The Letter-Bag of Lady Elizabeth Spencer-Stanhope v. I. (page 4)

to Lisbon.

It was a singularly exciting time to venture upon the continent. The very atmosphere seemed permeated with terror of Napoleon. Each country was on the defensive, struggling openly or surreptitiously to preserve its threatened liberty; while the one topic of conversation was the defeat or the success of armies. Thus the correspondence of the young travellers, so eagerly awaited and devoured by the family in Grosvenor Square, serves to throw many interesting sidelights upon continental existence during a period of history with regard to which interest can never wax cold. [2]

John Stanhope and his friend for some time wrote from Lisbon, where, under the auspices of the new Minister, they mixed in the best society, and met the most prominent civil and military residents of the day. Among others, they saw a great deal of General, afterwards Lord, Beresford [3] and were much struck by the discipline of the Portuguese troops under his command.

A field-marshal in the British Army, William Carr Beresford, had, in 1807, been appointed Governor and Commander-in-Chief of the island of Madeira. Subsequent to the Battle of Corunna, at which he was present, he was sent back to Portugal to take command of the troops there, and at the head of 12,000 men he drove back the French. Of the difficulties, however, with which he had to contend in his stupendous task, John Stanhope gives a graphic description.

“At the time,” he relates, “when Beresford was appointed to the command of the Portuguese army, it was conspicuous for a lack of discipline which in these days would hardly be credited. To say that it was the worst in Europe would hardly give any idea of its degradation. The Portuguese soldiers were a weak, worthless rabble, without pluck or organisation, and practically useless for the campaign. Nor was the Government of the country in a much better state; a long series of misgovernment had introduced every species of corruption and deteriorated the character of the people.”

But the English general at once took a characteristic method of dealing with a complex situation, and produced order out of chaos in the following drastic manner.

“Lord John Russell,” relates John Stanhope, “once told me an anecdote of Beresford’s first advent in Portugal, which serves so well to illustrate his character that I cannot do better than retail it.

“Upon one of the first occasions of his taking the field with the Portuguese troops, an officer, after having been despatched to a particular post, came galloping back to him.

“‘Why are you come here?’ asked the marshal, surprised.

“‘The fire was so hot,’ the man exclaimed, ‘that if I had remained there a moment longer, I should certainly have been shot.’

“‘_Shot_! but, to be sure, it was to be shot that I sent you there! Now, I will give you fresh directions. I advise you to give in your resignation, otherwise you must go back whence you came and be shot, or else be tried by court-martial, which will come to the same thing!’

“The officer, who was of high rank, took the hint; he gave in his resignation, and the other Portuguese officers learnt that under the English commander it was necessary to make up their minds to be shot.”

“Further,” John Stanhope adds, “Beresford cashiered the field officers of every regiment in the service. The fury that prevailed in the country at such a measure may be better imagined than described. It was believed that thousands of stilettoes would be raised against the tyrant Beresford. He heard both threats and murmurs with perfect apathy, and immediately put at the head of each regiment young officers belonging to our service, distinguished for their spirit and decision. Raised to a rank above their highest expectations, these young men were anxious to justify his choice by their conduct, as well as to distinguish themselves; and gloriously did they succeed. To content myself with mentioning one instance, I will relate the case of Colonel Campbell, an officer whom I know well here in Lisbon.

“Campbell was appointed to the command of one of the regiments of cavalry, and the first breach of discipline which came under his notice was that of a private striking an officer. Campbell determined to make a signal example of the culprit. He was promptly warned, however, that when, upon some previous occasion, a similar event had taken place, on the officer then in command attempting to inflict punishment upon the delinquent, the entire Regiment mutinied. Campbell, on hearing this, came to a quick decision. He advanced and faced his battalion with a pistol in each hand. He made them a brief speech in which he pointed out how glaring a breach of discipline it was for a private to strike his superior; and he ended by saying that he understood in a similar case the regiment had mutinied. ‘I,’ he concluded quietly, ‘am determined that this man _shall_ be punished; if you intend to mutiny, you must begin with me. I am perfectly ready to receive you.’ He then cocked his pistols and waited imperturbably in expectation of the result. No one moved. Awed by his manner and his threat, not a murmur escaped from the soldiers who confronted him, and Campbell’s influence over his men was permanently established, so that he soon had the satisfaction of seeing them one of the best disciplined regiments in the service.

“Marshal Beresford, who was capable of selecting his subordinates with such perspicuity, did not fail to set them an example which roused their emulation, so that the soldiers soon became proud of their own discipline, and consequently attached to their officers and devoted to their marshal, till the latter, adored by the army, is become completely dictator of Portugal, his word is law, and the regency is little better than the shadow of Government. Moreover, the marshal acts his part to perfection, riding about the town in semi-regal state, surrounded by a brilliant staff. The man who has accomplished all this may not be a genius, but he has a right to be considered an extraordinary man, a man of the highest courage and energy.

“To show the extent of his power and the coolness with which he exercises it, I have only to instance the case of the embargo laid upon horses which are private property. At the instigation of Beresford, an order was issued for all the horses in the kingdom above a certain height to be taken for the use of the army, the Government allowing a fixed price for each. One of the first persons against whom the order was enforced was the Prince Regent; his carriage, under the charge of some officers of his household, was actually stopped in the town and the horses taken out of the vehicle, which was left standing in the middle of the street. The Portugese at once recognized that if the order was executed so strictly against the Regent himself, his subjects were not likely to be treated with more consideration, and the entire nation submitted with a good grace to the inevitable. Portugal, in short, in the manner in which all deferred to the dictation of Beresford, affords an extraordinary proof of how much may be done towards regenerating a people by the hand of a vigorous ruler.”

The Regent, however, if ignominiously bereft of horses, appears to have remained the owner of innumerable unique, if useless carriages, which, on one occasion, John Stanhope was taken to see.

“I was extremely amused,” he writes, “with these curious specimens of ancient magnificence. Some of the coaches were literally rooms on wheels. They were extraordinarily cumbrous, covered with gilding and lined with velvet, embroidered in gold. Many of them were decorated with pictures on the panels and large gilt figures in front of the boxes. There were, however, some of a more modern construction which had been built in Paris, and one of these was pointed out to me as celebrated for having conveyed the English generals on their entry into Lisbon after the famous Convention of Cintra. Upon this occasion, I understand, it broke down and became the cause of much wit among the generals as to whether it was their personal weight or the weight of their dignity that caused their fall. Had they been superstitious, they might have feared that it was ominous of a yet greater fall!”

At length the two young travellers determined to journey on into Spain; but in order to accomplish this, it was necessary first to buy horses–no easy matter, since all that were available had been seized for the army. After considerable delay Stanhope heard of a pretty little black Andalusian, which belonged to a Spanish gentleman willing to sell it, and lost no time in going to see the animal. He found that it furnished one of the most quaint instances which he had yet come across of the intense hatred to the French then universally cherished. “I took a great fancy to it,” he says, “from a curious trick which it had been taught; one, however, which would have proved very inconvenient to me. _The moment it heard anyone speak French, it put back its ears and flew at him!_ As I wished to try this intelligent animal before I made my bargain, I returned to give orders that my saddle should be sent to its stables; but in the meantime, to my great disappointment, the servant in charge sold it to another man, unknown to his master, and for a less price than I should have been willing to give for such a remarkable animal.”

At last, having procured the necessary steeds, the travellers started on their journey, encountering many adventures and seeing many interesting sights by the way. On one occasion they were quartered for some days upon a poor Captain Major, whose habitation was a humble hut in a singularly lonely district. Yet they found that he was a learned man, who had his small but treasured library; and in the latter John Stanhope was further astonished to find that one of the volumes which its owner considered most priceless was a Latin translation of Young’s _Night Thoughts_.

“It is a curious thing,” he remarks, “that this work, held in general in but little estimation in England, is invariably one of those most admired throughout the entire Continent, not only by the Portugese, but particularly by the lively Spanish.”

It was men of the rank of their host, he adds, who had given occasion to an amusing mistake on his part upon his first arrival in the country: “According to the Portugese pronunciation,” he writes, “_Major_ sounds like _Moor_ or _More_. The first time I met a Captain Moor, I was much surprised at finding a man of that name in Portugal; but when at every turn I found another Captain Moor, I could no longer refrain from expressing my astonishment at meeting with so many of that family, _and all Captains!_ The laugh that was raised at my expense may be imagined!”

The two young travellers at length reached Cadiz, which was then besieged by the French army. Almost one of the first things which struck John Stanhope with regard to the city, he records as a feat both novel and ingenious:–

Situated as Cadiz is, almost in the midst of the sea, the constant breaking of the waves was sufficient to endanger, not only the walls of the city, but even the neighbouring houses. A Spanish engineer, Don Thomas Minoz, undertook to provide a curious security against so alarming a danger. He effected his purpose by placing, at certain intervals, large planks extending some distance into the sea; these intervals he filled up with stones and cemented with a peculiar species of mortar which had the advantage of becoming hardened by the effects of time and exposure to weather; the wall above he built in the shape of a bow; by these means the force of the waves was effectually broken. But he met with those difficulties that so frequently are opposed to the efforts of men of distinguished genius. His labours were, in the first instance, counteracted by the misguided parsimony of his employers, and subsequently, when completed, the work was neglected and not kept in repair, in opposition to his express injunctions, so that a great part of the cliff has since fallen.

The morning following his arrival, young Stanhope was taken to be introduced to Admiral Purvis, then in command of the fleet off that coast; and, having received from him an invitation to dinner, he returned on shore to pay his respects, in the interval, to the Minister, Mr Wellesley. On again boarding the ship he found the Admiral occupied in studying through a telescope a vessel then in sight, which to Stanhope’s great excitement he explained was the _Ville de Paris_ returning to England with Lord Collingwood. Overjoyed at the unexpected prospect of seeing, not only his kinsman, but also his brother William, young Stanhope begged to be allowed to accompany Admiral Purvis in paying a visit to the approaching ship. Accordingly they snatched a hurried meal and set off in a small boat. Scarcely, however, had they embarked than they were greeted by the tidings that the vessel which they proposed to visit bore, not the brave Admiral returning to his native land, but his lifeless corpse, worn out with an arduous service sustained too long.

They immediately tacked about and returned to the ship they had just quitted, and thence young Stanhope watched the stately _Ville de Paris_ as she approached over the shining water, while he thought sadly of the gallant life which had thus ended, and of the grief which the news that had thus strangely become known to him would be learnt, many weeks later, by his family in Grosvenor Square. The following day he saw his brother William, now a sturdy youth grown out of all recognition; then the brothers parted once more, William eventually to return to England, his naval career ended, and John to experience a fate which he then little foresaw.

He, with his companion Knox, remained some time in Cadiz, taking great interest in the operations of attack and defence, into which they were initiated by their friend, the celebrated Lord Macduff, [4] an exceptionally keen and gallant soldier, who, however, apparently owed his predilection for war to a singularly horrible event in his life.

“A tragic episode,” writes John Stanhope, “has rendered the excitement of active service an absolute necessity to him. His delight in battle arises solely from the loss of a beloved wife, and sadly calculated was the end of the beautiful Mrs Macduff to make the most serious impression on a husband’s mind, all the more so, perhaps, in that so fully did she merit that epithet _beautiful_ which was always attached to her name. She had a Newfoundland dog, which one day leapt up in apparent affection, and catching her nose, gave it a bite, which not only seemed little more than a scratch, but as the dog had just sprung out of the water no suspicion attached to him. After some lapse of time, however, Mrs Duff was seized with symptoms of hydrophobia, and soon fell a victim to that dreadful disorder. Such a death for anyone cannot be contemplated without a shudder, but in the case of one in the full pride of youth and exceptional beauty, it appears, if possible, more inexpressibly horrible; and her unhappy husband has subsequently striven to find even a temporary oblivion of it in the greatest of earthly excitements–the din of arms.”

Mixing with the most interesting society of Spain, enjoying many novel experiences and encountering many famous people, the days of the young travellers passed pleasantly. The Spaniards at this date cherished the most profound admiration for the English. “They,” explains John Stanhope, “consider an Englishman as something superhuman, and, indeed, are anxious that ‘George terceo’ should come to reign over them.” He was also much struck by the “devotion of the entire nation to the forms of their religion”; and he adds: “There is, perhaps, nothing more striking amongst the numerous ceremonies of this superstitious people than the effect produced by what is usually known as the Angelus. On a fine evening in summer, when the Alameda is crowded with Spaniards of all classes, enjoying the delights of a Southern sky and the pure breezes of the sea, at one moment all is noise and animation, the eyes, the tongues, the faces of the fair Andalusians are all in motion and the Spanish _caballeros_ all devoted to the terrestrial object of their adoration: on a sudden, the Angelus sounds, the whole babel stops, a profound stillness falls like a cloud over the gay scene, and everyone remains totally absorbed in prayer so long as the sound of the bell is heard. It is scarcely possible to convey any adequate idea of the effect produced by the instantaneous silence of so vast a crowd. The moment the bell ceases, each addresses a salutation to the person whom chance has thrown near him, and the stillness–so striking, so solemn–is as suddenly broken by the recommencement of all the former pandemonium and a deafening noise of eager tongues.

“Yet in Spain a religion of forms and ceremonies seems to have been substituted for a religion of Christian purity and morality. Although the large majority of the population are devoted to their Church, they yet imagine that if they strictly observe her ceremonies, fast rigidly, and go regularly to confession, they have done all that is requisite. The consequence of this state of things is the prevalence of the greatest profligacy, which is fostered by the innumerable herd of monks who infest the country. Common prostitutes sell indulgences which exempt from fasting in Lent; and by what means they have obtained possession of these it is not difficult to conjecture.”

Another great drawback which John Stanhope found to life at Cadiz at that date was the prevalence of a condition of society which entailed that each Spanish lady should have her cortejo, or devoted attendant. “Behind each lady who smiles at you,” he explains, “there stands–not a duenna, such a one as is represented on our stage–but a grim, black, ugly grandee, ready to avenge with the stiletto every glance you may chance to give to the lady of his love.”

Nevertheless, Stanhope was enveigled into a silent flirtation which he describes thus amusingly:

“Immediately opposite to my habitation are two houses belonging to two merchants, who are either brothers or brothers-in-law. The one has an only daughter, who cannot boast of much beauty, the other has two daughters, the one a very pretty girl of a style rather unusual in Spain, for she has auburn hair, while her sister is a thorough Spaniard, a lively little thing with Andalusian eyes.

“A general flirtation was soon established between us; the heiress made me a sign every morning, upon which I descended into the street; she then threw out a most beautiful rose, which I picked up, and, pressing to my lips, returned to my balcony. This was certainly something like swearing allegiance, but I must confess that the fair cousin with the auburn hair, who lived next door to her, was the real object of my admiration; she was very modest and shy, and would only favour me with an occasional smile, but there was a sweetness in that timid, blushing smile which surpassed that of all the roses of Andalusia. She used also to serenade me on the piano by playing _God save the King_, to which I responded politely by playing some of the national airs of Spain. This silent flirtation continued for some time, when one day while I was on my balcony, I was not a little surprised to find standing beside me the servant from the house of the modest little lady with auburn hair. He at once accosted me in French, and, _sans ceremonie_, asked me which of the two young ladies I admired. “It is not _that_ one, I am sure!” said he, pointing to the lady of the roses. “No,” said I, somewhat ungratefully, and pointed to her fair cousin. The servant instantly disappeared; a conscious smile from the beauty rewarded me for my preference, but–no more roses!”

An episode of a very different nature is described in another letter from Cadiz. “An extraordinary execution took place the other day,” he writes; “extraordinary both from the manner in which it was carried out and the circumstances under which it took place. The unfortunate man was strangled by means of a machine of a new construction. It was an iron case or collar that was fitted round his neck and drawn closer by means of a screw till it occasioned strangulation. I did not follow the general example and attend the execution, as I did not feel sufficient curiosity about this new instrument of death to tempt me to witness so distressing a sight.

The sufferer was one of the principal judges in Madrid, and had rendered himself peculiarly odious by the severity which he had exercised towards the patriots, many of whom he had condemned to death. The guerrillas had, in consequence, signalled him out as their victim, and nothing can perhaps better illustrate the extraordinary state of Spain at this moment and the power of the guerrillas than the daring nature of their attempt and the success with which it was attended.

Having received information that the judge was to be present at a ball given on the occasion of the marriage of one of his servants at a village a short distance from Madrid, a guerrilla chief determined to take advantage of the opportunity which this offered. He accordingly made his appearance at the ball, and accosting the judge, requested him to come at once to the door of the house, as he had something important to communicate to him. No sooner had the judge reached the door than he was seized, placed upon horseback, and hurried off. From the actual vicinity of the capital, in a part of the country thickly occupied by troops, he was thus carried away, and finally brought to Cadiz, where he was condemned to atone for his treachery by his death. Previous to his execution, he acknowledged the justice of his sentence, but declared that there are now in Cadiz many men far more deserving of punishment than himself, some of whom are actually in the employ of the Government.”

At length John Stanhope decided that, in June, he would embark for Gibraltar, intending to proceed thence to Carthagena, Valencia and Majorca. At this juncture, however, Tom Knox, reluctantly listened to the persuasions of his family, who feared his inability to stand a hot climate, and decided to return home. How fortunate it was for himself that he decided to do so, events were subsequently to prove.

John Stanhope, in company with some other friends, next made an agreement with an English merchant to take them to Gibraltar. The man, however, played them false, and sailed without them; whereupon they took passage on board a wretched boat called the _Liverpool Hero_, on which they endured extreme discomfort. One of Stanhope’s greatest wishes had been to set foot on the coast of Africa, but owing to the unseaworthy nature of the vessel on which they found themselves, combined with the extreme roughness of the weather, they were driven from the coast, and only after a most dangerous passage did they eventually arrive at Gibraltar. As they entered the bay, the first object which met their eyes was the ship in which they had originally intended taking their passage. She had only just dropped her anchor, and as they passed she hailed them. “On going on board,” relates John Stanhope, “the captain gave us a detailed account of a most melancholy occurrence which had marked their voyage. Their few hours’ advantage in starting had enabled them to effect what we had in vain attempted–the weathering Cape Espartel. There were on board the actual passengers who had cut us out of our berths. They had felt as anxious as I had done to plant their feet upon the coast of Africa. They accordingly got into a boat and landed. They were amusing themselves with walking a little way into the interior when a party of Moors, who had apparently been watching them, stole gently through the brushwood with which the coast was covered, and, getting between them and the coast, cut off their retreat. The Moors killed two of them, one being a boy, to whose head they deliberately put a gun and blew his brains out. The third they carried away captive.

“We could not help shuddering at the thoughts of our narrow escape. Had we fulfilled our original intention and occupied the berths which we had actually taken on board that vessel we should undoubtedly have been in the place of these unfortunate men, and should have experienced the horrible fate which befell them.”

A strange illustration of the fluctuations of fortune peculiar to those days next came under the notice of young Stanhope, on his way to Carthagena. “We passed,” he writes, “the house of a Spaniard whose history is singular enough. He was originally a poor peasant, but during the last war with England he happened to be upon an island near the coast, in company with one of his friends, when they observed two sailors land from an English vessel. They promptly concealed themselves so that they might observe the proceedings of these men without themselves being seen. The sailors whom they watched dug a hole, put something carefully into it, and then covered it over; after which they re-embarked.

“No sooner were they out of sight, than the two Spaniards came out from their place of hiding, and hastened to the spot, eager to ascertain what it could be that had been so mysteriously buried. Great was their delight when they dug up what proved to be a treasure of great value, a heavy bag of gold. They divided the spoil, and returned home wealthy men. Subsequently, however, one of them, either feeling scruples with regard to the possession of the booty or else in the due order of confession, unburdened himself to his priest, who at once impressed upon him the sinfulness of retaining the stolen treasure and the obligation of endeavouring to find the rightful owners and restoring it to them. The penitent, therefore, went to explain these views to his fellow-thief, who appearing fully convinced by such reasoning, at once promised to undertake on behalf of both himself and his friend the researches necessary for the restoration of the stolen property. Believing this assurance, the repentant man at once gave up to his friend his own share of the treasure, only to discover, when too late, that his less scrupulous comrade had not an intention of carrying out any such obligation, but having thus got possession of the whole of the gold, he kept it, and is now one of the richest and most influential men in this part of the country, while his more honest dupe is still a poverty-stricken peasant.”

In short, as John Stanhope was soon to find to his cost, it was not an age when a sense of honour dictated the actions of the majority of men. It happened soon afterwards that, unable to procure a satisfactory passage to Majorca, Stanhope was constrained to embark upon a small vessel, the appearance of which was singularly unprepossessing. But untrustworthy as was the boat, its captain proved to him a greater source of danger. Ignoring the undertaking he had given to the young Englishman, he traitorously sailed for Barcelona, where he delivered up his passenger to the French authorities, and John Stanhope thus unexpectedly found himself doomed to the fate which Esther Acklom had so ingeniously escaped, that of being a prisoner of Napoleon.

After various vicissitudes, and having been for eight weeks confined in a dungeon in hourly expectation of death, he was at length ordered with other prisoners of war to the depot at Verdun. Part of the journey thither was accomplished on foot, part driving in a diligence. The weather was bitterly cold, and the windows of the vehicle, which on this account were perforce closed, were chiefly of wood, so that not only was the view excluded, but the greater part of the journey was passed in darkness.

During part of the time, his only _compagnon de voyage_ was a French soldier, who had just obtained his _conge_ and was returning home after a long period of foreign service. “Poor fellow,” writes John Stanhope, “his happiness was unbounded! He could think and talk of nothing but the moment of his first arrival at home, amusing himself with discussing the various modes in which he might surprise his family. At length that which he seemed inclined to adopt was to apply for a billet upon his own people; to enter the house with all the swagger of a soldier quartered on strangers– in short, to enact the part which he had often played in Germany and so many other countries, and after having well tormented and frightened the whole household, to throw himself into his father’s arms with–“Mon pere, embrassez votre fils!” I enjoyed the thought of the _denouement_–so truly French–but with envious feelings; not to draw a contrast between our relative situations was impossible, and I kept thinking, When–if ever– shall I be able to surprise my family with my unexpected return?”

At another period of his journey one of Stanhope’s fellow-travellers was a certain Captain Reid, who had been aide-de-camp to General Reding, [5] and had been taken prisoner. He told Stanhope the following curious story, “which,” the latter suggests, “Walter Scott would probably hail as an additional proof of the reality of the art of divination. Captain Reid’s mother, many years ago, having heard of the fame of some fortune-teller, resolved, out of pure frolic, to have her fortune told. She therefore disguised herself as her own maid and went to see the woman. She was at that date a wife and the mother of five children. The fortune-teller informed her that she would have, in all, fifteen children; that, out of those, two only would survive their infancy, and of those two, she would only have comfort from one. The predicted number of children were born. Reid and his sister alone lived to grow up, and ‘what the future may produce, I know not,’ Reid concluded, ‘but as I am a prisoner in a foreign land, she certainly has no comfort in me.”

With many anecdotes of General Reding did Captain Reid likewise regale his fellow-prisoner: “–that distinguished but unfortunate officer,” says John Stanhope, “who at length fell victim to anxiety of mind arising from the difficulties with which he had to struggle and disappointment at finding that he commanded men who were not brave like himself. One day when Reding was about to engage the French (I rather think it was to make an attack on Barcelona) he sent his aide-de-camp, Reid, to a Spanish general, with imperative orders to be at a certain post, at a certain time, with his division. Just as Reding was on the point of moving forward to commence the projected attack he perceived the Spanish general riding leisurely towards him. ‘What, _you_ here!’ he exclaimed, horror-stricken, ‘Why are you not at your post?’ ‘I have received no orders,’ was the reply. ‘Reid!’ shouted the Swiss general in an overpowering fury and raising his sabre over the head of his aide-de-camp, ‘why did you not give my orders to the Spaniard?’ Reid, knowing his General’s irritable temper, thought that instant death was before him. ‘I did!’ he asserted emphatically; ‘there stands his aide-de-camp who was present at the time–let him deny it if he dare!’ Fortunately the aide-de-camp was too much a man of honour to deny the truth. Reid was acquitted in his General’s eyes; but the old Swiss turned away heart-broken at the recognition that all his schemes at this important juncture had been defeated by this act of treachery or cowardice on the part of the Spaniard, and, in unconcealed disgust, he gave the order for a retreat.

“Reding while on active service usually drank three bottles of wine a day, and never slept for more than three hours; he and his men were always in motion, yet Reid, though pursuing the same _regimen_, declared that, in common with his General, he was never in better health or happier at any time of his life.”

Of another famous general, Stanhope also records some interesting observations. Arrived at Dijon, which was a depot for Spanish prisoners, he went to call on an English fellow-prisoner, and found him having breakfast in company with two Anglo-Spanish officers, both of whom had served at Saragossa. “I therefore,” he relates, “felt great interest in talking over with them the events of that memorable siege, in which they had acted an important part. Of course, to judge from their own account, to them and to other Hibernian-Spanish officers was due the honour of having conducted the defence of Saragossa; but what was indeed of interest was to find that of Palafox [6] they spoke but slightingly, and seemed to consider him merely as the nominal commander. All this was so new, so incredible to me, that I could not help openly expressing my doubts on the subject; these, however, were met by an argument to which it was impossible not to attach considerable weight–that Palafox was at that moment on parole in a town in France. ‘Do you really think,’ asked they, ‘that if he were the powerful man he is represented to be he would be left in comparative liberty? No; the Emperor is too wise for that! If Palafox were what he has been supposed to be, _Napoleon would consider that no prison in France is strong enough to hold him!_'”

At length young Stanhope arrived at Verdun and entered upon a period of detention there to which he could foresee no prospective conclusion. “There was no positive suffering of which to complain,” he wrote afterwards, “yet there is a weariness, an utter hopelessness in the life of an exile which none can understand who have not experienced its intensity.” The patriotism which had gilded the voluntary exile of Collingwood was perforce absent from the imprisonment of John Stanhope. No glory of martyrdom dignified his forcible detention; he was merely the victim of mischance. And the outlook was singularly hopeless. “The negotiation for the exchange of prisoners has totally failed,” he writes. “The hope of the conclusion of the war appears to be more distant than ever. Whilst the Emperor lives, peace seems to be impossible, and he may live twenty years without the least diminution of his energy or his ambition … there is but one source from which we can any of us derive the slightest consolation, and that is from the character of Napoleon himself. His insatiable ambition, after having prompted him to the execution of everything that is practicable, may finally urge him to attempt impossibilities. Alexander wept because he could find no more worlds to conquer; Napoleon may find there are too many worlds for him. Universal dominion is not now so easy an acquisition. ‘Give him rope enough and he will hang himself!’ is in all our mouths!”

With this slender consolation the luckless prisoners endeavoured to cheer themselves; but meanwhile, as Stanhope points out, they existed “a thousand people of different characters, ranks and habits collected together in one town, without any occupation to divert the tedium of their lives.” Nor were there wanting additions to their society of an undesirable character, men who had voluntarily fled across the Channel to escape the consequence of nefarious dealings in horse-racing and gambling. One of these, indeed, was described by the French Minister of War as “the worst monster which England in her wrath has yet vomited across the Channel”; and the enforced idleness to which the prisoners were subjected, rendered them for the most part ready victims to the designs of such unscrupulous villains, while it tended to make the life of the town peculiarly demoralising. One source of satisfaction alone did Stanhope find in his altered conditions. His family, who for many months had believed him to be dead, were now overjoyed to hear of his safety, and to find themselves once more able to communicate with him; none the less it was impossible to ignore the constant danger to which his position still exposed him. At any moment he or his fellow _detenus_ might be sacrificed to the vindictiveness of Napoleon or to the exigencies of some political situation, and he had not been long at Verdun before a recognition of this fact was unpleasantly brought home to him.

Lord Blayney, [7] an Irish friend of his, was suddenly arrested one day in the streets of Verdun and hurried off to the citadel. There he was informed that by order of the French Government he was to answer with his life for the safety of a French prisoner in England, who, having been detected in some treasonable intrigue, was condemned to close confinement and likely to be shot. Thus for a long time subsequently Lord Blayney remained a prisoner in hourly peril of instant death.

There were also other evils to be reckoned with. The governors in whose charge the prisoners were placed were too often unscrupulous men, who, so long as they were secure from detection, did not hesitate to employ tyranny or fraud in the endeavour to further their own advancement, either by the pretended discovery of imaginary plots, thus giving a fictitious impression of their own zeal to the ministers, or by extorting money through terrorism from their defenceless victims.

A story in this latter connection is told by John Stanhope. It appears that a certain General Wirion, who had at one time been attached to Moreau’s party, had succeeded in getting into favour with Napoleon, who made him Governor of Verdun. Forthwith, the General’s principal object was to devise some means of extracting money from the prisoners resident there, towards whom his conduct, on all occasions, was peculiarly atrocious.

Among the _detenus_ he soon observed a young man of more fortune than wit, whom he at once recognised as a victim ready to his hand. He accordingly sent for this youth one morning, and informed him that he would give him leave to reside in a village a little way beyond the limits, for so the imaginary boundary was always designated within which the prisoners were confined by their parole. Although surprised at a permission for which he had not even applied, the young _detenu_ naturally was delighted, and, utterly devoid of suspicion, he lost no time in availing himself of his increased liberty.

Shortly afterwards, the Governor caused a bogus order to be posted in the office in Verdun to which the prisoners went at fixed periods to sign their names. It announced that the Minister of War had issued a decree commanding that all prisoners found out of the limits should be shot.

This notice the young prisoner in question either did not see, or ignored, thinking that in view of his having received special permission for his departure from the Governor, it could not apply to his individual case. From this false security, however, he was suddenly awakened one morning by the appearance of a detachment of _gendarmerie_, who, without any circumlocution, presented him with a copy of the order, and informed him that, as he had been found out of the limits, he was included in the number of those to whom the decrees applied, and that their orders were to carry the sentence into immediate execution.

So sudden, so unexpected an announcement of instant death might well have shaken a man of stronger nerve. As it was, the condition of the poor youth was pitiable. In vain he protested his ignorance of the notice and his innocence of any intentional disobedience to the Government; to all such representations his captors turned a deaf ear. Still more, no means were neglected by them, no note of preparation omitted, that could tend to increase the agony of his terror.

At last, at the very moment when not a hope of life remained to him, a Gallo-Irishman, the chosen confidant of the Governor, made his appearance, as if by accident. At the sight of this man, one last chance of escape presented itself to the miserable youth, and he entreated the fellow to save him. The Irishman replied decisively that he could hold out no hope; the orders of the Minister of War had been imperative, and any chance of eluding them was impossible.

“But I have the General’s permission to reside beyond the limits!” pleaded the youth eagerly.

“True, but the General exceeded his powers in giving you that permission; you cannot expect him to sacrifice himself for you. It is unfortunate, but you must be the victim!”

“Is there no possibility of your doing anything? You are so intimate with him, cannot you save me?”

“I fear not.”

“But at least make _one_ effort!”

“It is a hopeless case!” the Irishman assured him. Then, after consideration, he said: “Well, I will _try_, but upon one condition, and one only.”

“Name it!” was the eager reply.

“That you give me _carte-blanche_ to act as I see fit!”

The condemned man did not hesitate. He agreed readily to all the Irishman suggested; and the villain having given orders to the _gendarmes_ to await his return, departed triumphantly. After an interval which appeared sufficiently long for him to have journeyed to Verdun and back, he reappeared and informed the poor youth, who meanwhile had been awaiting his verdict in a state of indescribable anxiety, that the mission had been successful. This had not, however, he explained, been accomplished without the greatest difficulty, as General Wirion trembled at the serious responsibility which he was about to incur in disobeying the Minister’s express orders; nevertheless, the Governor would consent to spare the Englishman’s life on condition of his paying down immediately the sum of L5000. The young man was startled by the largeness of the amount, but in the position in which he was placed, it required few arguments to convince him of the worthlessness of money when his existence was at stake. He accordingly consented to the proposal, signed a draft for the specified amount, and was set at liberty. When, however, in a calmer frame of mind he came to consider the transaction and to discuss it with his friends, he felt convinced that some trickery had been employed towards him. He thereupon wrote to his banker, cancelling the order for the money. But this only made matters worse for him; for the General, furious at such an attempt to defeat his machinations, enforced payment, not merely of the L5000 originally demanded, but of an additional L200, under pretext of having incurred that latter expense in trying to substantiate his lawful claim to the larger sum!

Needless to say, robberies of this description were perpetrated without the knowledge of the Ministers; but a rumour of some disgraceful transaction on the part of Wirion having at last reached them, he was summoned to Paris to undergo examination before a court of inquiry. In consequence of what then came to light, upon the next public occasion at which he was present, the Emperor turned his back upon the General. The latter understood the hint. He left the presence of Napoleon, got into a hackney coach, drove to the Bois de Boulogne, and there shot himself.

Occasionally, however, Napoleon himself was outwitted by the cunning of the villains in his employment. Wirion’s successor at Verdun, Colonel Courcelles, a less daring but more clever scoundrel, found favour with the Emperor by a very simple expedient. He had lost one of his legs in _partie de chasse_, a loss which gave him the valuable air of a gallant veteran, and of which he knew how to take the best advantage. Passing through Verdun to join his army, the Emperor spied the apparently maimed hero, and at once honoured him with a special notice. “_Monsieur le Colonel_” he inquired with a note of respect, “_ou avez-vous perdu la jambe?_” Courcelles, sufficiently quick-witted to convey the impression he desired without risking the utterance of any lie, replied truthfully: “_Sire, j’etais a la bataille de Marengo!_”

Courcelles succeeded in robbing the prisoners who were in his charge in a more cautious manner than his predecessor; he, in short, contrived to subtract something for himself from any remittances which reached them, and paid them francs for livres. But if in many instances the prisoners suffered at the hands of the French authorities, on one occasion the position was reversed, and a French commandant became the victim of a prisoner’s cunning.

The hero of this incident was Lord Blayney, the Irishman before referred to. A certain General Cox, formerly Governor of Almeida, owned a very nice little Andalusian horse, Sancho, which had distinguished itself as one of the first racers in Verdun. Lord Blayney offered a challenge for Sancho to run against a horse which he promised to produce for the event, and his bet was accepted with alacrity. He thereupon sent to an Englishman who was in young Talleyrand’s service, and who was a recognised connoisseur in horseflesh, instructing this man to send him a particular English race- horse which had formerly figured at Verdun, and in the capabilities of which Lord Blayney still apparently had confidence, although it was now pretty well advanced in years.

Nevertheless, when the animal reached Lord Blayney’s stables, sundry alterations were made in its appearance which would prevent its being recognised as an old acquaintance by those who had seen it formerly; and thus when the date for the race arrived, an unknown beast entered the lists against Sancho.

It was soon patent to all that the age of this competitor made its chance of success but small; and, in fact, General Cox’s fleet little horse won in a canter. Everyone laughed loudly at Lord Blayney’s folly in imagining that so obviously incompetent an animal could run against the beautiful little racer Sancho; only Lord Blayney himself seemed stupidly surprised at his own failure. None the less, he bore his loss with amiability, and as he had previously invited his antagonists to dine with him that night he did not omit to make them welcome.

General Cox and the backers of Sancho were, not unnaturally, in the highest spirits that evening; and when wine had loosened their tongues, they expressed their triumph rather incautiously in loud praises of their favourite horse. Lord Blayney likewise appeared to drink heavily, and at last, seemingly elated by this fact, or stung past endurance by the taunting remarks of his adversaries, he swore that he would again match his horse against Sancho and for a yet larger sum of money. Cox, delighted, instantly closed with the offer, and Lord Blayney shortly afterwards, as though overcome by the wine he had drunk, fell asleep.

His guests sat on drinking till at length their host awoke, when it became evident to them that, sobered by his nap, he was ready to view matters in a more cautious light. “Cox” he observed anxiously, “I will give you a good sum down to be off the bet I made just now.” “Oh, no! no!” cried General Cox. “It is too late to withdraw it–you cannot show the white feather.” “Well, then,” shouted Lord Blayney, with apparent angry recklessness, “I’ll double the first bet!” “Done!” cried the General, enchanted at the certainty of extracting a still larger sum from the pockets of the foolish peer. So delighted was he, in fact, that he generously arranged for several of his most intimate friends to share his prospective good fortune, and seeing an unparalleled opportunity for currying favour with the Commandant, he invited the latter to participate in such exceptional luck.

One man alone saw through the whole transaction. This was a certain friend of Lord Blayney’s who is mentioned in John Stanhope’s letters by his nickname of “Paddy Boyle,” [8] which had apparently been conferred upon him on account of his exhibiting certain characteristics which are more usually illustrative of an Irish than a Scottish nationality. Lord Boyle went to Lord Blayney with the unwelcome announcement: “By Jove, my Lord, I’ll tell of you!”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” rejoined Lord Blayney; “I’ll give you a hundred pounds to hold your tongue!” The bargain was struck and the secret was kept.

The eventful day arrived. So large a bet had attracted universal attention. “I will not attempt to describe,” writes John Stanhope, “the intense interest felt by all present at the commencement of the race, nor the confusion and dismay of the Cox party when they saw the previously incompetent animal now cantering away from Sancho with all the ease and style of a true English racehorse; nor will I attempt to give the crimination and recrimination that followed. I will content myself with transcribing the observation with which the poor Commandant consoled himself for his loss. ‘_Les Anglais pretendent que Lord Blayney est fou; je reconnais a mes depens qu’il est plus fin que les autres!_'”

With regard to Lord Boyle, who so intelligently fathomed the intended ruse in this instance, Stanhope subsequently relates some amusing anecdotes. “During the time of our races,” he writes, “Lord Blayney had invited a large party to dine with him on the race ground. Instead of putting myself in the path of the prospective host, as did most of my friends, I studiously avoided him, and thus escaped an invitation, as I was anxious to do, for I had little doubt that there would be a profusion of wine which would lead to its inevitable consequences at Verdun–a good deal of quarrelling. I rode to the course with Lord Boyle, who congratulated me on my prudence. I never heard a man talk more reasonably or eloquently than he did upon the state of the society at Verdun, and particularly upon the reprehensible consequences which invariably arose from successive drinking. The first thing I heard next morning was that Paddy Boyle had, after dinner, _insulted every man at the table but one_, uttering sarcasms founded doubtless upon truth, but as biting as they were clever. _From every individual except the one who had escaped his attacks he had just received a challenge_, which he had been forced to meet by sending round a circular apology. He had thus given a pretty practical illustration of the truth of the remarks with which he had favoured me on the previous evening!”

Subsequently Lord Boyle afforded another illustration of his “strange admixture of shrewdness and muddle-headedness.” On an occasion when, it must be emphasized, he was entirely sober, he was discovered going out into the garden at twelve o’clock at night with a hand-candle in order to ascertain what was the correct time by the sun-dial!

But in a society which comprised men of so many different types and varying calibre, there were not wanting some of the survivals of a France which was rapidly becoming extinct An inhabitant of Verdun frequently referred to by Stanhope was the Chevalier de la Lance, an aristocrat of the _ancien regime_, who piqued himself upon possessing the peculiar grace of manner belonging to a bygone day, and which he carried to such a point of exaggeration as often to render himself ridiculous. “He is nevertheless a kind-hearted, gentlemanlike and amiable old man. Like most others of his rank who are still alive, he emigrated at the beginning of the Revolution. He retired to Germany, where he lived for some time under the assumed character of a humble music-master. He tells me that one of his most pleasant experiences was the surprise of his various pupils when, upon leaving the place of exile, he sent them back all the tickets for lessons which they had given him, and for which he no longer required payment He did not, however, return to France alone; in the country-house of some of his pupils he had met a lady whose heart was touched by the misfortunes of the exile. She was related to one of the leading families of the Austrian Empire, but had learnt to feel compassion for the unfortunate emigrant, and as compassion is akin to love, it soon grew into a warmer sentiment, and she at length agreed to unite her destiny to his.”

On an occasion, destined to be momentous in the life of another friend of Stanhope, did the Chevalier have an opportunity of displaying his exquisite manners to the full. One day young Stanhope was walking through the streets of Verdun with a friend of his, Captain Strachey, [9] when they met a young Frenchman of their acquaintance, “one, indeed,” he remarks, “of the few _ancienne noblesse_ of Verdun.”

‘Ah, Monsieur Stanhope,’ said the Frenchman, ‘you must go to the Cathedral, my cousin is the Queteuse [10] to-day; you must give her a Napoleon at least!’ Strachey announced that he would like to go with me, and together accordingly we went.

“At the appointed time the Queteuse made her appearance. She proved to be a most lovely girl, dressed in black silk, with a garland of snow-white marguerites on her head. As a mark of particular attention from the ecclesiastical authorities, she was permitted the escort of the Chevalier de la Lance, who, thoroughly enjoying the situation, held the tips of her fingers and conducted her with all the airs and graces of the olden time through the crowd assembled in the church. At length, preceded by the beadle in full costume, she approached the place where we were standing. The graceful simplicity of her manners formed an admirable contrast to the affectation of the old chevalier. With a low courtsey, and with a smile which united the sweetest expression to the most perfect modesty, she presented her purse to each of us in our turn. I was no longer at the happy age when the heart is carried away by every sweet glance; but I own that, for the moment, I was bewildered by the beautiful sight which the young girl presented, as, engaged in so holy a cause, and with her extraordinary loveliness framed by the picturesque surrounding of Gothic arches, she might well have been mistaken for the vision of an angel. All the money in my pocket was at once transferred to the little silk purse of the fair petitioner; but to Captain Strachey’s peace that smile was far more fatal. It was decisive of the destiny of his life. A copy of French verses which he penned to the beautiful Queteuse was the first proof of the impression produced upon his heart. Many were the obstacles with which he had to contend; but at length the lovely Mlle, de la Roche became the bride of the English prisoner.”

There was, however, but little intercourse between the English and the French families at Verdun. “There is one set,” Stanhope writes, “who keep themselves very select and consider themselves _par excellence_ the society of the town. Almost the only English admitted into their circle are the Marine officers. It is said that they obtained this preference by persuading the French that they are distinguished by the title of _Royal_ Marines entirely because they rank highest in the British service!”

Only a certain Mr and Mrs S. who belonged to the class of _detenus_ were allowed, on sufferance, occasionally to mingle with the French families; and in this connection Stanhope relates one more story.

“My fair countrywoman, who is sharing the captivity of her husband, formerly an officer in the army, is singularly attractive. If her features were not too pronounced and her form much too thin, she would be a very pretty woman. As it is, there is something remarkably airy and graceful in her figure, and very lively in her countenance. Still more lively is she in her manners. She is, indeed, one of the cleverest and most sarcastic women I ever knew, very agreeable when you are not yourself the object of her satire. In order to preserve her character for wit, she is not very scrupulous in her language; and in consequence of this an Englishman once ventured to make her an insulting proposal, upon which she very quietly caught up the poker and knocked him down, thus establishing her reputation in such a forcible manner that, whatever she has subsequently been bold enough to say, she is quite certain of being considered a perfect Diana.

“An adventure occurred to her which would be amusing if I could tell it in her own language. On one of the coldest nights of a severe winter she left her apartments to go to one of our Verdun balls. Her husband pleaded a severe headache as an excuse for not accompanying her; and, that her amusement might not be disturbed by any disagreeable suspicions, he actually retired to bed and enacted the part of a sick man so well that he eluded even her penetrating glance. No sooner, however, had the carriage driven off which conveyed her to the ball, than up jumped the sick man, dressed himself and set off to the club in order to indulge his darling passion for play. At an hour rather earlier than he had calculated upon, his wife left the ball, doubtless anxious to look after her invalid husband. She was driven home by a friend, and in order to inconvenience the latter as little as possible, she got out of the carriage without waiting for the house-door to be opened, and allowed her friend to drive away. It was a piercingly cold night, the ground was covered with snow, and she picked her way carefully up the steps and then felt in her pocket for her _passe-partout_. To her horror she discovered it was not there, she had forgotten to take it out with her! She used all her efforts to rouse her sleeping husband or some of the inmates, but in vain. No resource remained but for her to walk, quarterdeck, in her satin shoes and ball dress, the bodice of which, to make matters worse, was generally very decollete.

“While engaged in this truly miserable occupation, who should come up but her husband, returning from his club! Had he had the key in his pocket much might have been forgiven him, but he, too, had forgotten it. He was obliged, therefore, to join his wife’s promenade before the door of their lodgings, and submit to a snowy curtain-lecture, till dawn broke, and the miserable, shivering couple were at last able to make themselves heard by the inmates of the house.”

Many years afterwards John Stanhope related a yet more extraordinary meeting which occurred to this same couple.

“When the allied troops entered France, the hope of that liberty of which he had so long been deprived was again kindled in the breast of Captain S., and at length rose to such a pitch as to overpower all other considerations, till he made his escape _en garcon_ from the _depot_. The unpleasant situation of his wife when she found herself thus abandoned in the midst of a foreign land may be imagined; but she was not the type of woman to give herself up to despair. After some time had elapsed she set off with the intention of making her solitary way to England. During her journey she encountered a detachment of the Russian army, and on finding herself surrounded by troops, nothing daunted, she demanded to be taken to the General commanding them. She was conducted to his presence and was received by him and his aide-de-camp, who stood beside him. Something in the appearance of the latter attracted her attention–she looked again and again–did her eyes deceive her, or was that figure in a Russian uniform, with an order at his button-hole and his face partly concealed by heavy moustachios, indeed her husband? Another look converted her doubts into certainty, and she was in her husband’s arms. He had directed his course towards the Russian army, been of great service to the General–probably by giving him information on the state of the country–and had been rewarded by the situation he now held.

“He subsequently re-entered the English army, having obtained a commission in the Horse Guards. Later, I often saw the fair heroine of this story riding in Hyde Park, in a costume which resembled the uniform of her husband’s regiment, and accompanied by a daughter whose grace as an equestrian was set off by her personal beauty, whilst an orderly enacting the part of a groom completed the singular appearance of the group.”

Meanwhile, amongst the men of all nationalities who were to be found among the prisoners, certain of these, like Captain S., from time to time succeeded in effecting their escape. One brazenly went as a courier carrying despatches to the _grande armee_; another cleverly passed himself off as a Custom House officer and actually accompanied a battalion of French soldiers, during the whole time receiving the utmost civility from the unsuspecting officers and men. But all studiously avoided Naval disguises, for the French believed that there was some peculiar predisposition in English blood to the Naval Service; indeed, on this account, all English foundlings were sent to Marseilles or Toulon to be brought up as sailors!

Once, during John Stanhope’s residence at Verdun, did Napoleon pass through the town. When this occurred, the young _detenu_ made his way so close to the carriage and inspected its occupant with such determined scrutiny that, he adds with satisfaction, “I can boast that I made Napoleon himself draw back!” His description, entered in his journal, of the Man of Destiny, then approaching the reverse of his fortunes, is of peculiar interest.

“How shall I describe him? He was in a coloured nightcap, not a very Imperial, nor, at any time, a becoming costume; he had travelled all night, which, also, is neither calculated to improve a man’s beauty, nor to shed a ray of good-humour over his countenance. His face looked swollen, his complexion sallow and livid; his eyes–but it is impossible to describe the expression of those eyes; I need only say that they were the true index of his character. There was in them a depth of reflection, a power of intention (if I may so call it) of seeing into the souls of men; there was a murkiness, a dark scowl, that made me exclaim-‘ Nothing in the world would tempt me to go one hour in that carriage with that man!’ I could understand the power of that eye, under the glance of which the proudest heart in France shrank abashed; but still the whole countenance rather brought to my memory the early impressions I had formed of a moody schoolmaster, than those of a Caesar or an Alexander.” [11]

The days were then long past, however, when Napoleon’s assumption of regal magnificence had provoked merriment among those as yet unfamiliar with it. In 1804 Lady Louisa Stuart had recorded how the unaccustomed deference with which the first consul elected to be treated was viewed in the nature of a farce by those surrounding him. Everyone of any rank who employed the titles by which the parvenu monarch desired to be called, did so as a recognised jest. “_Sa Majeste Imperiale et puis du rire_!” But if that phase had now gone by and the boldest in France had learnt to quail before the piercing glance of the usurper, there remained apparently a few stout English hearts in whom he still failed to inspire awe. John Stanhope relates:–

“An incident occurred during Napoleon’s passage through Verdun, which, however difficult to describe with full effect, is yet too good to be omitted. An old British merchant captain went up to the window and presented a petition. This the Emperor refused to receive, observing–‘I take no petitions from the English.’ ‘Then–d—-n your eyes, you b—-y son of a —-!’ exclaimed the old sailor with engaging frankness, as, turning on his heels, he strode disgustedly away. Napoleon did not appear to understand this comment, but probably he had some shrewd suspicion of its nature.”

So profound a sensation, however, did the countenance of the Emperor make upon John Stanhope that he could never afterwards recall it without a shudder. That sense of an all-dominant will, of a boundless egoism, of a villainy which refused to be limited and could not be gauged by any of the ordinary restrictions applicable to normal humanity, was never subsequently erased from his recollections. It must be emphasised, moreover, that John Stanhope was by temperament and training singularly cosmopolitan in his outlook, and free from insular prejudice even with regard to his country’s foe, so much so that, when he again had an opportunity of observing Napoleon, he readily acknowledged the strange magnetism of the man whose personality yet filled him with such instinctive repugnance.

On this latter occasion Bonaparte was already past the meridian of his glory, and had met with reverses which enforced a more careful cultivation of his popularity with the masses. “He was,” relates John Stanhope, “most gracious in his manner to the surrounding crowd, greeting them with a smile; and that smile was strikingly beautiful; there was a fascination about it, which, even in spite of my previous impressions, I could not resist.”

Still more, he records with obvious pleasure an instance of the Emperor’s magnanimity:–

“It would not be doing justice to Napoleon to omit the case of Captain Fane. That gallant officer had been taken prisoner in an attack that he had made upon some town on the coast of Spain. He had landed with the greater part of his crew, and carried the place with great bravery; but success was fatal to the discipline of his force. Unaccustomed as they were to fighting on shore, not all the efforts of Captain Fane could keep them together. They dispersed in all directions, plundering, and looking for wine. The French who had watched the whole proceedings from the heights, sent a force down, which, unobserved, got between them and the sea, cut off their retreat and took the whole party prisoners.

“Captain Fane, who was a true English sailor, had some dispute with the officer into whose hands he was committed on the French frontier. The latter thereupon refused to accept his parole, so that Fane was conducted to Verdun by the _gendarmes_, treated with considerable harshness, and lodged in prison at the end of each day’s march. This treatment was not calculated to produce a favourable impression on his already prejudiced mind, and not unnaturally there was not in the whole depot a more violent anti-Gallican than was Captain Fane.

“But his residence at Verdun was not long. A circumstance had occurred in the earlier part of his career which his friends justly thought likely to be of service to him in the unfortunate situation in which he now found himself. At the time of the Egyptian campaign, he had been midshipman on board a man-o’-war employed on the coast of Egypt. One day some French prisoners had been in danger of being drowned, when Fane jumped overboard and saved their lives at the risk of his own. The circumstance had at the time come to the knowledge of General Bonaparte, and he had expressed his high sense of the bravery of the young English officer.

“Now under the changed circumstances in which Captain Fane found himself, his friends did but justice to the Emperor in believing that if the occurrence were but recalled to the memory of Bonaparte, coupled with the knowledge that that once gallant midshipman was now a prisoner in his dominions, it would at least militate in favour of the captive. The information, of which Captain Fane himself would have scorned to make use, was therefore conveyed to Bonaparte, and not a moment did the Emperor hesitate. He at once ordered Captain Fane’s unconditional liberation.–It is with great pleasure that I record this trait of magnanimity in Napoleon; similar instances of which more than once came under my notice.”

Of Jerome Bonaparte, on the contrary, John Stanhope gives a very different description. He was one morning for a considerable time in the same room with the King of Westphalia, in fact, for over an hour, while the latter was occupied with the consumption of a lengthy breakfast, and his impression of the man whom he thus watched closely is summed up briefly:- “A more insignificant personage,” he says, “I have never yet beheld!” After which he dismisses Jerome as undeserving of further comment.

After a long and dreary residence at Verdun, John Stanhope heard by chance that a French lady was desirous of having any English prisoners of undoubted respectability _en pension_ at her Chateau de D., near Ligny. He therefore applied to the commandant for permission to pass there what was termed _la belle saison_; and this was granted on condition that he reported himself at Verdun at the end of the month. Much delighted at the prospect of such a change in his surroundings, he therefore set out for Ligny, with his gig, two horses, and an old field captain, who attended him in the capacity of servant. His experiences are not without interest while thus resident in a French country family who were singularly typical of the period in which they lived.

The family, of whom he purposely suppresses the names, consisted of Monsieur V., a kind-hearted man, about fifty years of age. Madame V., whom he describes as “one of the most singular specimens of a French woman that it ever was my lot to meet with”; and her son-in-law and married daughter, Monsieur and Madame M.

“Madame V.,” he wrote long after, “was a thorough _intrigante_, never quiet for a moment, but always with some project in her head, a constant prey to all sorts of sharpers, who flattered her, fed upon her and converted her schemes into an abundant source of profit to themselves. The great object of her ambition at this moment was to obtain the post of governess to the King of Rome. _Madame!_–I have only to represent to myself that little round figure, nearly as large as it was long and much the shape of a ball, with her Parisian graces grafted on to her pretension to the manners of the _vieille Cour_, to enjoy, even now, a hearty laugh at her vanity in supposing that it was in her power to supersede and triumph over a Montesquieu. “As it may seem extraordinary that people in the position of the V.s should have admitted English prisoners _en pension_, I ought to mention that it was entirely a _galanterie_ on the part of Monsieur. He stipulated it should be no expense to him, excepting in the article of wine, which he would freely give; that whatever benefit arose from the money paid by us, should belong entirely to Madame V.; and a considerable profit she must undoubtedly have made, as little was the addition on our account to their domestic expenditure.

“The daughter of this couple was married to a man of talent, who, however, had a brusquerie of manner which rendered him rather forbidding. He seemed to aim rather at the rough independence of Revolutionary France than at the _politesse_ which marked the _vieille Cour_ of which Madame was an exponent. He treated me, however, with the utmost kindness and attention. Originally he had been but clerk to Monsieur V. and lived in the house. As is not unusually the case under such circumstances, an attachment grew up between him and Mlle. V.; but when did the course of true love run smoothly? Madame V. had other designs for her daughter; she destined her to the arms of one of Napoleon’s generals, and had already opened negotiations with a view of carrying these intentions into effect. The father, unable to resist the daughter’s tears, joined with her in endeavouring to extort from Madame V. a reluctant consent; but the latter remained inflexible. After all other arguments had been exhausted in vain, Monsieur M., her daughter and even her husband threw themselves on their knees before her in tears, and entreated her to yield to their wishes. Such a scene was too much for a Frenchwoman. She yielded, and abandoning her ambitious project, gave her daughter to Monsieur M.!

“Monsieur V. thereupon built a nice house for the young couple at the extremity of the garden, so that his daughter had the advantage of being perfectly independent, and yet of living as much as she chose with her father and mother. In general they formed but one family, and great was their contentment, though this was not, in reality, increased by the circumstance of Monsieur M. having recently been raised to the dignity of Mayor of D. and Secretary to the Prefect of the Department, a situation which gave him considerable power, and made him a person of greater consequence than his father-in-law.

“Our life was very uniform. At eight o’clock punctually we met at a little building at the end of the garden which Madame had dignified by the title of _La Ferme_, though it had not a pretension of any sort to such a denomination. It was in fact a small cottage consisting of a kitchen fitted up in cottage style, a small pantry, two bedrooms above, furnished with all the luxury of modern refinement–so much for the cottage. From what books Madame V. had drawn her ideas of rural felicity I know not, but she deemed it more sentimental to breakfast in the cottage than to enjoy that meal comfortably in her dining-room, so to the _ferme_ we were to go, and, whether the weather was hot or cold, to sit near the blazing fire in the little kitchen and enjoy the rural felicity of making our own toast. At one we dined, took a ride or walk in the afternoon, and at eight sat down to supper.

“The house was not an uncomfortable, though somewhat singular one. Monsieur V. having been called away from home during the time that he was building it, Madame took advantage of his absence to take care of herself, and, in so doing, to spoil the house. She had a fancy that she could only breathe freely in a large room; she therefore constructed out of the body of the house an enormous bedroom for herself. It was square, with a dressing-room at each angle. Her husband, upon his return home, found his house completely spoilt, as this room occupied the main part of the first floor. However, as the mischief was done, he bore it with the greatest philosophy, venting his feelings with his usual exclamation on such occasions–‘_Oh, ma femme! ma femme!_’

“The drawing-room was a pleasant and well-furnished room, it opened by a door, partly of glass, on to a flight of steps which served also as a bridge over a rivulet which ran close to the walls of the house. These steps led to the flower garden which was laid out in the old-fashioned style. In the centre was a fountain, round which there were beds of flowers. At the extremity of the garden there was a large orangery which had no pretentions to architectural beauty, but contained a magnificent collection of orange trees. During the warm weather, these ornamented the garden, and at a more wintry period, being ranged in rows in the orangery, afforded us an agreeable promenade.

“The gardens extended a considerable distance. They included on one side a kitchen garden and a vineyard, and on the other, to give the effect of what the French call an English garden, a wood had been considered a necessary requisite. It was cut out in walks, one of which led to the _ferme_ and another to the hermitage, so that the garden may be said to have possessed every requisite for a perfect garden. But absurd as this reunion of _bois_, hermitage and _ferme_, may sound, the gardens were really pretty, and the connecting of the kitchen garden and the vineyard with the pleasure ground not only added to its extent, but its variety. I have often thought that our English kitchen gardens, by a little more variety in their form and by an intermixture of shrubbery, might be converted into an ornamental instead of a formal addition to our country houses.

“Adjoining the drawing-room was a room, prettily furnished, in which I slept, and which also formed a not uncomfortable sitting-room when I wished to be alone. Behind the drawing-room was the dining-room, which, like all French dining-rooms, had the appearance of an anteroom. It opened into the library where there was a good collection of books and also of minerals, indeed, there was hardly anything of which there was _not_ a collection.

“On one occasion I incurred Madame V.’s serious displeasure. A hornet’s nest had been discovered, and, as it was voted a great curiosity, was placed by Madame’s orders among the other specimens of Natural history in the library. Warmed into life by the heat of the room, some of the hornets began to show signs of activity. The prospect was far from pleasant, and, alarmed at the disagreeable interruption about to be offered to my studies, I secretly commissioned a servant to throw the hornet’s nest into the water. Boundless was the indignation of Madame V, on finding that I had deprived her museum of so great a treasure; and it was a considerable time before an act of such temerity on my part was forgiven.

“We sometimes took advantage of a fine evening to form a party in the woods. On an occasion when the Chevalier de la Lance was staying with us accompanied by his fifteen-year-old daughter, one of the prettiest of our Verdun belles, we had one of these excursions to the forest. After dinner some of the most musical of our party were requested by the young belle to enliven the evening by music. Madame M., my hostess’s daughter, had a most beautiful voice, and had, of course, enjoyed all the advantages to be derived from Parisian masters. Whilst she was singing, we all observed that a nightingale perched upon one of the neighbouring trees continued silent; the moment she stopped, he began to warble forth his ‘wood-notes wild.’ This occurred not once, but repeatedly. He was far, however, from showing the same attention to the chevalier. Apparently not entertaining an equally good opinion of the old man’s musical talents, from the moment that gentleman began to take up the song, the nightingale began also, and evidently did all in his power to drown the chevalier’s voice!”

Another diversion at Ligny was _la chasse_. Monsieur M. was a great sportsman and very fond of shooting; he kept a small pack of hounds and seldom went out with them without inviting young Stanhope to accompany him. “One day,” relates John Stanhope, “we were out fox-hunting on foot, our business being to head the fox and–_horresco referens_–to shoot him! The hounds were running, and all of a sudden came to a check and ceased giving tongue. At that moment Lord Boyle, who was out with us, and who was not far from me, levelled his gun and took, as it proved, a deadly aim. I looked at him in some astonishment, at a loss to imagine what game he could have seen when the hounds were not running. He fired, and then throwing up his arms in horror, cried out, at the same time stamping and raving, ‘Oh! Monsieur M., I have killed your best dog!’ Vexed as I was at such a disaster, I could not help laughing at the gesticulations of my friend, and at Paddy, with eyes quick enough for anything, having mistaken a _dog for a fox_. It was quite a practical Bull. No one could have behaved better than Monsieur M. He concealed his regret and said everything in his power to reassure and recompose the distracted culprit.”

There was, Stanhope remarks, not much game in the neighbourhood of Ligny, though there could not be a country better adapted to it, as the house was situated between two forests, both of which abounded in wolves. “However,” writes Stanhope, “I was only out one day at _la chasse aux loups_. I had been so long deprived of the amusements of a sportsman that an invitation from Monsieur M., to accompany him on the following morning produced so much excitement in my mind that I lay awake half the night … and I was not too late for the appointed hour of six o’clock. Monsieur M., another sportsman and myself, proceeded to a distant part of the forest. We were all stationed, in advance, at different posts where it was thought likely that the wolf might cross the path. The hounds were soon in full cry. My heart beat high as I heard them approach me, but, alas! instead of the _grand gibier_ I expected, a poor little hare stole quietly by! It was a terrible falling off, and no wolf crossed our path that morning.

“Yet at the time of which I am speaking, we had pretty good proof of their being in our immediate vicinity, for one morning, when I was out walking, I heard, close to the house, a piercing yell. I ran to ascertain what was the matter and found that a favourite setter of Monsieur M., itself as big as a wolf, had just been carried off by one of these ferocious animals. Poor M. could hardly be consoled for the loss of another favourite dog, and was some days before he recovered his usual spirits. After I left Ligny, Lord Blayney and some other Verdunites killed six or seven wolves in one day’s sport.”

The warfare against both wolves and foxes at Ligny was, however, very essential, in view of the fact that Madame V., in order to further her favourite project of becoming Governess to the King of Rome, had resorted to a singular plan to ensure her popularity at Court.

Napoleon was exceedingly anxious to promote the progress of agriculture in France, and as a first step in that direction to introduce the breed of Merino sheep into the country. “Madame V. therefore determined to have her flock of Merinos. But as the pure breed could only be procured at a considerable cost, she resolved to arrive at the completion of her purpose in a more economical manner. She succeeded in purchasing some rams of the Merino breed, and she calculated that by crossing the sheep of the country with them she would in eight years succeed in establishing a flock of perfectly pure blood. She did not trouble herself about the evil results attributed by agriculturists to breeding in and in. Her speculation was the more extraordinary from the circumstance of her having no farm, nor any land upon which to keep her sheep; but for this difficulty she found an easy remedy. She sent out her flock under the guidance of a shepherd boy, to feed wherever food they could find, but principally in the Imperial forests.

“In order to give a greater _eclat_ to her favourite hobby, she built a magnificent sheep-shed which was finished whilst I was there. But before the sheep were introduced to their new abode, the priest was sent for to give it his blessing. This he did in due form by sprinkling holy water in all directions and consecrating it with as much solemnity as if he had been dedicating a church to the service of God. Further, to celebrate the event with yet greater pomp, she had likewise promised to give a ball; but, to the disappointment of the prisoners resident with her, she finally decided that the religious ceremony must suffice, and the Merinos were allowed to enter upon their new career with no secular demonstration to succeed the ecclesiastical.”

Various indeed were the methods employed by the ambitious in order to attract the attention and win the coveted favour of Napoleon. “A person of great distinction,” writes Stanhope, “the Marechal Oudinot, who resides in the town of Bar, has built a large manufactory for the purpose of making sugar from beetroot. He does not appear to entertain any sanguine expectations of profit, for upon General Cox asking him one day, when he was dining at Bar, what had been the success of his manufactory, the Marechal replied with rather more honesty than discretion, ‘Ce n’est que pour plaire a l’Empereur!’ Certainly in this point of view it was a magnificent piece of flattery!

“That this Marechal is a _nouveau riche_ the appearance of his house at Bar sufficiently indicates. It stands in the middle of the town, and is surrounded by a high wall, upon the top of which a range of shells and bombs are represented in stone. At the entrance door stand two sentinels– two wooden grenadiers painted in full uniform and as large as life, which certainly cannot be considered as any _preuves de noblesse_, or marks of a refined taste. One day Madame M. grievously offended this important person. Gazing at his mansion and its surrounding tokens of magnificence, she enthusiastically gave vent to a compliment which, however clever she might think it, was not calculated to flatter the pride of a _parvenu_. ‘Ah! Monsieur le Marechal!’ she exclaimed indiscreetly, ‘vous montez, nous descendons!’

“Indeed, what the Marechal’s origin may be, I know not; but I am told that, till quite recently, he conducted himself with the best possible feeling towards his old friends and relations, and was universally praised for the kindness and condescension of his manners. A great change, however, has lately been observed, perhaps because he has married a young and pretty girl belonging to the _ancienne noblesse_. His old friends are now treated with the greatest _hauteur_; he even requires the company at his parties to remain standing in a circle round him, and he appears to feel the regal coronet already budding upon his brows.

“Singular times, in truth, are these, when a man of the very lowest birth may indulge in such _reveries_ without the faintest absurdity!”

CHAPTER VI

1812-1813

LETTERS FROM AN ESCAPED PRISONER

At length the prospects of the luckless prisoner brightened. John Stanhope obtained leave to change his place of detention for Paris, where existence promised to be far more agreeable than at Verdun or Ligny. Having journeyed thither with a light heart, and some of the hopefulness of youth restored, he was not disappointed. He found himself warmly welcomed by many of his fellow-countrymen; while the French savants, having learnt the original object of his journey and all the circumstances which had led to his imprisonment, received him unhesitatingly as one of their body and give him free access to the Institute.

Forthwith life became once more full of interest, and as agreeable as it was practicable for that of an exile to be. He rapidly made friends amongst both the French and English residents in Paris, while one of his fellow-prisoners on parole in the capital at this date was the well-known banker, Mr Boyd [1] with whom his family had long been acquainted, and in whose vicinity he now took rooms.

“Mr Boyd,” relates Stanhope, “was in a singular position. He had originally been one of the first, if not _the_ first banker in Paris. He stood, as I have heard, in a pre-eminent position, admitted, as an Englishman, to those highest circles which were closed to the monied men of France, and aspiring to that commanding influence in the commercial world which although often maintained in England is seldom countenanced in France, unless we may consider Lafitte as an exception. At the breaking out of the Revolution, the temptation offered by Mr Boyd’s wealth was too great to be resisted. The French Government chose to consider him as an _emigre_, and seized upon the funds of the bank, which are said to have consisted of L600,000. At the Peace of Amiens he returned to Paris to reclaim his property, but upon the renewal of the war he was detained as a prisoner, being included in the class of _detenus_. In vain he remonstrated with the Ministers, and said, ‘If I am a Frenchman, give me my liberty; if I am an Englishman, restore me my money; you cannot be entitled to detain me prisoner as an Englishman and to keep my money as that of a Frenchman!’

“All his remonstrances were in vain; but distressed as his circumstances were at this date, his heart was warm and his board as hospitable as ever. Many an evening have I passed with him talking over the events of former times and of his financial schemes. I have never met with a spirit more buoyant nor a disposition more sanguine. In that Paris where he had once stood at the head of the mercantile interest, and enjoyed, with a zest of which few men were capable, every luxury that the luxurious capital could supply, he was now the double bankrupt, the prisoner of war. But to the credit of the French financiers–then, indeed, the men of most distinction in the world of fashion–he was not neglected. He still lived in that society of which he had formerly been so distinguished a member, nor was he treated with contempt because his wife and daughters now went to parties in their fiacre. On one of these occasions he met Talleyrand, who could not help exclaiming, ‘Ah! _Monsieur Boyd, vous voir comme cela!_’

“An application was at one time made to Boyd for his opinion on the financial affairs of England. This, although not avowed, he was perfectly aware was made by the Emperor’s desire and for his Majesty’s private information. Mr Boyd was not a man, be the consequences what they might, to bend before the Imperial footstool or to disguise the truth. He was placed upon his hobby-horse–Pitt’s financial system and the sinking fund. His statement proved anything but satisfactory to the high quarter for which it was desired; and never again was Mr Boyd applied to on the subject of English finance.”

With regard to his acquaintance amongst the French, John Stanhope speaks with the greatest interest of a man who became his great friend, Monsieur de Baure, a Member of the Institute and President of the Cour Imperiale.

“I do not know,” he writes, “that I ever remember to have seen a countenance expressive of brighter intelligence than his. His was indeed the eye of genius, and gave me a perfect conception of the meaning of an _eagle eye_. Yet I have seen it alight with a much greater disposition to fun than I expected to have found in one occupying so high a judicial situation. Indeed, in one instance, I was more amused than I can express by the extremely dry manner in which he completely took in an assembly of the wisest men in France!”

On this occasion young Stanhope was seated amongst a number of distinguished men at the Institute, when M. de Baure rose to his feet, and a hush fell on the assembly of savants, who waited with profound attention for the words of wisdom about to flow from the lips of their learned colleague. As he rose, however, de Baure caught Stanhope’s eye with a glance which the latter says “spoke as plainly as a glance could speak, ‘Now I am about to have some fun with these wiseacres!'”

Drawing himself up, the speaker announced with the most profound solemnity, “Gentlemen, I must preface my remarks by stating how I consider that a cook who discovers a new dish deserves a seat in the Institute more than a man who discovers a new star….”

Loud were the interruptions of horror which burst from the Members of the Institute, who, to the unutterable amusement of Stanhope and certain of his friends, took the remark literally.

“_Que me fait une etoile?_” continued de Baure with impassioned eloquence. “_Que me fait une etoile_ whilst a chef who discovers a new dish which tempts me to begin again after I have satisfied my appetite confers upon me the greatest obligation which it lies in the power of one human being to confer upon another!” [2]

Urged by his grave and astounded colleagues to elaborate his reasons for his extraordinary statement, de Baure declined on the following ground: “A king of France,” he said, “was passing through a provincial town when a pompous mayor, addressing his Majesty, regretted that he had twenty very urgent reasons for not having fired the guns in honour of the Royal visit, the first of which was that he had not any powder. ‘Stop there!’ said the King, ‘I will excuse you the other nineteen.'”

Another Frenchman, of a very different type, who was a friend of John Stanhope at this date, was the young Comte de St. Morys, of whose tragic fate, so illustrative of the conditions then prevalent in France, Stanhope subsequently gave the following account:–

“The Comte de St. Morys had been an _emigre_ at the period of the Revolution. His mother, however, had not accompanied her husband during that exile, and, in consequence, had succeeded eventually in preventing the confiscation of some of his property. When, later, Napoleon adopted the course of gathering round his throne as many of the old _noblesse_ as he could, he conveyed the hint to Madame de St. Morys that, unless her son returned, the remainder of her property should be confiscated. In consequence of this notification the young Comte deemed it his duty to return to his native land, and he established himself in the _basse-cour_ of his former home, which was all of the chateau which now remained.

“Unfortunately for him, the rest of the property had been sold to a man whose character may be best described by stating that he had been a branded fellow. A good understanding was not likely to exist between men of such opposite principles, and St. Morys, although he possessed the kindest and the warmest heart, was rather of a hasty disposition, and had a little more brusquerie of manner than is generally found among Frenchmen of his rank. What may have been the first, or the principal cause of the dispute, I know not, but, from what I heard, it appeared to me most probable that the object of Colonel Barbier de Fay was to compel Monsieur de St. Morys to give him a high price for his land in order to get rid of so disagreeable a neighbour.

“However that may be, Colonel Barbier’s hatred to St. Morys at length carried him so far as to lead him to form a plan of vengeance which I can characterise by no other expression than diabolical.

“At the restoration of the Bourbons, Monsieur de St. Morys, like many others, was raised to the rank he would have held according to the army list. He therefore became a general in the army and a lieutenant in the Garde de Corps, which, as the regiment was entirely composed of nobles, was a very high situation. Colonel Barbier, with a double motive–first that of tormenting Monsieur de St. Morys and next that of throwing discredit on a corps which he detested–introduced into the Garde room, and circulated wherever he could find access, printed papers blackening the Count’s character. That gentleman accordingly challenged him. Colonel Barbier replied that he would only accept the challenge on one condition– that two pistols should be put into a bag, one loaded and another not, and that they should draw for the chance.

“This St. Morys rejected, stating that he was prepared to fight, but not to commit murder. In order, however, that his character should be free from stain he referred the matter to the Marshals of France. They approved of his conduct, and there the matter ought to have ended. Unfortunately the Garde de Corps, aware of the jealousy with which the old army viewed their position, were very touchy on the point of honour. Wherefore the Duc de Luxembourg, his Colonel, considered that St. Morys was under a cloud, and refused to allow him to perform his military duties till his reputation was cleared. This was, in point of fact, the object which his adversary had in view. It placed St. Morys in a most awkward position, and threw an apple of discord among the Garde de Corps.

“My poor friend unluckily consulted everybody, and followed everybody’s advice. That which our joint friend, the Comte G. de la Rochefoucauld, gave him appeared to me the best; he advised him to make up his mind at once to the sacrifice of his commission; that having challenged his opponent he had done all that was incumbent upon him as a man of honour, a fact which was unquestionable after the decision of the marshals, and that he should express himself ready to meet any person who should arraign his conduct. But this would probably have involved him with the Duc de Luxembourg, and consequently compelled him to resign his commission in the Guards, which would have been peculiarly unfortunate as he was daily in expectation of being raised to the rank of captain, upon which he intended to have retired upon half pay.

“Instead, therefore, of following this advice, he endeavoured by further irritation to compel his opponent to meet him; he went into a cafe and struck the Colonel on the face with his fist, believing that so public a disgrace would induce Barbier to meet him on his own terms; but the other was not to be diverted from his predetermined purpose; he continued to persist in his declaration that he would fight only on the terms he had originally proposed.

“In this state the matter continued for some time, till Barbier thought he had sufficiently achieved his first object of bringing disgrace upon St. Morys, and therefore, at last, consented to meet his antagonist. They accordingly met, fired two brace of pistols, and then drew their swords. The seconds had previously decreed that the duel should terminate as soon as blood was drawn. Monsieur de St. Morys having, or thinking he had, slightly wounded his enemy, called out, ‘Monsieur, vous etes blesse!’ and laid himself open in full confidence that the fight was over. ‘Non, monsieur,’ replied Barbier, ‘_mais vous etes mort!_’ and not only plunged his sword into his victim’s body, but is said actually to have given a turn with his wrist to secure the mortality of the wound.

“Thus terminated the life of poor St. Morys!”

The consummation of this tragedy, however, belonged to a date later than that of the residence of John Stanhope in Paris, and during his sojourn there St Morys was still, like many of his day, endeavouring to reconcile his royalist proclivities to the changed conditions of his surroundings and his own altered fortunes. Meanwhile, into the comparatively peaceful routine of Parisian life came, ever and anon, news of a series of victories achieved by the _grande armee_, which was received in France with the customary complacency and elation that such events had long been wont to evoke. By the bulk of Frenchmen the triumphant issue of the Russian campaign was looked upon as a foregone conclusion, and, therefore, when there suddenly broke upon Paris the knowledge of the supreme disaster of Moscow the effect was overwhelming. The 10th Bulletin disclosed the truth with a shattering finality: “_Dans quatre jours cette belle armee n’existait plus._” The effect was as though a thunderbolt had fallen upon the smiling, placid country. France was plunged into mourning for her sons, Ministers trembled for their posts, and everywhere reigned consternation, uncertainty and grief.

Suddenly, into the middle of this general _bouleversement_, a rumour gained credence that the Emperor himself was at the Tuileries. Young Stanhope hastened to the palace to learn the accuracy of this report, and was soon convinced of its truth. Throughout the building were tokens of unwonted activity; lights were visible in all the windows, and a small crowd was stationed outside. From a French soldier standing near him he learnt that the carriage in which Napoleon had travelled had broken down at Meaux, “and the Emperor had then got into one of the little cabriolets vulgarly called a _pot de chambre_; they are little cars which ply between Paris and the neighbouring towns, and carry four inside, and one, generally called a _lapin_, on the same seat as the driver.” Upon his arrival in Paris his Imperial Majesty got out of this vehicle and walked to the Tuileries, where he was stopped by the guard at the door, who, in the dusk, failed to recognise him. “_Je suis de la maison!_” explained Napoleon briefly, and he was permitted to enter.

Thus Bonaparte returned to Paris, not as the triumphant victor, the indomitable conqueror of Europe, but as a defeated general, bent on retrieving some singularly grievous errors by tact and perseverance. Yet something never to be regained was lost to the Man of Destiny. The spell which had deified him was broken. Napoleon the Invincible, the Infallible, had blundered. “This supernatural man, this god–or devil–had sunk below the level of ordinary men. ‘_Le prestige est passe_’ was in everybody’s mouth.”

Paris soon rang with stories of the disastrous campaign–tales, in the most trivial of which the Parisians recognised the complex personality of that god or devil of their mingled idolatry or detestation. A French officer told John Stanhope two anecdotes, which, although in themselves slight, are strikingly illustrative both of Napoleon’s shrewdness and of his brutality. On one occasion the Emperor heard some men murmuring and declaring that rather than suffer the torments which they were then enduring, they had better give up the struggle and make up their minds to go to Siberia. Napoleon turned to them, and, fixing them with his glance, merely observed, “En Siberie ou _en France_!” Well did he understand the emotional temperament of the men with whom he had to deal! The tone in which he uttered _en France_ recalled vividly to their thoughts their own, their beautiful France; and the men, who a moment before were abandoned to despair, roused themselves and advanced on their march with all the enthusiasm and the renewed vivacity of Frenchmen.

The other story, as indicated, is of a less creditable nature. After the terrible crossing of the Beresina, when, through faulty generalship and inexcusable want of forethought, thousands upon thousands of lives were needlessly sacrificed, the Emperor, during the wretched bivouac west of the river, was, like the rest of his regiment, suffering intensely from the bitter weather. His officers, therefore, went round calling for dry wood for his fire, and soldiers, perishing with cold, came forward to offer precious sticks, with the words, uttered ungrudgingly, “Take this for the Emperor.” Shortly afterwards, Napoleon was seated in a miserable _barraque_, with his _surtout_ over his shoulders, enjoying the poor fire thus obtained. Folding his coat more closely about him, he remarked casually, “Il y aura diablement des fous geles cette nuit!”

Yet the man before whose colossal egoism imagination waxes impotent, could, on other occasions, exhibit an irresponsible _bonhomie_, which seemed totally at variance with the more sinister side of his character. This John Stanhope illustrates by another anecdote.

“Amongst my fellow-prisoners at Verdun had been a gentleman who promoted to the rank of his mistress a woman who was previously his maid-servant. He obtained permission to reside in Paris, but was included in the general order of the Duc de Rovigo upon his appointment to the Ministry of Police, by which nearly all the English were returned to the depots.

“Madame Chambers, who found herself, under that fictitious title, occupying a very different position at Paris to that which she could fill at Verdun, where her real situation and origin were generally known, had no inclination to go back to that depot, but determined to leave no stone unturned to obtain leave for Chambers to remain in Paris. She was not a person to be easily daunted or troubled with any unnecessary _mauvaise honte_. Accordingly, the first time that the Emperor went to the _chasse_, Madame Chambers made her appearance. It was after the shooting was over, when a great circle was formed, in which the Emperor paced backwards and forwards, generally with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed upon the ground, whilst the game which had been shot was laid out before him. Madame Chambers advanced and presented a petition to him. He inquired curtly who she was and what she wanted, and took no further notice of her. The next time the Emperor went to the _chasse_ Madame Chambers again made her appearance, the same scene was re-enacted, with the same result. He went again a third time, and there also again appeared Madame Chambers with her petition.

“‘Comment!’ exclaimed the Emperor furiously, ‘toujours Madame Chambers!’

“‘Oui, Empereur, toujours Madame Chambers,’ she replied imperturbably.

“This was too much for Napoleon. The man who was accustomed to see the greatest of his generation tremble before his slightest frown gazed in no small astonishment at the plump, placid little soubrette who confronted him without a tremor. He burst into a merry laugh, and exclaimed. ‘_Eh bien, que votre mari reste a Paris. Berthier, je vous en charge!_’ turning to Marshal Berthier who was in his suite; and Mr Chambers was never sent back to the depot.”

Few, however, shared the temerity of Madame Chambers. John Stanhope writes: “The awe that even the principal ministers felt in the presence of Napoleon would not be credited in England. His courtiers literally trembled before him. ‘In what sort of a humour is the Emperor to-day?’ was a frequent question in Paris…. How I have blushed for the adulation, the degrading, I may almost say the blasphemous flattery that has been offered before the throne of Napoleon by men of the highest rank. But perhaps I ought to make some allowance for those who had witnessed the horrors of the Revolution. Can, however, such men be expected to recover the high tone of feeling they once entertained? Can France ever be restored to a sound state?”

Yet one man stood alone in heroic opposition to the Conqueror of Christendom. Frail, old, and deserted even by those upon whose support he had relied, the Pope, Pius VII., had courage to oppose the Conqueror of the world. While John Stanhope was in Paris the celebrated interview took place between the aged Pontiff and the autocrat to whom the Vicar of Christ was but as a temporal Sovereign to be crushed beneath the might of an all-but universal monarchy. Pius VII. had indeed had an ample warning in the fate of his predecessor, who, bereft of all power, had been consigned by Napoleon to an imprisonment in which he had expired. In 1801 Pius VII. had been forced to conclude a _concordat_ with Napoleon, which the latter had afterwards subjected to arbitrary alterations; in 1804 the Pontiff had found himself compelled to repair to Paris to assist at the coronation of his enemy. Shortly after his return to Rome the French had entered the Eternal city, and in May 1809 the Papal States were annexed by France. Promptly the brave old Pontiff excommunicated the robbers of the Holy See, and the vengeance of Bonaparte upon this act was swift and sure. The Pope was removed as a prisoner to Grenoble, then to Fontainebleau; and it is curious to learn, by Stanhope’s contemporary account, the light in which such a stupendous event in the history of the Roman Church was regarded at the date of its happening.

“The Holy Father, the representative of St Peter, he who holds the Keys of Heaven and Hell, is actually a prisoner in the hands of Napoleon! Poor, excellent old man, gallantly and with the resignation of a martyr does he bear up against his sufferings and maintain the dignity of the Papal See. It is a singular thing that in a _soi-disant_ Catholic country the imprisonment of the Father of their Church should make so little sensation. I hear, indeed, that many women gathered round the different places at which he stopped in the course of his journey through France, but even the interest they felt for him soon appears to have subsided. _A partie de chasse_ the other day was announced to take place in the Forest of Fontainebleau. This afforded the Emperor an opportunity of having a conversation with the Pope without any sacrifice of his own dignity, without any troublesome arrangement of ceremony, and still more without drawing upon himself the public eye, as to go hunting near the Palace of Fontainebleau without even paying a visit to the Pope would have been a positive breach of politeness.

“The interview took place. On the one side was the venerable churchman bending beneath the weight of affliction as well as of years, on the other Napoleon Bonaparte; yet if the reports circulated in Paris are to be believed, the old Pontiff held his own with unabated courage and dignity, and nobly maintained the cause of his religion, though the Emperor is said _actually to have thrust his fist in his face and all but struck him_. How the interview terminated I cannot learn, but I heard the fresh Concordat cried about the streets of Paris that same evening.

“This dispute,” he writes later, “has narrowly escaped producing the most important results in ecclesiastical history–the separation of the French Empire from the See of Rome. The Emperor had assumed the nomination to the French Bishoprics, but the Pope refused to give the investiture to the persons he appointed. The Church almost universally stood by their Chief; the consequence was that there was a considerable difficulty in filling up the vacant Sees. The Archbishopric of Paris was one of these. The Emperor offered it to his Uncle, Cardinal Fesch, but he, either from sincere attachment to his Church, or from the duty he owed to the Roman supremacy as a Cardinal, or from a conviction that he was safer in possession of the Archbishopric of Lyons, held under the Pope’s authority, than he could be in one held in defiance of it, resolved to brave the Emperor’s anger and refuse that offer. Napoleon, contenting himself with calling Fesch a fool, offered it to Cardinal Maury, who became titular Archbishop of Paris. There are few things in the history of the French Revolution that make one blush more for human nature than the falling off of that man whose opening career had been so brilliant….

“More and more the Emperor had felt that to be second to the Pope was inconsistent with his own dignity, and that if he could not bend the pontiff to his will, he must do without him. He had accordingly determined to assume the sole presentation of the Bishoprics; but how to get the Church to assent to such a proceeding was the question. He came at length to the decision of summoning the Gallican and Italian Churches…. When the Council met, I was allowed by a friend of mine to copy a letter from one of the members. It was a curious document and I preserved it for some time with great care, but I became at length alarmed at having such a compromising paper in my possession and reluctantly committed it to the flames. The tenor, however, of some parts of it I remember….

“The writer stated that the Emperor at first proposed to try the effects of corruption and to tamper with the Bishops individually, and that he had succeeded in that course, to some extent, more particularly with the Italian Bishops; but that when he abandoned that plan and summoned a Council, he committed a great error and entirely defeated his own intentions. Those men, who could be gained by corruption or intimidated by power, when they found themselves surrounded by their Brethren, were withheld, by shame, from giving way to such considerations. Numbers give power; individually each man might tremble at the thought of resisting Napoleon, but united, the _esprit de corps_ which is, as it ought to be, the most powerful incentive among all Churchmen, taught them to offer an unyielding opposition to all demands inconsistent with the rights of their Church. But there was another circumstance which rendered the assembling of the Council fatal to the Emperor’s project, and which, not to have known, was on his part inexcusable ignorance. At the opening of all Councils each member takes an oath that he will not alter anything that has been fixed by former Councils, so that everyone in this case was individually bound by an oath taken in the presence of his Colleagues to reject such conditions as were required by the Emperor from the Council! The consequence of this was that even those who had given their adhesion to his plans were now found united with the brethren in the cause of their Church. Napoleon found that he had overreached himself.

“The letter further stated that the Bishop or Archbishop of Tours had conducted himself like an angel. _Du sang nous en avons tous dans nos veines_, was the opening of his speech, _et que nous en devons repandre puisque la derniere goutte_, etc., etc. It stated further that when the Bishops took up the address to the throne they commenced in the following words–_Sire, nous vous apportons nos tetes!_ Upon which the Emperor actually started, surprised at hearing himself addressed in words which were suited to a Nero or a Caligula.”

Meanwhile Napoleon, having failed to bend the Church of Rome to his will, was preparing for another campaign against terrestrial powers. He had started a conscription and was raising an army of 400,000 men, with which he hoped to regain something of his lost prestige in the eyes of the world. Apart from troops, he had to acquire horses for his cavalry and for this end some expedient had to be devised. The methods which he adopted were in accordance with the rest of his policy.

“Bold, indeed, as well as singular, was his plan. A conscription of horses would have been too violent, certainly too straightforward a proceeding, but still it was only by some measure of that nature that his object could be attained. That which was determined upon was the _voluntary presentation_ of horses to the Emperor, a plan which obviated the necessity of paying anything, whereas, in a case of conscription, some sum, however inadequate, must have been fixed upon as a sort of regulation price.

“The example was set by the Senate, then followed by the city of Paris and all the authorities. The papers teemed with fulsome statements of the “presents” made to the Emperor. Monsieur A. had sent his son, fully equipped; Monsieur B. had sent two horses, which the Emperor had graciously accepted, etc., etc. If this fashion had been confined to those whose situation rendered it incumbent upon them to prove their zeal for the Emperor’s service, there would have been no great harm; no one would have felt much pity for this slight sacrifice on the part of those who were basking in the sunshine of Court favour. Far, however, was the measure from being limited to courtiers; its operation was universal. The stables of every individual were visited, their horses examined and practically seized….

“A friend of mine was so indignant at having his stables inspected that he boldly refused to allow his horses to be taken out, declaring that if the Emperor insisted upon having them, he would give them poison. I heard of only one other case of resistance. A man whose horses were to be taken away, inquired, with unprecedented temerity, ‘Is this compulsory?’

“‘No!–Ah, no!’ was the emphatic reply.

“‘Then if it is voluntary, it rests with me?’

“‘_Mais certainement!_ But we _advise_ you to send them!’

“‘May I then demand payment?’ he next inquired.

“‘Mais certainement!’ was again the assurance which he received. He might have payment at a subsequent date–they could not say exactly when, but they _advised_ him not to demand it.

“It may be concluded that such indiscriminate spoliation, only rendered the more disgusting by the humbug with which it was accompanied, could not but tend to increase the unpopularity of the Emperor. So violent was the discontent, that nothing but the dread of the police and the state of apathy, into which the whole nation had sunk, prevented an open insurrection.”

In the midst of the general discontent, however, a ripple of merriment passed over Paris. Madame mere, who, of course, could not avoid following the new fashion, presented her horses as an offering to her son. They were at once, to the delight of the Parisians, returned to her as _good for nothing_! “Whether,” says Stanhope, “she had selected her gift with a view to this verdict, or whether it represented the general state of her stud, I know not, but, from what I have seen, I conclude that the latter is not an unlikely case.” This little incident and the fact that many of the untrained horses thus acquired, pirouetted in an undignified manner and turned their backs as the Emperor passed, momentarily restored the good humour of the Parisians.

But John Stanhope, whose own steed escaped confiscation on account of its being blind of one eye, took far less interest in the Emperor’s movements than in a chance of freedom which at last presented itself to him. “There was not a man in France at this date,” he states, “certainly not a Minister, who would have dared individually to plead the cause of a prisoner. With the exception of Talleyrand, few among the French dignitaries were superior to that singular influence by which Napoleon was able to subdue the proudest spirits; and since the Ministers had positive orders not to submit to the Emperor any proposal of that nature, there was not one of them bold enough to defy such a mandate.” But as with the ecclesiastics, so with the Savants of France; what a man dared not attempt singly, a body of men, in their collective strength, might venture. It was patent to the Savants that the young Englishman had been unjustly detained. The object of his journey had been so obviously not only a peaceable but a laudable one, that the Institute determined at length, if possible, in the interests of Science, to effect his liberation.

And at last they succeeded. At last, after a period of alternate tormenting hope and despair, John Stanhope secured the longed-for passport which accorded him permission to quit Paris. Even then, when liberty was once more within his reach, it was all but snatched from him. Savary, Minister of the Interior, taking advantage of the Emperor’s absence, harshly ordered all prisoners to return to their _depots_. But Stanhope, with Napoleon’s passport in his pocket, decided to disregard these orders, and since his parole no longer prohibited an attempt at flight, he determined to sell his newborn liberty dearly. After many hairbreadth escapes he succeeded in reaching the German frontier, and to his unbounded relief knew that he was at last free!

[Illustration: PASSPORT GIVEN BY NAPOLEON I TO JOHN SPENCER STANHOPE, MARCH 14TH, 1813]

By the advice of his friends he decided to make his way back to England, instead of going direct to Greece as he had at first intended. Passing next through Vienna, therefore, he viewed with pardonable curiosity Francis I., the father of Marie Louise; and his description of the attitude of the Emperor of Austria towards his redoubtable son-in-law at this date, when the latter still retained the Imperial power, is of interest in the light of the complete change of front exhibited by Francis directly the ascendancy of Napoleon appeared to be on the wane. Stanhope relates:–

We English view with such horror all despotic Governments that we cannot conceive the possibility of happiness existing under the sway of an absolute Sovereign. Yet such I found to be the case at Vienna. The Government of the Emperor is mild and paternal, the people seem to have as much freedom of speech as they could enjoy even in England, and at this particular moment the measures of the administration are anything but popular. The Emperor is supposed to be devoted to the cause of Napoleon, whilst his subjects are almost universally enthusiastic for the liberty of Germany. Upon some occurrence, I think it was upon the occasion of an insult offered to the Conte de Narbonne, the Emperor was reported to have said–“Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, you and I are the only two _Frenchmen_ in the country!”

The Empress was described to me as a woman of a proud and violent temper, whilst the Crown Prince was spoken of with great interest, but as a young man kept in the highest subjection. When the Emperor summoned him to accompany himself and the Empress on their way to meet Napoleon and Marie Louise, then on their road to Vilna previous to opening the Moscow Campaign, the Prince was said to have replied that he should have been most happy to have gone to meet his sister, _but not that Man_!–the consequence of this was that he was immediately put under arrest.

I was much pleased with the simple and unaffected manner in which the Imperial family seemed to mix with the people. The Archduchesses frequently drove about the streets without Guards or more attendants than any lady of fashion would have had, though among the nobility there is occasionally a display of state that is not to be found in any other capital in Europe. I saw a man of rank going to Court who had with him at least twenty servants magnificently dressed; and although it was drawing towards the end of the season, Vienna still appeared to be extremely brilliant and luxurious…. The city, however, still bore marks of her recent misfortunes; the French cannon-balls were still visible, and ruined buildings still testified that she had been forced to yield to the proud will of a Conqueror.

At length, on what John Stanhope subsequently described as the happiest day of his life, he reached Cannon Hall; and he used to relate that one of the first discoveries which he made on entering his old home convinced him how confident at one time his family must have been that he was numbered with the dead, for a very valuable collection of prints, which he had greatly prized, had, in view of his supposed decease, been employed by his brothers in papering one of the bachelors’ bedrooms!

Naturally, he was strongly urged by his relations not to risk leaving England again, and many of his friends added their persuasions to those of his family, pointing out the serious risk which he ran in again visiting the continent. To all such representations he turned a deaf ear, since he held that, as his liberty had been granted him with the ostensible object of enabling him to prosecute his proposed researches in Greece, he was in honour bound to fulfil that obligation. His brother Edward decided to accompany him, and to his brother William he wrote:–

CANNON HALL, _September 1813._

Edward and I start for Greece next month, & my old friend Bonaparte is at such a low ebb that I think perhaps I may be able to return through France without the agreeable title of Prisoner.

You seem to think that I am not obliged to go into Greece. The truth is that I do not consider myself as positively obliged, but I consider that the honour of a Stanhope must not only be maintained, it must not even be suspected, so go I will, be the consequences what they may.

[Illustration: EDWARD COLLINGWOOD, SON OF WALTER SPENCER STANHOPE, ESQ., M.P.]

Thus it befell that John Stanhope nearly became, for the second time, a prisoner of Napoleon, and the tale of his adventures may be concluded here.

He had promised that he would _en route_ deliver some despatches to the Queen of Wurtemburg; he therefore journeyed to Stuttgart, where he had a lively interview with the former Princess Royal of England, who, although now forty-seven years of age, and exceedingly massive in figure, still retained her girlish sprightliness. On hearing that a young Englishman desired to see her, she at once concluded that someone had been sent with fresh news of her father, George III., the thought of whose mental affliction was a constant source of grief to her. John Stanhope writes:–

STUTTGART, _January 10th, 1814._

As soon as I had breakfasted, I went to the Palace. I was shown into a