In my last chapter I brought my reader to that portion of my story which formed the turning-point of my destiny. And here I might, perhaps, conclude these brief memoirs of an early life, whose chief object was to point out the results of a hasty and rash judgment, which, formed in mere boyhood, exerted its influence throughout the entire of a lifetime. Only one incident remains still to be told; and I shall not trespass on the good-natured patience of my readers by any delay in the narrative.

From being poor, houseless, and unknown, a sudden turn of fortune had made me wealthy and conspicuous in station; the owner of a large estate,—almost a lead-ing man in my native county. My influence was sufficient to procure the liberation of M'Keown; and my interference in his behalf mainly contributed to procure for Fortescue the royal pardon. The world, as the phrase is, went with me; and the good luck which attended every step I took and every plan I engaged in was become a proverb among my neighbors.

Let not any one suppose I was unmindful or ungrateful, if I confess, that even with all these I was not happy. No: the tranquil mind, the spirit at ease with itself, cannot exist where the sense of duty is not. The impulse which swayed my boyish heart still moved the ambition of the man. The pursuits I should have deemed the noblest and the purest seemed to me uninteresting and ignoble; the associations I ought to have felt the happiest and the highest appeared to me vulgar, and low, and commonplace. I was disappointed in my early dream of liberty, and had found tyranny where I looked for freedom, and intolerance where I expected enlightenment; but if so, I recurred with tenfold enthusiasm to the career of the soldier, whose glories were ever before me. That noble path had not deceived me; far from it. Its wild and whirlwind excitement, its hazardous enterprise, its ever-present dangers, were stimulants I loved and gloried in. All the chances and changes of a peaceful life were poor and mean compared to the hourly vicissitudes of war. I knew not then, it is true, how much of enjoyment I derived from forgetful ness; how many of my springs of happiness flowed from that preoccupation which prevented my dwelling on the only passion that ever stirred my heart,—my love for one whose love was hopeless.

How thoroughly will the character of an early love tinge the whole of a life! Our affections are like flowers,—they derive their sweetness and their bloom from the soil in which they grow: some, budding in joy and gladness, amid the tinkling plash of a glittering fountain, live on ever bright and beautiful; others, struggling on amid thorns and wild weeds, overshadowed by gloom, preserve their early impressions to the last,—their very sweetness tells of sadness.

To conquer the memory of this hopeless passion, I tried a hundred ways. I endeavored, by giving myself up to the duties of a country gentleman, to become absorbed in all the cares and pursuits which had such interest for my neighbors. Failing in this, I became a sportsman; I kept horses and dogs, and entered, with all the zest mere determination can impart, upon that life of manly exertion, so full of pleasure to thousands. But here again without succeeding.

I went into society; but soon retired from it, on finding, that among the class of my equals the prestige of my early life had still tracked me. I was in their eyes a rebel, whose better fortune had saved him from the fate of his companions. My youth had given no guarantee for my manhood; and I was not trusted. Baffled in every endeavor to obliterate my secret grief, I recurred to it now, as though privileged by fate, to indulge a memory nothing could efface. I abandoned all the petty appliances by which I sought to shut out the past, and gave myself up in full abandonment to the luxury of my melancholy.

Living entirely within the walls of my demesne, never seen by my neighbors, not making nor receiving visits, I appeared to many a heartless recluse, whose misanthropy sought indulgence in solitude; others, less harshly, judged me as one whose unhappy entrance on life had unfitted him for the station to which fortune had elevated him. By both I was soon forgotten.

The peasantry were less ungenerous, and more just. They saw in me one who felt acutely for the privations they were suffering; yet never gave them that cheap, delusive hope, that legislative changes will touch social evils,—that the acts of a parliament will penetrate the thousand tortuous windings of a poor man's destiny. They found in me a friend and an adviser. They only-wondered at one thing,—how any man could feel for the poor, and not hate the rich. So long had the struggle lasted between affluence and misery, they could not understand a compromise.

Bitter as their poverty had been, it never extinguished the poetry of their lives. They were hungry and naked; but they held to their ancient traditions, and they built on them great hopes for the future. The old family names, the time-honored memories of place, the famous deeds of ancestors, made an ideal existence powerful enough to exclude the pressure of actual daily evils; and they argued from what had been to what might be, with a persistency of hope it seemed almost cruel to destroy. So deeply were these thoughts engrained into their natures, they felt him but half their friend who ventured to despise them. The relief of present poverty, the succor of actual suffering, became in their eyes an effort of mere passing kindness. They looked to some great amelioration of condition, some wondrous change, some restoration to an imaginary standard of independence and comfort, which all the efforts of common interference fell sadly short of; and thus they strained their gaze to a government, a ruling power, for a boon undefined, unknown, and illimitable.

To expectations like these advice and slight assistance are as the mere drop of water to the parched tongue of thirst; and so I found it. I could neither encourage them in their hopes of such legislative changes as would greatly ameliorate their condition, nor flatter them in the delusion that none of their misfortunes were of home origin; and thus, if they felt gratitude for many kindnesses, they reposed no confidence in my opinion. The trading patriot, who promised much while he pocketed their hard-earned savings; the rabid newspaper writer, who libelled the Government and denounced the landlord,—were their standards of sympathy; and he who fell short of either was not their friend.

In a word, the social state of the people was rotten to its very core. Their highest qualities, degraded by the combined force of poverty, misrule, and superstition, had become sources of crime and misery. They had suffered so long and so much, their patience was exhausted; and they preferred the prospect of any violent convulsion which might change the face of the land, whatever dangers it might come with, to a slow and gradual improvement of condition, however safe and certain.

To win their confidence at the only price they would accord it, I never could consent to; and without it I was almost powerless for good. Here again, therefore, did I find closed against me another avenue for exertion; and the only one of all I could have felt a fitting sphere for my labor. The violence of their own passionate natures, the headlong impulses by which they suffered themselves to be swayed, left them no power of judgment regarding those whose views were more moderate and temperate. They could understand the high Tory landlord, whom they invested with every attribute of tyranny, as their open, candid opponent; they could see a warm friend in the violent mob-orator of the day; but they recognized no trait of kindness in him who would rather see them fed than flattered, and behold them in the enjoyment of comfort sooner than in the ecstasy of triumph.

From “Darby the Blast”—for he was now a member of my household—I learned the light in which I was regarded by the people, and heard the dissatisfaction they expressed that one who “sarved Boney” should not be ready to head a rising, if need be. Thus was I in a false position on every side. Mistrusted by all, because I would neither enter into the exaggerations of party, nor become blind to the truth my senses revealed before me, my sphere of utility was narrowed to the discharge of the mere duties of common charity and benevolence, and my presence among my tenantry no more productive of benefit than if I had left my purse as my representative.

Years rolled on, and in the noiseless track of time I forgot its flight. I now had grown so wedded to the habits of my solitary life, that its very monotony was a source of pleasure. I had intrenched myself within a little circle of enjoyments, and among my books and in my walks my days went pleasantly over.

For a long time, I did not dare to read the daily papers, nor learn the great events which agitated Europe. I tried to think that an interval of repose would leave me indifferent to their mention; and so rigidly did I abstain from indulging my curiosity, that the burning of Moscow, and the commencement of the dreadful retreat which followed, was the first fact I read of.

From the moment I gave way, the passion for intelligence from France became a perfect mania. Where were the different corps of the “Grand Army”? where the Emperor himself? by what great stroke of genius would he emerge from the difficulties around him, and deal one of his fatal blows on the enemy?—were the questions which met me as I awoke, and tortured me during the day.

Each movement of that terrible retreat I followed in the gazettes with an anxiety verging on insanity. I tracked the long journey on the map, and as I counted towns and villages, dreary deserts of snow, and vast rivers to be traversed, my heart grew faint to think how many a brave soldier would never reach that fair France for whose glory he had shed his best blood. Disaster followed disaster; and as the news reached England, came accounts of those great defections which weakened the force of the “Grand Army,” and deranged the places formed for its retiring movements.

They who can recall to mind the time I speak of, will remember the effect produced in England by the daily accounts from the seat of war; how heavily fell the blows of that altered fortune which once rested on the eagles of France; how each new bulletin announced another feature of misfortune,—some shattered remnant of a great corps d'armÉe cut off by Cossacks,—some dreadful battle engaged against superior numbers, and fought with desperation, not for victory, but the liberty to retreat. Great names were mentioned among the slain, and the proudest chivalry of Gaul left to perish on the far-off steppes of Russia.

Such were the fearful tales men read of that terrible campaign; and the joy in England was great, to hear that the most powerful of her enemies had at length experienced the full bitterness of defeat. While men vied with one another in stories of the misfortunes of the Emperor,—when each post added another to the long catalogue of disasters to the “Grand Army,”—I sat in my lonely house, in a remote part of Ireland, brooding over the sad reverses of him who still formed my ideal of a hero.

I thought how, amid the crumbling ruins of his splendid force, his great soul would survive the crash that made all others despair; that each new evil would suggest its remedy as it arose, and the mind that never failed in expedient would shine out more brilliantly through the gloom of darkening fortune than even it had done in the noonday splendor of success. When all others could only see the tremendous energy of despair, I thought I could recognize those glorious outbursts of heroism by which a French army sought and won the favor of their Emperor. The routed and straggling bodies which hurried along in seeming disorder, I gloried to perceive could assume all the port and bearing of soldiers at the approach of danger, and form their ranks at the wild “houra” of the Cossack as steadily as in the proudest day of their prosperity.

The retreat continued: the horrible suffering of a Russian winter added to the carnage of a battle-tide, which flowed unceasingly from the ruined walls of the Kremlin to the banks of the Vistula: the battle of Borisow and the passage of the Berezina followed fast on each other. And now we heard that the Emperor had surrendered the chief command to Murat, and was hastening back to France with lightning speed; for already the day of his evil fortune had thrown its shadow over the capital. No longer reckoned by tens of thousands, that vast army had now dwindled down to divisions of a few hundred men. The Old Guard scarce exceeded one thousand; and of twenty entire regiments of cavalry, Murat mustered a single squadron as a bodyguard. Crowds of wounded and mutilated men dragged their weary limbs along over the hardened snow, or through dense pine forests where no villages were to be met with,—a fatuous determination to strive to reach France, the only impulse surviving amid all their sufferings.

With the defections of D'York and Massenbach, then began that new feature of disaster which was so soon to burst forth with all the fell fury of long pent-up hatred. The nationality of Germany—so long, so cruelly insulted—now saw the day of retribution arrive. Misfortune hastened misfortune, and defeat engendered treason in the ranks of the Emperor's allies. Murat, too, the favorite of Napoleon, the king of his creation, deserted him now, and fled ignominiously from the command of the army.

“The Elbe! the Elbe!” was now the cry amid the shattered ranks of that army which but a year before saw no limit to its glorious path. The Elbe was the only line remaining which promised a moment's repose from the fatigues and privations of months long. Along that road the army could halt, and stem the tide of pursuit, however hotly it pressed. The Prussians had already united with the Russians; the defection of Austria could not be long distant; Saxony was appealed to, as a member of the German family, to join in arms against the Tyrant; and the wild “houra” of the Cossack now blended with the loud “Vorwarts” of injured Prussia.

“Where shall he seek succor now? What remains to him in this last eventful struggle? How shall the Emperor call back to life the legions by whose valor his great victories were gained, and Europe made a vassal at the foot of his throne?” Such was the thought that never left me day or night. Ever present before me was his calm brow, and his face paler, but not less handsome, than its wont. I could recall his rapid glance; the quick and hurried motion of his hand; his short and thick utterance, as words of command fell from his lips; and his smile, as he heard some intelligence with pleasure.

I could not sleep,—scarcely could I eat. A feverish excitement burned through my frame, and my parched tongue and hot hand told how the very springs of health were dried up within me. I walked with hurried steps from place to place; now muttering the words of some despatch, now fancying that I was sent with orders for a movement of troops. As I rode, I spurred my horse to a gallop, and in my heated imagination believed I was in presence of the enemy, and preparing for the fray. Great as my exhaustion frequently was, weariness brought no rest. Often I returned home at evening, overcome by fatigue; but a sleepless night, tortured with anxieties and harassed with doubts and fears, followed, and I awoke to pursue the same path, till in my weakened frame and hectic cheek the signs of illness could no longer be mistaken.

Terrified at the ravages a few weeks had made in my health, and fearful what secret malady was preying upon me, Darby, without asking any leave from me, left the house one morning at daybreak, and returned with the physician of the neighboring town. I was about to mount my horse, when I saw them coming up the avenue, and immediately guessed the object of the visit. A moment was enough to decide me as to the course to pursue; for well knowing how disposed the world ever is to stamp the impress of wandering intellect on any habit of mere eccentricity, I resolved to receive the doctor as though I was glad of his coming, and consult with him regarding my state. This would at least refute such a scandal, by enlisting the physician among the allies of my cause.

By good fortune, Dr. Clibborn was a man of shrewd common sense, as well as a physician of no mean skill.

In the brief conversation we held together, I perceived, that while he paid all requisite attention to any detail which implied the existence of malady, his questions were more pointedly directed to the possibility of some mental cause of irritation,—the source of my ailment. I could see, however, that his opinion inclined to the belief that the events of the trial had left their indelible traces on my mind; which, inducing me to adopt a life of isolation and retirement, had now produced the effects he witnessed.

I was not sorry at this mistake on his part. By suffering him to indulge in this delusive impression, I saved myself all the trouble of concealing my real feelings, which I had no desire to expose before him. I permitted him, therefore, to reason with me on the groundless notions he supposed I had conceived of the world's feeling regarding me, and heard him patiently as he detailed the course of public duty, by fulfilling which I should occupy my fitting place in society, and best consult my own health and happiness.

“There are,” said he, “certain fixed impressions, which I would not so combat. It was but yesterday, for instance, I yielded to the wish of an old general officer, who has served upwards of half a century, and desires once more to put himself at the head of his regiment. His heart was bent on it. I saw that though he might consent to abandon his purpose, I was not so sure his mind might bear the disappointment; for the intellect will sometimes go astray in endeavoring to retrace its steps. So I thought it better to concede what might cost more in the refusal.”

The last words of the doctor remained in my head long after he took his leave, and I could not avoid applying them to my own case. Was not my impression of this nature? Were not my thoughts all centred on one theme as fixedly as the officer's of whom he spoke? Could I, by any effort of my reason or my will, control my wandering fancies, and call them back to the dull realities amongst which I lived?

These were ever recurring to me, and always with the same reply. It is in vain to struggle against an impulse which has swallowed up all other ambitions. My heart is among the glittering ranks and neighing squadrons of France; I would be there once more; I would follow that career which first stirred the proudest hopes I ever cherished.

That same evening the mail brought the news that EugÈne Beauharnais had fallen back on Magdeburg, and sent repeated despatches to the Emperor, entreating his immediate presence among the troops, whom nothing but Napoleon himself in the midst of them could restore to their wonted bravery and determination. The reply of Napoleon was briefly,—

“I am coming; and all who love me, follow me.”

How the words rang in my ears,—“Tous ceux qui m'aiment!” I heard them in every rustling of the wind and motion of the leaves against the window; they were whispered to my sense by every avenue of my brain; and I sat no longer occupied in reading as usual, but with folded arms, repeating word by word the brief sentence.

It was midnight. All was still and silent through the house; no servant stirred, and the very wind was hushed to a perfect calm. I was sitting in my library, when the words I have repeated seemed spoken in a low, clear voice beside me. I started up: the perspiration broke over my forehead and fell upon my cheek with terror; for I knew I was alone, and the fearful thought flashed on me,—this may be madness! For a second or two the agony of the idea was almost insupportable. Then came a resolve as sudden. I opened my desk, and took from it all the ready money I possessed; I wrote a few hurried lines to my agent; and then, making my way noiselessly to the stable, I saddled my horse and led him out.

In two hours I was nearly twenty miles on my way to Dublin. Day was breaking as I entered the capital. I made no delay there; but taking fresh horses, started for Skerries, where I knew the fishermen of the coast resorted.

“One hundred pounds to the man who will land me on the coast of France or Holland,” said I to a group that were preparing their nets on the shore.

A look of incredulity was the only reply. A very few words, however, settled the bargain. Ere half an hour I was on board. The wind freshened, and we stood out to sea.

“Let the breeze keep to this,” said the skipper, “and we'll make the voyage quickly.”

Both wind and tide were in our favor. We held down Channel rapidly; and I saw the blue hills grow fainter and fainter, till the eye could but detect a gray cloud on the horizon, which at last disappeared in the bright sun of noon, and a wide waste of blue water lay on every side.