covering. Over hills, 
through forests, across streams, /they held 
their anxious way, drenched by the rains 
and chilled by the water through which they 
waded — and, unprotected and uncovered, 
were compelled to dry their clothes by the 
heat of their own bodies. Greene saw their 
distress with bitter grie^ but it ooold not be 



OEN. Greene's retreat. 155 

helped — his cheering words and bright ex- 
ample were all he could give them. Now 
hurrying along his exhausted columns, and 
now anxiously listening to hear the sound 
of the enemy's guns in the distance, he be- 
came a prey to the most wasting anxiety. — 
From the time he had set out for the camp 
of Morgan, on the banks of the Catawba, he 
had not taken off his clothes ; while not an 
officer in the arniy Was earlier in the saddle, 
or later out of it, than he. But undismayed 
— his strong soul fully resolved yet to con- 
quer — he surveyed with a calm, stern eye, 
the dangers that thickened around him. — 
Should the rear-guard fail, nothing but a 
miracle could save him — but it should fioi 
fail. Every deep-laid plan was thwarted, 
every surprise disconcerted, and every sud- 
den movetoent to crush it eluded by its tire- 
loss, sleepless leaders. Often within musket- 
shot of the enemy's vanguard, the excited 
soldiers wished to return the fire , but the 
stern orders to desist were obeyed, and the 
two tired armies toiled on. It was a fearful 



156 oEN. Greene's retreat. 

race for life, and right nobly was it won. — 
At length the main army arrived within 
forty miles of the ferry boats which were to 
place a deep river between them and the foe. 
and hope quickened every step. All night 
long they swept onward through the gloom, 
cheered by the thought that another day 
would place the object for which they strug- 
gled within their grasp. On that same cold 
and slippery night the nqble rear-guard, 
slowly retreating, suddenly saw, at twelve 
o'clock, watcli-fires blazing in the distance. 
There then lay the army, for which they had 
struggled so nobly and suffered so much, 
overtaken at last, and sure to fall. In this 
fearful crisis, that gallant band paused and 
held a short consultation ; and then resolved, 
with one accord, to throw themselves in aa 
overwhelming charge on the English army, 
and rolling it back on itself, by a sacrifice as 
great as it was glorious, secure a few moro 
hours of safety to those they were prote^Jting"- 
This noble devotion was spared such a trial ; 
the fires were indeed those kindled by Greene's 



0£N. Greene's retreat. 167 

soldiers, but the tired columns had departed, 
and staggering from want of repose and food, 
were now stretching forward through the 
midnight, miles in advance. Cornwallis, 
when he arrived at the smouldering camp- 
fires, believed himself almost up with Greene, 
and allowing his troops but a few moments' 
repose, marched all night long. In the morn- 
ing his van was close upon the rear of that 
firm guard. Now came the last prodigious 
effort of the British commander—that rear^ 
guard must fall, and with it, Greene, or all 
his labor and sacrifice would be in vain. On 
the banks of the Dan he had resolved to bury 
the American army, and if human effort and 
human energy could effect it, it should be 
done. His steady columns closed more 
threateningly and rapidly on the guard, 
pushing it fiercely before them, and scorning 
all meaner success, pressed forward for the 
greater prize. Still Lee's intrepid legion, and 
Washington's fearless horsemen, hung black 
and wrathful around their path, striving des* 
perately, but in vain, to check their rapid 



158 GEN. GREEN k's RET&EAT. 

advance. On, on, like racers approaching 
the goal, they swept over the open country, 
driving every thing before them. 

But at noon a single horseman was seen 
coming, in a swift gallop, up the road along 
which Greene had lately passed. Every eye 
watched him as he approached, and as he 
reined his panting steed up beside the officer 
of that exhausted, but still resolute band, and 
exclaimed, *• The army is over the river,^^ a 
ipud huzza rent the air. 

The main portion of the guard was now 
hastily despatched by the shortest route to 
the ferry, while Lee still hovered with his 
legion in front of Comwallis. As the former 
approached the river, they saw Greene, wan 
and haggard, standing on the shore, and 
gazing anxiously up the road by which they 
were expected to appear. His army was 
over, but he had remained behind to learn 
the fate of that noble guard, and, if neces- 
sary, to fly to its relief. His eye lightened 
with exultation, as he saw the column rush 
forward to the river with shouts which were 



OEN. Greene's retreat. 169 

echoed in deafening accents from the oppo- 
site shore. It was now dark, and the troops 
were crowded with the utmost dispatch into 
the boats and hastened over. Scarcely were 
they safely landed, before the banks shook 
beneath the hurried, heavy tramp of Lee's 
legion, as it came thundering on towards the 
ferry. The next moment the shores rung 
with the clatter of armor, as those bold riders 
dismounted, and leaped into the boats ready 
to receive them. The horses were pushed 
into the water after them, and the black mass 
disappeared in the gloom. In a few moments 
lights dancing along the farther shore, told 
of their safe arrival, and a shout that made 
the welkin ring went up from the American 
camp. Lee was the last man that embarked ; 
he would not stir till his brave dragoons were 
all safe ; and as the boat that bore him 
touched the shore, the tread of the British 
van echoed along the banks he had just left. 
The pursuing columns closed rapidly in to- 
wards the river, but the prey they thought 
within their grasp had escaped. Not a boat 



160 GBN. Greene's retreat. 

was left behind, and Comwallis saw with 
the keenest anguish, a deep broad river roll- 
ing between him and his foe. It was a bit- 
ter disappointment; his baggage had all 
been destroyed in vain, and this terrible 
march of two hundred and fifty miles made, 
only to be retraced. 

But no pen can describe the joy and exul- 
tation that reigned in the American camp 
that night. The army received that gallant 
rear-guard with open arms, and hailed them 
as their deliverers. Forgot was all^^ — their 
lacerated feet, and stiffened limbs, and empty 
stomachs and scanty clothing — and even the 
wintry wind swept by unheeded in the joy 
of their escape. Together they sat down 
and recounted their toils, and asked, each of 
the other, his perils and hardships by the 
way. Laughter^ and mirth, and songs, and 
all the reckless gaiety of a camp from which 
restraint is taken, made the shores echo. — 
But it was with sterner pleasure Greene con- 
templated his escape ; and as he looked on 
the majestic river, rolling its broad, deep 



GEN. Greene's retreat. 161 

current onward in the star-light, a mountain 
seemed to lift from his heart. He listened 
to the boisterous mirth about him, only to 
rejoice that so many brave fellows had been 
snatched from the enemy ; then turned to his 
tent to ponder on his position, and resolve 
what next to do. 

Thus ended this glorious retreat. It had 
been conducted for two himdred and fifty 
miles, through a country not furnishing a 
single defile in which a stand could be made. 
Three large rivers had been crossed, forests 
traversed — and through rain and mud, and 
over frost and ice, Greene had fled for twenty 
days, bafling every attempt of his more 
powerful antagonist to force him to a deci- 
sive action. For the skill in which it was 
planned, the resolution and energy with 
which it was carried through, and the dis- 
tance traversed, it stands alone in the annals 
of our country, and will bear comparison with 
the most renowned feats ofancient or modern 
times. It covered Greene with more glory 
than a victory could have done, and stamped 
him at once the great commander. 



DEMOCRACY. 

THE ONE PROGRESSIVE PRINCIPLE. 

Ever since the time of Christ, man has 
striven more or less resolutely to get an ac- 
knowledgment of his rights, either in religious 
or political matters, or in both. Despots 
have made use of old reverence — supersti- 
tious fears — trickery — falsehood — the dun- 
geon — the bayonet — and the scaffold — to 
silence his claims and overcome his argu- 
ments. Force has done much ; for though 

** Trath crashed to earth, will rise again," 

it often requires ^ the eternal years of God," 
and men have succeeded in burying it fathoms 
deep. But the one of which I have beea 
speaking, has had two wild resurrections — - 
one in England, when Cromwell shouted 
over its grave ; and one in France, whea 



DEMOCRiftJY. 163 

the infuriated populace called it in shrieks 
forth from its burial of ages. Oh ! how 
man has struggled to be free — free to eat 
the bread his own hand has sown — free to 
breathe his thoughts over the lyre, or utter 
them through the pages of his country's 
literature — ^free to lay the taxes himself 
pays — ^free to worship Grod according to the 
dictates of his own conscience. See England 
convulsed, her House of Commons in tears, 
and the torch of civil war blazing over the 
land, and all for a principle — the principle 
of personal freedom. Behold this country, 
pouring out its blood like water! See it 
clothed in mourning — her children marching 
barefoot over the frozen ground, leaving 
their bloody testimonials on every foot of it 
they had traversed ; nay, marching by hun- 
dreds naked into battle — and all for this 
one principle. See France rent asunder, 
her streets flowing blood ; and the loud beat 
of the alarm drum, and the steady peal of 
the tocsin, and the heavy roll of the tum- 
brels, going to and from the scaffold — the 



164 DSMOCRACT. 

only music of Paris for years — and millions 
of men sacrificed ; and yet this principle, in 
some form or other, lying at the bottom of it 
all. Deceived as the fierce actors in this 
tragedy may have been, and diverted, though 
the thought, for awhile, might have been to 
personal safety or personal aggrandizement, 
yet the spell-words by which the storm was 
directed were, " Freedom ! — Equal Rights !" 
Look at Europe, while the great Napoleonic 
drama was performing : there is something 
more than the unrolling of banners and the 
pomp and majesty of arms. Great deeds 
are wrought, and glory is the guiding star 
to thousands; yet that long and fearful 
struggle, notwithstanding tbe various preten- 
ces set forth, was, with all its bloody accom- 
paniments and waste of treasure, and loss 
of life, and suffering, simply an effort to stop 
the progress of this one principle. Here all 
the diplomacy and hypocrisy of Europe are 
reduced to a single element — the world in 
arms against equal rights. France 'Hbrew 
down the head of a king as the gage of bat- 



DEMOCRACY. 166 

tie," and the conflict was seti CromwelPs 
army shouting through the fight, and French 
patriots storming over entrenchments with 
repubUcan songs in their mouths, may be 
fanatical or deluded men, and cheated at last 
by ambitious chieftains; but the thing they 
sought was no delusion. 

What a terror it is able to inspire when 
such a vast expenditure of life and money 
is made to check its advancement. Behold 
the Czar of Russia, the Emperor of Ger- 
many, the King of Prussia, and even Pitt 
of England, combined together, calling on 
the wisdom of the statesmen, and summon* 
ing to their aid a million of men to crush a 
single principle. 

See the world also at this moment Gensi* 
d'armes are parading the streets of every 
continental city — spies entering every sus- 
pected house — the passport of each wayfarer 
examined, and his person described — the 
freedom of speech suppressed, and bayonets 
gleaming before every printing-office, to stop 
this principle from working amid the people. 



166 DKMOCRACT. 

The poei must quench his burniog ihoogfats; 
the sdiolar suppress his glowing words ; the 
historian blot out his fairest page at the bid- 
ding of royal censors. Even His Holiness 
the Pope will not allow the streets of Rome 
to be lighted with gas, nor a railroad to be 
made through his dominions, lest this prin- 
ciple should flash out of the rays of the one, 
or be hurried in with the speed of the other. 
Barriers are established ; the very post-office 
is watched without intermission ; and the 
minions of power scattered thick as the lo- 
custs of Egypt on every side, to keep from 
man the knowledge of this principle. Tet 
it works on, despite of its enemies. On the 
plains of Fleurur, at Lodi, Areola, and Ma- 
rengo — through the Black Forest — at Jena, 
Austerlitz, Eylau, and Friedland, it was the 
most terrible thing in the battle. The world 
saw only the smoke of the conflict, and heard 
only the thu6der of cannon and groans of 
the dying ; but this single principle gained 
more than Napoleon, and tyranny lost more 
than the victory. Nothing seems able to 



DEMOCRACY. 167 

is progress. OutliviDg the age of su* 

lion and ignorance — conquering the 

• of the church — ^beheading two Icings-^ 

ilsing Europe with arms — and finally 

irown by numbers and buried with the 

let, it still lives and breathes. Sur* 

r defeat — scorning power — it carries a 

less existence ; and whether shouting 

the roar of battle, or whispering through 

lages of the poet and historian, it ex** 

the same immortality. AH measures 

been tried to destroy it — a false reli* 

diplomacy, fear, watchfulness, and per* 

ion ; but in vain. It lises from under 

eight of thrones, and from the field of 

ge ; and though denied the press, and 

language, and chased and hunted like 

imon felon the length and breadth of 

pe ; pointed at, spit upon, speared, and 

)led under foot, it still lives, and in* 

ss both in strength and boldness. What 

shall be done to stay its progress ? — 

blow aimed at its life that has not 

given 7 While the conflict was secret. 



i 



168 DEMOCRACY. 

there were hopes that when it became open, 
power would prevail ; but now, nothing re- 
mains to be tried. Progress it does, and 
progress it will, and the day so much dread- 
ed is slowly but surely approaching. 



ASCENT OP MOUNT TAHAWUS. 

Amid the laughter and freedom insepa- 
rable from a life in the woods, we whiled 
away an hour, then shouldered again our 
knapsacks and passed on. The sky, which 
was clear and beautiful in tlft morning, had 
drawn a veil over its face, and the clouds, 
thickening every moment, gave omen of a 
stormy night and gloomy day to come. 
When we set out, we expected to encamp 
at the base of the main peak over night, 
and ascend next morning ; but I told Cheney 
we must be on the top before sunset, for in 
the morning impenetrable clouds might rest 
upon it, and all our labor be lost. We were 
weary enough to halt, and a more forlorn- 
looking company you never saw than we 
were, as we straggled like a flock of sheep 
up the bed of the stream. Atlengtfa it began 

8 



170 ASCENT OF MOUl^ TAHAWU8. 

to climb the mountain in cataracts, and we 
after it It was now nearly three o'clock, 
and we had been walking since seven in the 
morning. Wearied and completely fagged 
out, it seemed almost impossible to make the 
ascent. Up, up, at an angle of nearly forty- 
five degrees — flogged and torn at every step 
by the long, thorn-like branches of the spruce 
trees — leaping from rock to rock, or crawling 
from some cavity into which we had fallen 
through the treacherous moss, we panted on, 
striving in vain' to get even a sight of the 
summit that mocked our hard endeavors. 
One hunter with us several times gave out 
completely, and we were compelled to stop 
and wait for him. Crossing now a bear- 
track, and now coming to a bed where a 
moose had rested the night before, Wje at 
length saw the naked cone, forming the 
extremest summit of the mountain. - There 
it stood, round, gray, cold, and naked^ in the 
silent heavens. ' A deep gully lay between 
us and it, filled with spruce trees about three 
feet high, and growing so close together as 



171 

to form a perfect matting. Tbrougb theao 
it was almost impoieible to force onr way, 
and indeed, Id one instance, I walked a cod- 
dderable distance on tbe tops, without toach- 
iog ground. This difficulty being surmonot- 
ed, next came the immense cone trf rock, 
bending its awful arch away into the hea- 
vens, seemingly conscious of iu majesty and 
grandeur. Up this we were compelled to go, 
8 pact of the time, on ail fours ; but at length, 
at four o'clocb, we stood on the bald crown. 
The sun, though stocking to the wesiem 
horizon, seemed near Uie zenith, and not to 
move one minute of a degree downward on 
its path. But how shall I describe the proa- 
pect below and around 1 I have stood on 
the Alps, and looked off on a sea of peaks, 
and remained awe-struck amid the majesty 
«id terror around me — feeling as if I were 
treading on the margin of Jehovah's mantle. 
But the bright saow-cUffs and flashing gla- 
ciers gave life and animatim to the scene, 
while here all was green, dark, and sombre. 
Those are not peaks around us, but huge 



172 A8CKNT OF MOUiST TAHAWUS. 

mis-shapen masses, pushing their gigantic 
proportions heavenward — now formed of 
black rock that undulates along the summit 
Uke a frozen wave, and now covered with 
low dark fir trees, that seem like a drapery 
of mourning over some sleeping or dead mon- 
ster. All around is wilder than fancy ever 
painted or described. Scarce a hand's breadth 
of cultivated land in the whole motionless 
panorama. There, far, far below, stretching 
away for miles, is a deep dark lane through 
the forest, telling where a swift river is 
sweeping onward, but not a murmur rises 
up to this still spot, nor a flash of its bright 
waters escapes from the sullen woods that 
shut it in. To your left is Mount Mclntyre, 
black as night, and rising from the sea of 
forest below like some monument of a past 
world. There, too, is Mount Golden, and 
further on White Face, with the immense 
scar on its forehead ; and there-^-and there — 
but it is vain even to count the summits 
that seem to have been piled here in some 
awful hurry of nature. As you thus stand 



ASCENT OF MOUNT TAHAWU8. 173 

with your face to the south, the whole range 
of the Green Mountains, from Canada to 
where they sink into Massachusetts, stretches 
in one grand bdd pencil-stroke along the 
sky. Far away to the south-east, a storm 
is raging, and the clouds lift and heave along 
the dark bosom of the mountain, like the 
foldings of a vast curtain stirred by the wind. 
At the base, and losing itself in the distance, 
spreads away Lake Champlain, with all its 
green islands on its bosom. From this im- 
mense height and distance, the elevated 
banks disappear, and the whole beautiful 
sheet appears like water flowing over a flat 
country. Burlington is a mere toyshop in 
the hazy distance. Turning t(^ the west 
and south-west, you overlook all that prime- 
val wilderness of which Long Lak« is the 
centre — ^and how grand and gloomy is the 
scene ! — an interminable forest, now descend- 
ing in a bold sweep to the margin of some 
lake, and now climbing and overstepping 
the lordly mountain in its progress. Summit 
overlaps summit, ridge intersects ridge, and 



174 A80SNT OF MOUNT TAHAWUS. 

all flowing away together, in one wild i 
jestic sea, towards the western horizon. H 
only relief to this solitude is the lakes t 
dot the bosom of the forest in every direct] 
Bat there is one as far as the eye can rei 
which, either from its overshadowed posit 
or the natural hue of its water, is black 
ink. It looks in its still and dark aspect ' 
the pool of death ! But what a tremend 
gulf surrounds you, as you thus stand nei 
six thousand feet in the air, on this isols 
dome ! On one side, where the forest coi 
boldly up to the base, an avalanche of es 
has swept, cutting a lane for itself throi 
the strong trees, like the scythe of the mo 
through the grass. 

But just take one more sweep of the 
around the horizon before those clouds wl 
oome dashing so like spirits through 
gal&, leaving a night-cap on every sun 
in their progress, shall obstruct the vis 
You take in an area of nearly four hun( 
miles in circumference, just by turning 
your hecL Oh, how thought crowds 



ASCENT OP MOUNT TAHAWUS. 175 

tbought, aud emotion struggles with emotion, 
as you stand and gaze on this scene where 
the Almighty seems to have wrought with 
his sublimest power ! Cities and kingdoms — 
the battling of armies — the struggles of the 
multitude — and the ambition and strifes of 
men, sink away into insignificance. The trou- 
bles of life seem small, and its petty anxieties 
and cares are all forgotten. God and nature 
seem one, and sublimity and power their 
only attributes. One cannot refrain from 
asking himself unceasingly, Did His strong 
arm heave those mountains on high, and 
lay their deep foundations? Did His hand 
spread this limitless mantle of green below, 
sprinkle all these lakes around, and fill 
these vast solitudes with life? Subdued' 
and solemn, the soul whispers the reply to 
its own inquiries, and involuntarily renders 
homage to the Infinite One. 



THE INDIAN AND HIS DAUGHTER. 

Towards night, B ^n and myself arri- 
ved with Mitchell at his hut, where we found 
his aged Indian father and young sister wait- 
ing his return. "Old Peter," as he is called, 
had come, with his daughter, a hundred and 
My miles in a bark canoe, to visit him.-— 
The old man, now over eighty years of age^ 
shook with palsy, and was constantly mut- 
tering to himself in a language half-French 
half-Indian, while his daughter, scarce twenty 
years old, was silent as a statue. She was 
quite pretty, and her long hair, which fell 
over her shoulders, was not straight, like that 
of her race, but hung in wavy masses around 
her bronzed visage. She would speak to 
none, not even to answer a question, except 
to her father and brother. I tried in vain to 
make her say No or Yes. She would inva- 



% 



THE INDIAN AND HIS DAUGHTER. 177 

riably turn to her father, and he would an- 
swer for her. This old man still roams the 
forest, and stays where night overtakes him. 
It was sad to look upon his once-powerful 
frame, now bowed and tottering, while his 
thick gray hair hung like a huge mat around 
his wrinkled and seamed visage. His trem- 
ulous hand and faded eye could no longer 
send the unerring rifle ball to its mark, and 
he was compelled to rely on a rusty fowling* 
piece. Every thing about him was in keep- 
ing. Even his dog was a mixture of the 
wolf and dog, and was the quickest creature 
I ever saw riiove. Poor old man, he wiU 
scarcely stand another winter, I fear — and 
some lonely night, in the lonely forest, that 
dark-skinned maiden will see him die, far 
from human habitations ; and her feeble arm 
will carry his corpse many a weary mile, to 
rest among his friends. As I have seen her 
decked out with water-lilies, paddling that 
old man over the lake, I have sighed over 
her fate. She seems wrapped up in her 
father, and to have but one thought, one 



178 THE INDIAN AND HIS DAUGHTER. 

purpose of life — the guaiding and nursing of 
her feeble psurent The night that sees her 
sitting alone by the camp-fire beside her 
dead parent will witness a grief as intense 
and desolate as ever visited a more cultiva- 
ted bosom. Giod help her in that dark hour. 
I can conceive of no sadder sight than that 
forsaken maiden, in some tempestuous night, 
sitting all alone in the heart of the boundless 
forest, holding the dead or dying head of 
her father, white the moaning winds sing 
his dirge, and the flickering fire sheds a 
ghastly light on the scene. Sorrow in the 
midst of a wilderness seems doubly desolate. 



THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 

How is it that a scene of quiet beauty 
makes so much deeper an impression than 
a startling one ? The glorious sunset I had 
witnessed on that sweet la]^e — ^the curving 
and forest-mantled shores-the green islands- 
the mellow mountains — all combined to 
make a scene of surpassing loveliness ; and 
now, as I lay and watched the stars coming 
out one after another, and twinkling down 
on me through the tree tops, all that beauty 
came back on me with strange power. The 
gloomy gorge and savage precipice, or the 
sudden storm, seem to excite the surface only 
of one's feelings ; while the sweet vale, with 
its cottages and herds and evening bells, 
blends itself with our very thoughts and 
emotions, forming a part of our after exist- 
ence. Such a scene sinks away into the 



180 THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE. 

heart like a gentle rain into the earth, while 
a rougher, nay, sublimer one, comes and goea 
like a sudden shower. I do not know how 
it is that the gentler influence should be the 
deeper and more lasting, but so it is. The 
still small voice of nature is more impreasiTe 
than her loudest thunder. Of all the scenery 
in the Alps — and there is no grander on the 
earth— nothing is so plainly daguerreotyped 
on my heart as two or three lovely valleys 
I saw. Those heaven-piercing summits, 
and precipices of ice, and awfully savage 
gorges, and fearful passes, are like a grand 
but indistinct vision on my memory ; while 
those vales, with their carpets of green sward, 
and gentle rivulets, and perfect repose, have 
become a part of my life. In moments of 
high excitement or turbulent grief, they rise 
before me with their gentle aspect and quiet 
beauty, hushing the storm into repose, and. 
subduing the spirit like a sensible presence. 
Oh, how I love nature ! She has ten thou* 
sand voices even in her silence, and in all 
her changes goes only from beauty to beauty. 



THE INFLUENCE CF NATURE. 181 

And when she speaks aloud, and the music 
of running waters — ^the organ note of the 
wind amid the pine-tree tops — the rippling 
of waves — the song of birds, and the hum of 
insects — ^fall on the ear, soul and sense are 
ravished. How is it that even good men 
have come to think so little of nature, as if 
to love her and seek her haunts and com- 
panionship were a waste of time 7 I have 
been astonished at the remarks sometimes 
made to me on my long jaunts' in the woods, 
as if it were almost wicked to cast off the 
gravity of one's profession, and wander like 
a child amid the beauty which (Sod has 
spread out with such a lavish hand over 
the earth. Why, I should as soon think of 
feeling reproved for gazing on the midnight 
heavens gorgeous with stars, and fearful with 
its mysterious floating worlds. I believe that 
every man degenerates, without frequent 
communion with nature. It is one of the 
open books of (Sod, and more replete with 
instruction than anything ever penned by 
man. A single tree standing alone, and 



182 THE INFLUENCE OP NATURE. 

waving all day long its green crown in the 
summer wind, is to me fuller of meaning 
and instruction than the crowded mart or 

gorgeously-built city. 

• ••••• 

Not merely the physical man is strength- 
ened, but the intellectual also, by these long 
furloughs from close application, and this 
intimate companionship with nature. A 
man cannot move in the forest without 
thinking of God — ^for all that meets his eye, 
is just as it left his mighty hand. The old 
forest, as it nods to the passing wind, speaks 
of him ; the still mountain points towards 
his dwelling-place; and the calm lake re- 
flects his sky of stars and sunshine. The 
glorious sunset and the blushing dawn, the 
gorgeous midnight and the noonday splen- 
dor, mean more in these solitudes than in 
the crowded city. Indeed, they look differ- 
ently — ^they are different. 



TRUE STANDARD OF MORALITY. 

A man's moral worth is not to be gradua- 
ated by his negative virtues — the evil he 
merely refrains from doing — but by the 
amount of temptation he overcomes. He is 
not to be judged by his defeats alone, but 
also by his victories. Many a man passes 
through life without a spot on his character, 
who, notwithstanding, never ^struggled so 
bravely as he who fell and was disgraced. 
The latter may have called to his aid more 
principle, overcome more evil, before he 
yielded, than the former, either from circum- 
stances or his physical constitution, was ever 
called to do. It would be as unnatural, it 
would require as great an effort for the cold, 
phlegmatic and passionless being to be vehe- 
ment, wild and headlong, as for the fiery 



184 TRUE STANDARD OF MORALITY. 

and tempestuous man to be' quiet and emo- 
tionless. 

Victory is nothing — it depends upon the 
nature of the conflict and the odds overcome. 
Greater generalship, cooler bravery and 
loftier effort may be shown in one defeat 
than in a hundred victories. We have no 
patience with those moralists of mere animal 
organization, who place the finest-wrought 
spirits God ever let visit the earth, on their 
iron bedstead, and stretch and clip according 
to the simple rule of long measure. A 
higher and juster standard is needed. A 
passionate and highly -strung nature can be 
no more understood by the dealer in stocks 
and real estate, or the dull plodder in the 
routine of his daily duties, than the highest 
paroxysm of the poet can be comprehended 
by his dog. 



THE MUSIC OF THE SEA. 

The masic of the sea always finds ao 
answering chord in the human heart, espe- 
cially heard at night, when the gathering 
storm is sounding its trumpet and summon- 
ing the reluctant waves to the coming con- 
flict. There is a sullen threatening sound 
in the roar of the ocean heard at such a lime, 
which fills the heart with gloomy forebodings, 
and brings before the vision the proud barque, 
reeling to and fro in the tempest, with her 
masts bent and bowed, and her rent sails 
streaming to the blast, and the form of the 
sailor clin^ng to the parting shrouds, and all 
the tumult and terror of a shipwreck. As I 
stood listening to the Atlantic speaking to 
the shore that hurled back il^ blow, the flame 
of a light-house five miles distant, on one of 
the Fire Islands, suddenly flashed up in the 
surrounding darkness. Round and round 
in its circle it slowly swept, now '. -st in the 



186 THE MUSIC OF THE SEA. 

surrounding gloom, as it looked away from 
me towards the vexed Atlantic, and noA\ 
blazing landward through the driving rain. 
That lantern had almost a human look, as 
it slowly revolved on its axis. It seemed 
keeping watch and ward over sea and land — 
now casting its flaming eye over the deep, 
to see what vessels were tossing there, and 
now looking down on the bay and land, to 
see how it fared with them in the stormy 
night. I love a Hghthouse, with its constant 
guard over human welfare. After a long 
voyage at sea, baffled by calms and fright- 
ened by storms, when I have caught the 
friendly flame of the lighthouse welcoming 
me back to the green earth — the first to 
meet me and to greet me — I have felt an 
affection for it, as if it were a living thing. 
That steady watch-fire burning over the 
deep, through the long tempestuous night, 
for the sake of the anxious mariner, is not 
a bad emblem of the watch and care of 
the Deity over his creatures, tossed and be- 
nighted on the sea of life. 



THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 

Have you ever seen an eagle fettered to 
the earth day after day and week after week? 
How his plumage droops, and his proud bear- 
ing sinks away into an expression of fear 
and humility ! His eye, that was wont to 
out-gaze the sun, is lustreless and dead, and 
but low sounds of irritation escape him. But 
just let the free cry of a free eagle, seated on 
some far mountain crag, meet his ear, and 
how his roughened plumage smoothes itself 
into beauty, his drooping neck becomes erect, 
and his eye gleams as of old. Pour that 
wild scream again on his ear, and those 
broad wings unfold themselves in their na- 
tive strength, and with a cry as shrill and 
piercing as that of his fellow, he strains on 
his fetter, and perchance bursts away, soar- 



188 THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 

\ng gloriously towards heaven. Who then 
shall stay his flight, or fill his heart with 
fear ? So Iiad man been chained down age 
after age, till his spirit was broken, his dig- 
nity and glory gone, and his soul marred 
and stained. Our "Declaration of Rights" 
was the cry of that free eagle on his moun- 
tain crag, and the fettered soul heard and 
answered it the world over, with a shout 
that rocked the thrones of Europe to their 
bases, and made the chain that bound it 
smoke and quiver beneath its angry blows. 



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