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Fri Sep 2 00:08:55 2016
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<td> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p>&=
nbsp; </p> <p> </p> <p><span id=3D"content">This was the opening of t=
he campaign. It inspired the French with enthusiasm. It nerved the Austrian=
s to despair. Melas now determined to make a desperate effort to break thro=
ugh the toils. Napoleon, with intense solicitude, was watching every moveme=
nt of his foe, knowing not upon what point the onset would fall. Before day=
-break in the morning of the 14th of June, Melas, having accumulated forty =
thousand men, including seven thousand cavalry and two hundred pieces of ca=
nnon, made an impetuous assault upon the French, but twenty thousand in num=
ber drawn up upon the plain of Marengo. Desaix, with a reserve of six thous=
and men, was at such a distance, nearly thirty miles from Marengo, that he =
could not possibly be recalled before the close of the day. The danger was =
frightful that the French would be entirely cut to pieces, before any succo=
r could arrive. But the quick ear of Desaix caught the sound of the heavy c=
annonade as it came booming over the plain, like distant thunder. He sprung=
from his couch and listened. The heavy and uninterrupted roar, proclaimed =
a pitched battle, and he was alarmed for his beloved chief. Immediately he =
roused his troops, and they started upon the rush to succor their comrades.=
Napoleon dispatched courier after courier to hurry the division along, whi=
le his troops stood firm through terrific hours, as their ranks were plowed=
by the murderous discharges of their foes. At last the destruction was too=
awful for mortal men to endure. Many divisions of the army broke and fled,=
crying " All is lost--save himself who can ." A scene of frightf=
ul disorder ensued. The whole plain was covered with fugitive, swept like a=
n inundation before the multitudinous Austrians. Napoleon still held a few =
squares together, who slowly and sullenly retreated, while two hundred piec=
es of artillery, closely pressing them, poured incessant death into their r=
anks. Every foot of ground was left encumbered with the dead. It was now th=
ree o' clock in the afternoon. Melas, exhausted with toil, and assured that=
he had gained a complete victory, left Gen. Zach to finish the work. He re=
tired to his head quarters, and immediately dispatched couriers all over Eu=
rope to announce the great victory of Marengo. Said an Austrian veteran, wh=
o had before encountered Napoleon at Arcola and Rivoli, " Melas is too=
sanguine. Depend upon it our day' s work is not yet done. Napoleon will ye=
t be upon us with his reserve." Just then the anxious eye of the First=
Consulespied the solid columns of Desaix entering the plain. Desaix, plung=
ing his spurs into his horse, outstripped all the rest, and galloped into t=
he presence of Napoleon. As he cast a glance over the wild confusion and de=
vastation of the field, the exclaimed hurriedly, " I see that the batt=
le is lost. I suppose I can do no more for you than to secure your retreat.=
" " By no means," Napoleon replied with apparently as much c=
omposure as if he had been sitting by his own fireside, " the battle, =
I trust, is gained. Charge with your column. The disordered troops will ral=
ly in your rear." Like a rock, Desaix, with his solid phalanx of ten t=
housand men, met the on-rolling billow of Austrian victory. At the same tim=
e Napoleon dispatched an order to Kellerman, with his cavalry, to charge th=
e triumphant column of the Austrians in flank. It was the work of a moment,=
and the whole aspect of the field was changed. Napoleon rode along the lin=
es of those on the retreat, exclaiming, " My friends, we have retreate=
d far enough. It is now our turn to advance. Recollect that I am in the hab=
it of sleeping on the field of battle." The fugitives, reanimated by t=
he arrival of the reserve, immediately rallied in their rear. The double ch=
arge in front and flank was instantly made. The Austrians were checked and =
staggered. A perfect tornado of bullets from Desaix' s division swept their=
ranks. They poured an answering volley into the bosoms of the French. A bu=
llet pierced the breast of Desaix, and he fell and almost immediately expir=
ed. His last words were, " Tell the First Consul that my only regret i=
n dying is, to have perished before having done enough to live in the recol=
lection of posterity." The soldiers, who devotedly loved him, saw his =
fall, and rushed more madly on to avenge his death. The swollen tide of upr=
oar, confusion, and dismay now turned, and rolled in surging billows in the=
opposite direction. Hardly one moment elapsed before the Austrians, flushe=
d with victory, found themselves overwhelmed by defeat. In the midst of thi=
s terrific scene, an aid rode up to Napoleon and said, " Desaix is dea=
d." But a moment before they were conversing side by side. Napoleon pr=
essed his forehead convulsively with his hand, and exclaimed, mournfully, &=
quot; Why is it not permitted me to weep! Victory at such a price is dear.&=
quot; The French now made the welkin ring with shouts of victory. Indescrib=
able dismay filled the Austrian ranks as wildly they rushed before their un=
relenting pursuers. Their rout was utter and hopeless. When the sun went do=
wn over this field of blood, after twelve hours of the most frightful carna=
ge, a scene was presented horrid enough to appall the heart of a demon. Mor=
e than twenty thousand human bodies were strewn upon the ground, the dying =
and the dead, weltering in gore, and in every conceivable form of disfigura=
tion. Horses, with limbs torn their bodies, were struggling in convulsive a=
gonies. Fragments of guns and swords, and of military wagons of every kind =
were strewed around in wild ruin. Frequent piercing cries, which agony exto=
rted from the lacerated victims of war, rose above the general moanings of =
anguish, which, like wailings of the storm, fell heavily upon the ear. The =
shades of night were now descending upon this awful scene of misery. The mu=
ltitude of the wounded was so great, that notwithstanding the utmost exerti=
ons of the surgeons, hour after hour of the long night lingered away, while=
thousands of the wounded and the dying bit the dust in their agony. If war=
has its chivalry and its pageantry, it has also revolting hideousness and =
demoniac woe. The young, the noble, the sanguine were writhing there in ago=
ny. Bullets respect not beauty. They tear out the eye, and shatter the jaw,=
and rend the cheek, and transform the human face divine into an aspect upo=
n which one can not gaze but with horror. From the field of Marengo many a =
young man returned to his home so multilated as no longer to be recognized =
by friends, and passed a weary life in repulsive deformity. Mercy abandons =
the arena of battle. The frantic war-horse with iron hoof tramples upon the=
mangled face, the throbbing and inflamed wounds the splintered bones, and =
heeds not the shriek of torture. Crushed into the bloody mire by the ponder=
ous wheels of heavy artillery, the victim of barbaric war thinks of mother,=
and father, and sister, and home, and shrieks, and moans, and dies; his bo=
dy is stripped by the vagabonds who follow the camp; his naked mangled corp=
se is covered with a few shovels-full of earth, and left as food for vultur=
es and for dogs and he is forgotten forever--and it is called glory . He wh=
o loves war, for the sake of its excitements, its pageantry, and its fancie=
d glory, is the most eminent of all the dupes of folly and of sin. He who l=
oathes war, with inexpressible loathing, who will do everything in his powe=
r to avert the dire and horrible calamity, but who will, nevertheless, in t=
he last extremity, with a determined spirit, encounter all its perils, from=
love of country and of home, who is willing to sacrifice himself and all t=
hat is dear to him in life, to promote the well being of his fellow-man, wi=
ll ever receive the homage of the world, and we also fully believe that he =
will receive the approval of God. Washington abhorred war in all its forms,=
yet he braved all its perils. For the carnage of the field of Marengo, Nap=
oleon can not be held responsible. Upon England and Austria must rest all t=
he guilt of that awful tragedy. Napoleon had done every thing he could do t=
o stop the effusion of blood. He had sacrificed the instincts of pride, in =
pleading with a haughty foe for peace. His plea was unavailing. Three hundr=
ed thousand men were marching upon France to force upon her a detested King=
It was not the duty of France to submit to such dictation. Drawing the sw=
ord in self-defense, Napoleon fought and conquered. " Te Deum Laudamus=
" It is not possible but that Napoleon must have been elated by so re=
splendent a victory. He knew that Marengo would be classed as the most bril=
liant of his achievements. The blow had fallen with such terrible severity =
that the haughty allies were thoroughly humbled. Melas was now at his mercy=
Napoleon could dictate peace upon his own terms. Yet he rode over the fie=
ld of his victory with a saddened spirit, and gazed mournfully upon the rui=
n and the wretchedness around him. As he was slowly and thoughtfully passin=
g along, through the heaps of the dead with which the ground was encumbered=
, he met a number of carts, heavily laden with the wounded, torn by balls, =
and bullets, and fragments of shells, into most hideous spectacles of defor=
mity. As the heavy wheels lumbered over the rough ground, grating the splin=
tered bones, and bruising and opening afresh the inflamed wounds, shrieks o=
f torture were extorted from the victims. Napoleon stopped his horse and un=
covered his head, as the melancholy procession of misfortune and woe passed=
along. Turning to a companion, he said, " We can not but regret not b=
eing wounded like these unhappy men, that we might share their sufferings.&=
quot; A more touching expression of sympathy never has been recorded. He wh=
o says that this was hypocrisy is a stranger to the generous impulses of a =
noble heart. This instinctive outburst of emotion never could have been ins=
tigated by policy. Napoleon had fearlessly exposed himself to every peril d=
uring this conflict. His clothes were repeatedly pierced by bullets. Balls =
struck between the legs of his horse, covering him with earth. A cannon-bal=
l took away a piece of the boot from his left leg and a portion of the skin=
, leaving a scar which was never obliterated. Before Napoleon Marched for I=
taly, he had made every effort in his power for the attainment of peace. No=
w, with magnanimity above all praise, without waiting for the first advance=
from his conquered foes, he wrote again imploring peace. Upon the field of=
Marengo, having scattered all his enemies like chaff before him, with the =
smoke of the conflict still darkening the air, and the groans of the dying =
swelling upon his ears, laying aside all the formalities of state, with hea=
rtfelt feeling and earnestness he wrote to the Emperor of Austria. This ext=
raordinary epistle was thus commenced: " Sire! It is on the field of b=
attle, amid the sufferings of a multitude of wounded, and surrounded by fif=
teen thousand corpses, that I beseech your majesty to listen to the voice o=
f humanity, and not to suffer two brave nations to cut each others' throats=
for interests not their own. It is my part to press this upon your majesty=
, being upon the very theatre of war. Your majesty' s heart can not feel it=
so keenly as does mine." The letter was long and most eloquent. "=
; For what are you fighting?" said Napoleon. " For religion? Then=
make war on the Russians and the English who are the enemies of your faith=
Do you wish to guard against revolutionary principles? It is this very wa=
r which has extended them over half the Continent, by extending the conques=
ts of France. The continuance of the war can not fail to diffuse them still=
further. Is it for the balance of Europe? The English threaten that balanc=
e far more than does France, for they have become the masters and the tyran=
ts of commerce, and are beyond the reach of resistance. Is it to secure the=
interests of the house of Austria! Let us then execute the treaty of Campo=
Formio, which secures to your majesty large indemnities in compensation fo=
r the provinces lost in the Netherlands, and secures them to you where you =
most wish to obtain them, that is, in Italy. Your majesty may send negotiat=
ors whither you will, and we will add to the treaty of Campo Formio stipula=
tions calculated to assure you of the continued existence of the secondary =
states, of all which the French Republic is accused of having shaken. Upon =
these conditions pace is made, if you will. Let us make the armistice gener=
al for all the armies, and enter into negotiations instantly." A couri=
er was immediately dispatched to Vienna, to convey this letter to the Emper=
or. In the evening, Bourrienne hastened to congratulate Napoleon upon his e=
xtraordinary victory. " What a glorious day!" said Bourrienne. &q=
uot; Yes!" replied Napoleon, mournfully; " very glorious--could I=
this evening but have embraced Desaix upon the field of battle." On t=
he same day, and at nearly the same hour in which the fatal bullet pierced =
the breast of Desaix, an assassin in Egypt plunged a dagger into the bosom =
of Kleber. The spirits of these illustrious men, these blood-stained warrio=
rs, thus unexpectedly met in the spirit-land. There they wander now. How im=
penetrable the vail which shuts their destiny from our view. The soul longs=
for clearer vision of that far-distant world, people by the innumerable ho=
st of the mighty dead. There Napoleon now dwells. Does he retain his intell=
ectual supremacy? Do his generals gather around him with love and homage! H=
as his pensive spirit sunk down into gloom and despair, or has it soared in=
to cloudless regions of purity and peace! The mystery of death' Death alone=
can solve it. Christianity, with its lofty revealings, sheds but dim twili=
ght upon the world off departed spirits. At St. Helena Napoleon said, "=
; Of all the general I ever had under my command Desaix and Kleber possesse=
d the greatest talent. In particular Desaix, as Kleber loved glory only as =
the means of acquiring wealth and pleasure. Desaix loved glory for itself, =
and despised every other consideration. To him riches and pleasure were of =
no value, nor did he ever give them a moment' s thought. He was a little bl=
ack-looking man, about an inch shorter than myself, always badly dressed, s=
ometimes even ragged, and despising alike comfort and convenience. Envelope=
d in a cloak, Desaix would throw himself under a gun and sleep as contented=
ly as if reposing in a palace. Luxury had for him no charms. Frank and hone=
st in all his proceedings, he was denominated by the Arabs Sultan the Just.=
Nature intended him to figure as a consummate general. Kleber and Desaix w=
ere irreparable losses to France." It is impossible to describe the di=
smay, which pervaded the camp of the Austrians after this terrible defeat. =
They were entirely cut from all retreat, and were at the mercy of Napoleon.=
A council of war was held by the Austrian officers during the night, and i=
t was unanimously resolved that capitulation was unavoidable. Early the nex=
t morning a flag of truce was sent to the head-quarters of Napoleon. The Au=
strians offered to abandon Italy, if the generosity of the victor would gra=
nt them the boon of not being made prisoners of war. Napoleon met the envoy=
with great courtesy, and, according to his custom, stated promptly and irr=
evocably the conditions upon which he was willing to treat. The terms were =
generous. " The Austrian armies," said he, " may unmolested =
return to their homes; but all of Italy must be abandoned." Melas, who=
was eighty years of age, hoped to modify the terms, and again sent the neg=
otiator to suggest some alterations. " Monsieur!" said Napoleon, =
" my conditions are irrevocable. I did not begin to make war yesterday=
Your position is as perfectly comprehended by me as by yourselves. You ar=
e encumbered with dead, sick, and wounded, destitute of provisions, deprive=
d of the elite of your army, surrounded on every side, I might exact every =
thing. But I respect the white hairs of your general, and the valor of your=
soldiers. I ask nothing but what is rigorously justified by the present po=
sition of affairs. Take what steps you may, you will have no other terms.&q=
uot; The conditions were immediately signed, and a suspension of arms was a=
greed upon, until an answer could be received from Vienna. Napoleon left Pa=
ris for this campaign on the 7th of May. The battle of Marengo was fought o=
n the 14th of June. Thus in five weeks Napoleon has scaled the barrier of t=
he Alps: with sixty thousand soldiers, most of them undisciplined recruits,=
he had utterly discomfited an army of one hundred and twenty thousand men,=
and regained the whole of Italy. The bosom of every Frenchman throbbed wit=
h gratitude and pride. One wild shout of enthusiasm ascended from united Fr=
ance. Napoleon had laid the foundation of his throne deep in the heart of t=
he French nation, and there that foundation still remains unshaken. Napoleo=
n now entered Milan in triumph. He remained there ten days, busy apparently=
every hour, by day and by night, in re-organizing the political condition =
of Italy. The serious and religious tendencies of his mind are developed by=
the following note, which four days after the battle of Marengo, he wrote =
to the Consuls in Paris: " To-day, whatever our atheists may say to it=
, I go in great state to the To Deum which is to be chanted in the Cathedra=
l of Milan. * * The Te Deum , is an anthem of praise, sung in churches on o=
ccasion of thanksgiving. It is so called from the first words " Te Deu=
m laudamus," Thee God we praise An unworthy spirit of detraction has v=
ainly sought to wrest from Napoleon the honor of this victory, and to attri=
bute it all to the flank charge made by Kellerman. Such attempts deserve no=
detail reply. Napoleon had secretly and suddenly called into being an army=
, and by its apparently miraculous creation had astounded Europe. He had ef=
fectually deceived the vigilance of his enemies, so as to leave them entire=
ly in the dark respecting his point of attack. He had conveyed that army wi=
th all its stores, over the pathless crags of the Great St. Bernard. Like a=
n avalanche he had descended from the mountains upon the plains of startled=
Italy. He had surrounded the Austrian hosts, though they were doubled his =
numbers, with a net through which they could not break. In a decisive battl=
e he had scattered their ranks before him, like chaff by the whirlwind. He =
was nobly seconded by those generals whom his genius had chosen and created=
It is indeed true, that without his generals and his soldiers he could no=
t have gained the victory. Massena contributed to the result by his matchle=
ss defense of Genoa; Moreau, by holding in abeyance the army of the Rhine; =
Lannes, by his iron firmness on the plain of Montebello; Desaix, by the pro=
mptness with which he rushed to the rescue, as soon as his car caught the f=
ar-off thunders of the cannon of Marengo; and Kellerman, by his admirable f=
lank charge of cavalry. But it was the genius of Napoleon which planned the=
mighty combination, which roused and directed the enthusiasm of the genera=
ls, which inspired the soldiers with fearlessness and nerved them for the s=
trife, and which, through these efficient agencies, secured the astounding =
results. Napoleon established his triumphant army, now increased to eighty =
thousand men, in the rich valley of the Po. He assigned to the heroic Masse=
na the command of this triumphant host, and ordering all the forts and cita=
dels which blocked the approaches from France to be blown up, set out, on t=
he 24th of June, for his return to Paris. In re-crossing the Alps, by the p=
ass of Mt. Cenis, he met the carriage of Madame Kellerman, who was going to=
Italy to join her husband. Napoleon ordered his carriage to be stopped, an=
d alighting, greeted the lady with great courtesy, and congratulated her up=
on the gallant conduct of her husband at Marengo. As he was riding along on=
e day, Bourrienne spoke of the world-wide renown which the First Consul had=
attained. " Yes," Napoleon thoughtfully replied. " A few mo=
re events like this campaign, and my name may perhaps go down to posterity.=
" " I think," Bourrienne rejoined, " that you have alre=
ady done enough to secure a long and lasting fame." " Done enough=
!" Napoleon replied. " You are very good! It is true that in less=
than two years I have conquered Cairo, Paris, Milan. But were I to die to-=
morrow, half a page of general history would be all that would be devoted t=
o my exploits." Napoleon' s return to Paris, through the provinces of =
France, was a scene of constant triumph. The joy of the people amounted alm=
ost to frenzy. Bonfires, illuminations, the pealing of bells, and the thund=
ers of artillery accompanied him all the way. Long lines of young maidens, =
selected for their grace and beauty, formed avenues of loveliness and smile=
s through which he was to pass, and carpeted his path with flowers. He arri=
ved in Paris at midnight the 2d of July, having been absent but eight weeks=
The enthusiasm of the Parisians was unbounded and inexhaustible. Day afte=
r day, and night after night, the festivities continued. The Palace of the =
Tuileries was ever thronged with a crowd, eager to catch a glimpse of the p=
reserver of France. All the public bodies waited upon him with congratulati=
ons. Bells rung, cannon thundered, bonfires and illuminations blazed, rocke=
ts and fire-works, in meteoric splendor filled the air, bands of music pour=
ed forth their exuberant strains, and united Paris, thronging the garden of=
the Tuileries and flooding back into the Elysian Fields, rent the heavens =
with deafening shouts of exultation. As Napoleon stood at the window of his=
palace, witnessing this spectacle of a nation' s gratitude, he said, "=
; The sound of these acclamations is as sweet to me, as the voice of Joseph=
ine. How happy I am to be beloved by such a people." Preparations were=
immediately made for a brilliant and imposing solemnity in commemoration o=
f the victory. " Let no triumphal arch be raised to me," said Nap=
oleon. " I wish for no triumphal arch but the public satisfaction.&quo=
t; It is not strange that enthusiasm and gratitude should have glowed in th=
e ardent bosoms of the French. In four months Napoleon had raised France fr=
om an abyss of ruin to the highest pinnacle of prosperity and renown. For a=
narchy he had substituted law, for bankruptcy a well-replenished treasury, =
for ignominious defeat resplendent victory, for universal discontent as uni=
versal satisfaction. The invaders were driven from France, the hostile alli=
ance broken, and the blessings of peace were now promised to the war-harass=
ed nation. During this campaign there was presented a very interesting illu=
stration of Napoleon' s wonderful power of anticipating the progress of com=
ing events. Bourrienne, one day, just before the commencement of the campai=
gn, entered the cabinet at the Tuileries, and found an immense map of Italy=
, unrolled upon the carpet, and Napoleon stretched upon it. With pins, whos=
e heads were tipped with red and black sealing-wax, to represent the French=
and Austrian forces, Napoleon was studying all the possible combinations a=
nd evolutions of the two hostile armies. Bourrienne, in silence, but with d=
eep interest, watched the progress of this pin campaign. Napoleon, having a=
rranged the pins with red heads, where he intended to conduct the French tr=
oops, and with the black pins designating the point which he supposed the A=
ustrians would occupy, looked up to his secretary, and said: " Do you =
think that I shall beat Melas?" " Why, how can I tell!" Bour=
rienne answered. " Why, you simpleton," said Napoleon, playfully;=
" just look here. Melas is at Alexandria, where he has his head-quart=
ers. He will remain there until Genoa surrenders. He has in Alexandria his =
magazines, his hospitals, his artillery, his reserves. Passing the Alps her=
e," sticking a pin into the Great St. Bernard, " I fall upon Mela=
s in his rear; I cut off his communications with Austria. I meet him here i=
n the valley of the Bormida." So saying, he stuck a red pin into the p=
lain of Marengo. Bourrienne regarded this maneuvering of pins as mere pasti=
me. His countenance expressed his perfect incredulity. Napoleon, perceiving=
this, addressed to him some of his usual apostrophes, in which he was accu=
stomed playfully to indulge in moments of relaxation, such as, You ninny, Y=
ou goose; and rolled up the map. Ten weeks passed away, and Bourrienne foun=
d himself upon the banks of the Bormida, writing, at Napoleon' s dictation,=
an account of the battle of Marengo. Astonished to find Napoleon' s antici=
pations thus minutely fulfilled, he frankly avowed his admiration of the mi=
litary sagacity thus displayed. Napoleon himself smiled at the justice of h=
is foresight. Two days before the news of the battle of Marengo arrived in =
Vienna, England effected a new treaty with Austria, for the more vigorous p=
rosecution of the war. By this convention it was provided that England shou=
ld loan Austria ten millions of dollars, to bear no interest during the con=
tinuance of the conflict. And the Austrian cabinet bound itself not to make=
peace with France, without the consent of the Court of St. James. The Empe=
ror of Austria was now sadly embarrassed. His sense of honor would not allo=
w him to violate his pledge to the King of England, and to make peace. On t=
he other hand, he trembled at the thought of seeing the armies of the invin=
cible Napoleon again marching upon his capital. He, therefore, resolved to =
temporize, and, in order to gain time, sent an embassador to Paris. The ple=
nipotentiary presented to Napoleon a letter, in which the Emperor stated, &=
quot; You will give credit to every thing which Count Julien shall say on m=
y part. I will ratify whatever he shall do." Napoleon, prompt in actio=
n, and uniformed of the new treaty between Ferdinand and George III., immed=
iately caused the preliminaries of peace to be drawn up, which were signed =
by the French and Austrian ministers. The cabinet in Vienna, angry with the=
ir embassador for not protracting the discussion, refused to ratify the tre=
aty, recalled Count Julien, sent him into exile, informed the First Consul =
of the treat which bound Austria not to make peace without the concurrence =
of Great Britain, assured France of the readiness of the English Cabinet to=
enter into negotiations, and urged the immediate opening of a Congress at =
Luneville, to which plenipotentiaries should be sent from each of the three=
great contending powers. Napoleon was highly indignant in view of this dup=
licity and perfidy. Yet, controlling his anger, he consented to treat with =
England, and with that view proposed a naval armistice , with the mistress =
of the seas. To this proposition England peremptorily refused to accede, as=
it would enable France to throw supplies into Egypt and Malta, which islan=
d England was besieging. The naval armistice would have been undeniably for=
the interests of France. But the continental armistice was as undeniably a=
dverse to her interests, enabling Austria to recover from her defeats, and =
to strengthen her armies. Napoleon, fully convinced that England, in he[r i=
naccessible position, did not wish for peace, and that her only object, in =
endeavoring to obtain admittance to the Congress, was that she might throw =
obstacles in the way of reconciliation with Austria, offered to renounce al=
l armistice with England, and to treat with her separately. This England al=
so refused. It was now September. Two months had passed in these vexations =
and sterile negotiations. Napoleon had taken every step in his power to sec=
ure peace. He sincerely desired it. He had already won all the laurels he c=
ould wish to win on the field of battle. The reconstruction of society in F=
rance, and the consolidation of his power, demanded all his energies. The c=
onsolidation of his power! That was just what the government of England dre=
aded. The consolidation of democratic power in France was dangerous to king=
and to noble. William Pits, the soul of the aristocratic government of Eng=
land, determined still to prosecute the war. France could not harm England.=
But England, with her invincible fleet, could sweep the commerce of France=
from the seas. Fox and his coadjutors with great eloquence and energy oppo=
sed the war. Their efforts were, however, unavailing. The people of England=
, notwithstanding all the efforts of the government to defame the character=
of the First Consul, still cherished the conviction that, after all, Napol=
eon was their friend. Napoleon, in subsequent years, while reviewing these =
scenes of his early conflicts, with characteristic eloquence and magnanimit=
y, gave utterance to the following sentiments which, it is as certain as de=
stiny, that the verdict of the world will yet confirm. " Pitt was the =
master of European policy. He held in his hands the moral fate of nations. =
But he made an ill use of his power. He kindled the fire of discord through=
out the universe; and his name, like that of Erostratus, will be inscribed =
in history, amidst flames, lamentations, and tears. Twenty-five years of un=
iversal conflagration; the numerous coalitions that added fuel to the flame=
; the revolution and devastation of Europe; the bloodshed of nations; the f=
rightful debt of England, by which all these horrors were maintained; the p=
estilential system of loans, by which the people of Europe are oppressed; t=
he general discontent that now prevails--all must be attributed to Pitt. Po=
sterity will brand him as a scourge. The man so lauded in his own time, wil=
l hereafter be regarded as the genius of evil. Not that I consider him to h=
ave been willfully atrocious, or doubt his having entertained the convictio=
n that he was acting right. But St. Bartholomew had also its conscientious =
advocates. The Pope and cardinals celebrated it by a Te Deum ; and we have =
no reason to doubt their having done so in perfect sincerity. Such is the w=
eakness of human reason and judgment! But that for which posterity will, ab=
ove all, execrate the memory of Pitt, is the hateful school, which he has l=
eft behind him; its insolent Machiavelism, its profound immorality, its col=
d egotism, and its utter disregard of justice and human happiness. Whether =
it be the effect of admiration and gratitude, or the result of mere instinc=
t and sympathy, Pitt is, and will continue to be, the idol of the European =
aristocracy. There was, indeed, a touch of the Sylla in his character. His =
system has kept the popular cause in check, and brought about the triumph o=
f the patricians. As for Fox, one must not look for his model among the anc=
ients. He is himself a model, and his principles will sooner or later rule =
the world. The death of Fox was one of the fatalities of my career. Had his=
life been prolonged, affairs would taken a totally different turn. The cau=
se of the people would have triumphed, and we should have established a new=
order of things in Europe." Austria really desired peace. The march o=
f Napoleon' s armies upon Vienna was an evil more to be dreaded than even t=
he consolidation of Napoleon' s power in France. But Austria was, by loans =
and treaties, so entangled with England, that she could make not peace with=
out the consent of the Court of St. James. Napoleon found that he was but t=
riffled with. Interminable difficulties were thrown in the way of negotiati=
on. Austria was taking advantage of the cessation of hostilities, merely to=
recruit her defeated armies, that, soon as the approaching winter had pass=
ed away, she might fall, with renovated energies, upon France. The month of=
November had now arrived, and the mountains, whitened with snow, were swep=
t by the bleak winds of winter. The period of the armistice had expired. Au=
stria applied for its prolongation. Napoleon was no longer thus to be duped=
He consented, however, to a continued suspension of hostilities, on condi=
tion that the treaty of peace were signed within forty-eight hours. Austria=
, believing that no sane man would march an army into Germany in the dead o=
f winter, and that she should have abundant time to prepare for a spring ca=
mpaign, refused. The armies of France were immediately on the move. The Emp=
eror of Austria had improved every moment of this transient interval of pea=
ce, in recruiting his forces. In person he had visited the army to inspire =
his troops with enthusiasm. The command of the imperial forces was intruste=
d to his second brother, the Archduke John. Napoleon moved with his accusto=
med vigor. The political necessities of Paris and of France rendered it imp=
ossible for him to leave the metropolis. He ordered one powerful army, unde=
r General Brune, to attack the Austrians in Italy, on the banks of Mincio, =
and to press firmly toward Vienna. In the performance of this operation, Ge=
neral Macdonald, in the dead of winter, effected his heroic passage over th=
e Alps by the pass of the Splugen. Victory followed their standards. Moreau=
, with his magnificent army, commenced a winter campaign on the Rhine. Betw=
een the rivers Iser and Inn there is an enormous forest, many leagues in ex=
tent, of sombre firs and pines. It is a dreary and almost uninhabited wilde=
rness, of wild ravines, and tangled under-brush. Two great roads have been =
cut through the forest, and sundry woodmen' s paths penetrate it at differe=
nt points. In the centre there is a little hamlet, of a few miserable huts,=
called Hohenlinden. In this forest, on the night of the 3d of December, 18=
00, Moreau, with sixty thousand men, encountered the Archduke John with sev=
enty thousand Austrian troops. The clocks upon the towers of Munich had but=
just tolled the hour of midnight when both armies were in motion, each hop=
ing to surprise the other. A dismal wintry storm was howling over the tree =
tops, and the smothering snow, falling rapidly, obliterated all traces of a=
path, and rendered it almost impossible to drag through the drifts the pon=
derous artillery. Both parties, in the dark and tempestuous night, became e=
ntangled in the forest, and the heads of their columns in various places me=
t. An awful scene of confusion, conflict, and carnage then ensued. Imaginat=
ion can not compass the terrible sublimity of that spectacle. The dark midn=
ight, the howlings of the wintry storm, the driving sheets of snow, the inc=
essant roar of artillery and of musketry from one hundred and thirty thousa=
nd combatants, the lightning flashes of the guns, the crash of the falling =
trees as the heavy cannon-balls swept through the forest, the floundering o=
f innumerable horsemen bewildered in the pathless snow, the shout of onset,=
the shriek of death, and the burst of martial music from a thousand bands-=
-all combined to present a scene of horror and of demoniac energy, which pr=
obably even this lost world never presented before. The darkness of the bla=
ck forest was so intense, and the snow fell in flakes so thick and fast and=
blinding, that the combatants could with difficulty see each other. They o=
ften judged of the foe only by his position, and fired at the flashes gleam=
ing through the gloom. At times, hostile divisions became intermingled in i=
nextricable confusion, and hand to hand, bayonet crossing bayonet, and swor=
d clashing against sword, they fought with the ferocity of demons; for thou=
gh the officers of an army may be influenced by the most elevated sentiment=
s of dignity and of honor, the mass of the common soldiers have ever been t=
he most miserable, worthless, and degraded of mankind. As the advancing and=
retreating host wavered to and fro, the wounded, by thousands, were left o=
n hill-sides and in dark ravines, with the drifting snow, crimsoned with bl=
ood, their only blanket; there in solitude and agony to moan and freeze and=
die. What death-scenes the eye of God must have witnessed that night, in t=
he solitudes of that dark, tempest-tossed, and blood-stained forest! At las=
t the morning dawned through the unbroken clouds, and the battle raged with=
renovated fury. Nearly twenty thousand mutilated bodies of the dead and wo=
unded were left upon the field, with gory locks frozen to their icy pillows=
, and covered with mounds of snow. At last the French were victorious at ev=
ery point. The Austrians, having lost twenty-five thousand men in killed, w=
ounded, and prisoners, one hundred pieces of artillery, and an immense numb=
er of wagons, fled in dismay. This terrific conflict has been immortalized =
by the noble epic of Campbell, which is now familiar wherever the English l=
anguage is known. " On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay=
the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Or Iser, rolling rapid=
ly. " But Linden saw another sight, When the drums beat at dead of nig=
ht, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery." &=
amp; c. The retreating Austrians rushed down the valley of the Danube. More=
au followed thundering at their heels, plunging balls and shells into their=
retreating ranks. The victorious French were within thirty miles of Vienna=
, and the capital was in a state of indescribable dismay. The Emperor again=
sent imploring an armistice. The application was promptly acceded to, for =
Napoleon was contending only for peace. Yet with unexempled magnanimity, no=
twithstanding these astonishing victories, Napoleon made no essential alter=
ations in his terms. Austria was at his feet. His conquering armies were al=
most in sight of the steeples of Vienna. There was no power which the Emper=
or could present to obstruct their resistless march. He might have exacted =
any terms of humiliation. But still he adhered to the first terms which he =
had proposed. Moreau was urged by some of his officers to press on to Vienn=
a. " We had better halt," he replied, " and be content with =
peace. It is for that alone that we are fighting." The Emperor of Aust=
ria was thus compelled to treat without the concurrence of England. The ins=
urmountable obstacle in the way of peace was thus removed. At Luneville, Jo=
seph Bonaparte appeared as the embassador of Napoleon, and Count Cobentzel =
as the plenipotentiary of Austria. The terms of the treaty were soon settle=
d, and France was again at peace with all the world, England alone excepted=
By this treaty the Rhine was acknowledged as the boundary of France. The =
Adige limited the possessions of Austria in Italy; and Napoleon made it an =
essential article that every Italian imprisoned in the dungeons of Austria =
for political offences, should immediately be liberated. There was to be no=
interference by either with the new republics which had sprung up in Italy=
They were to be permitted to choose whatever form of government they pref=
erred. In reference to this treaty, Sir Walter Scott makes the candid admis=
sion that " the treaty of Luneville was not much more advantageous to =
France than that of Campo Formio. The moderation of the First Consul indica=
ted at once his desire for peace upon the Continent, and considerable respe=
ct for the bravery and strength of Austria." And Alison, in cautious b=
ut significant phrase, remarks, " These conditions did not differ mate=
rially from those offered by Napoleon before the renewal of the war; a rema=
rkable circumstance , when it is remembered how vast and addition the victo=
ries of Marengo, Hohenlinden, and the Mincio, had since made to the prepond=
erance of the French armies." It was, indeed, " a remarkable circ=
umstance," that Napoleon should have manifested such unparalleled mode=
ration, under circumstances of such aggravated indignity. In Napoleon' s fi=
rst Italian campaign he was contending solely for peace. At last he attaine=
d it, in the treaty of Campo Formio, on terms equally honorable to Austria =
and to France. On his return from Egypt, he found the armies of Austria, th=
ree hundred thousand strong, in alliance with England, invading the territo=
ries of the Republic. He implored peace, in the name of bleeding humanity, =
upon the fair basis of the treaty of Campo Formio. His foes regarded his su=
pplication as the imploring cry of weakness, and treated it with scorn. Wit=
h new vigor they poured their tempests of balls and shells upon France. Nap=
oleon sealed the Alps, and dispersed his foes at Marengo, like autumn leave=
s before the Alps, and dispersed his foes at Marengo, like autumn leaves be=
fore the gale. Amid the smoke and the blood and the groans of the field of =
his victory, he again wrote imploring peace; and he wrote in terms dictated=
by the honest and gushing sympathies of a humane man, and not in the cold =
and stately forms of the diplomatist. Crushed as his foes were, he rose not=
in his demands, but nobly said, " I am still willing to make peace up=
on the fair basis of the treaty of Campo Formio." His treacherous foes=
, to gain time to recruit their armies, that they might fall upon him with =
renovated vigor, agreed to an armistice. They then threw all possible embar=
rassments in the way of negotiation, and prolonged the armistice till the w=
inds of winter were sweeping fiercely over the snow-covered hills of Austri=
a. They thought that it was then too late for Napoleon to make any movement=
s until spring, and that they had a long winter before them, in which to pr=
epare for another campaign. They refused peace. Through storms and freezing=
gales and drifting snows the armies of Napoleon marched painfully to Hohen=
linden. The hosts of Austria were again routed, and were swept away, as the=
drifted snow flies before the gale. Ten thousand Frenchmen lie cold in dea=
th, the terrible price of the victory. The Emperor of Austria, in his palac=
es, heard the thunderings of Napoleon' s approaching artillery. He implored=
peace. " It is all that I desire," said Napoleon; " I am no=
t fighting for ambition or for conquest. I am still ready to make peace upo=
n the fair basis of the treaty of Campo Formio." While all the Contine=
nt was now at peace with France, England alone, with indomitable resolution=
, continued the war, without allies, and without any apparent or avowed obj=
ect. France, comparatively powerless upon the seas, could strike no blows w=
hich would be felt by the distant islanders. " On every point," s=
ays Sir Walter Scott, " the English squadrons annihilated the commerce=
of France, crippled her revenues, and blockaded her forts." The treat=
y of Luneville was signed the 9th of February, 1801. Napoleon lamenting, th=
e continued hostility of England, in announcing this peace to the people of=
France, remarked, " Why is not this treaty the treaty of a general pe=
ace? This was the wish of France. This has been the constant object of the =
efforts of her government. But its desires are fruitless. All Europe knows =
that the British minister has endeavored to frustrate the negotiations at L=
uneville. In vain was it declared to him that France was ready to enter int=
o a separate negotiation. This declaration only produced a refusal under th=
e pretext that England could not abandon her ally. Since then, when that al=
ly consented to treat without England, that government sought other means t=
o delay a peace so necessary to the world. It raises pretensions contrary t=
o the dignity and rights of all nations. The whole commerce of Asia, and of=
immense colonies, does not satisfy its ambition. All the seas must submit =
to the exclusive sovereignty of England." As William Pitt received the=
tidings of this discomfiture of his allies, in despairing despondency, he =
exclaimed, " Fold up the map of Europe. In need not again be opened fo=
r twenty years." While these great affairs were in progress, Napoleon,=
in Paris, was consecrating his energies with almost miraculous power, in d=
eveloping all the resources of the majestic empire under his control. He po=
ssessed the power of abstraction to a degree which has probably never been =
equaled. He could concentrate all his attention for any length of time upon=
one subject, and then, laying that aside entirely, without expending any e=
nergies in unavailing anxiety, could turn to another, with all the freshnes=
s and the vigor of an unpreoccupied mind. Incessant mental labor was the lu=
xury of his life. " Occupation," said he, " is my element. I=
am born and made for it. I have found the limits beyond which I could not =
use my legs. I have seen the extent to which I could use my eyes. But I hav=
e never known any bounds to my capacity for application." The universa=
lity of Napoleon' s genius was now most conspicuous. The revenues of the na=
tion were replenished, and all the taxes arranged to the satisfaction of th=
e people. The Bank of France was reorganized, and new energy infused into i=
ts operations. Several millions of dollars were expended in constructing an=
d perfecting five magnificent roads radiating from Paris to the frontiers o=
f the empire. Robbers, the vagabonds of disbanded armies, infested the road=
s, rendering traveling dangerous in the extreme. " Be patient," s=
aid Napoleon. " Give me a month or two. I must first conquer peace abr=
oad. I will then do speedy and complete justice upon these highwaymen."=
; A very important canal, connecting Belgium with France, had been commence=
d some years before. The engineers could not agree respecting the best dire=
ction of the cutting through the highlands which separated the valley of th=
e Oise from that of the Somme. He visited the spot in person: decided the q=
uestion promptly, and decided it wisely, and the canal was pressed to its c=
ompletion. He immediately caused three new bridges to be thrown across the =
Seine at Paris. He commenced the magnificent road of the Simplon, crossing =
the rugged Alps with a broad and smooth highway, which for ages will remain=
a durable monument of the genius and energy of Napoleon. In gratitude for =
the favors he had received from the monks of the Great St. Bernard, he foun=
ded two similar establishments for the aid of travelers, one on Mount Cenis=
, the other on the Simplon, and both auxiliary to the convent on the Great =
St. Bernard. Concurrently with these majestic undertakings, he commenced th=
e compilation of the civil code of France. The ablest lawyers of Europe wer=
e summoned to this enterprise, and the whole work was discussed section by =
section in the Council of State, over which Napoleon presided. The lawyers =
were amazed to find that the First Consul was as perfectly familiar with al=
l the details of legal and political science, as he was with military strat=
egy. Bourrienne mentions, that one day, a letter was received from an emigr=
ant, General Durosel, who had taken refuge in the island of Jersey. The fol=
lowing is an extract from the letter: " You can not have forgotten, ge=
neral, that when your late father was obliged to take your brothers from th=
e college of Autun, he was unprovided with money, and asked of me one hundr=
ed and twenty-five dollars, which I lent him with pleasure. After his retur=
n, he had not an opportunity of paying me, and when I left Ajaccio, your mo=
ther offered to dispose of some plate, in order to pay the debt. To this I =
objected, and told her that I would wait until she could pay me at her conv=
enience. Previous to the Revolution, I believe that it was not in her power=
to fulfill her wish of discharging the debt. I am sorry to be obliged to t=
rouble you about such a trifle. But such is my unfortunate situation, that =
even this trifle is of some importance to me. At the age of eighty-six, gen=
eral, after having served my country for sixty years, I am compelled to tak=
e refuge here, and to subsist on a scanty allowance, granted by the English=
government to French emigrants. I say emigrants , for I am obliged to be o=
ne against my will." Upon hearing this letter read, Napoleon immediate=
ly and warmly said, " Bourrienne, this is sacred. Do not lose a moment=
Send the old man ten times the sum. Write to General Durosel, that he sha=
ll immediately be erased from the list of emigrants. What mischief those br=
igands of the Convention have done. I can never repair it all." Napole=
on uttered these words with a degree of emotion which he had rarely before =
evinced. In the evening he inquired, with much interest of Bourrienne, if h=
e had executed his orders. Many attempts were made at this time to assassin=
ate the First Consul. Though France, with the most unparalleled unanimity s=
urrounded him with admiration, gratitude, and homage, there were violent me=
n in the two extremes of society, among the Jacobins and the inexorable Roy=
alists, who regarded him as in their way. Napoleon' s escape from the explo=
sion of the infernal machine, got up by the Royalists, was almost miraculou=
s. On the evening of the 24th of December, Napoleon was going to the Opera,=
to hear Haydn' s Oratorio of the Creation, which was to be performed for t=
he first time. Intensely occupied by business, he was reluctant to go; but =
to gratify Josephine, yielded to her urgent request. It was necessary for h=
is carriage to pass through a narrow street. A cart, apparently by accident=
overturned, obstructed the passage. A barrel suspended beneath the cart, c=
ontained as deadly a machine as could be constructed with gun-powder and al=
l the missiles of death. The coachman succeeded in forcing his way by the c=
art. He had barely passed when an explosion took place, which was all over =
Paris, and which seemed to shake the city to its foundations. Eight persons=
were instantly killed, and more than sixty were wounded, of whom about twe=
nty subsequently died. The houses for a long distance, on each side of the =
street, were fearfully shattered, and many of them were nearly blown to pie=
ces. The carriage rocked as upon the billows of the sea, and the windows we=
re shattered to fragments. Napoleon had been in too many scenes of terror t=
o be alarmed by any noise or destruction which gunpowder could produce. &qu=
ot; Ha!" said he, with perfect composure; " we are blown up."=
; One of his companions in the carriage, greatly terrified, thrust his head=
through the demolished window, and called loudly to the driver to stop. &q=
uot; No, no!" said Napoleon; " drive on." When the First Con=
sul entered the Opera House, he appeared perfectly calm and unmoved. The gr=
eatest consternation, however, prevailed in all parts of the house, for the=
explosion had been heard, and the most fearful apprehensions were felt for=
the safety of the idolized Napoleon. As soon as he appeared, thunders of a=
pplause, which shook the very walls of the theatre, gave affecting testimon=
y of the attachment of the people to his person. In a few moments, Josephin=
e, who had come in her private carriage, entered the box. Napoleon turned t=
o her with perfect tranquillity, and said, " The rascals tried to blow=
me up. Where is the book of the Oratorio?" </span></p> <p> </p>=
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<p>View Email Marketing Listings<br /> Thou wast that all to me, love, F=
or which my soul did pine - A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a=
shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers ; And all the flowers w=
ere mine. Ah, dream too bright to last ! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise =
But to be overcast ! A voice from out the Future cries, "Onward ! &quo=
t; - but o'er the Past (Dim gulf ! ) my spirit hovering lies, Mute - motion=
less - aghast ! For alas ! alas ! with me The light of life is o'er. "=
No more - no more - no more," (Such language holds the solemn sea To t=
he sands upon the shore,) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stri=
cken eagle soar ! Now all my hours are trances ; And all my nightly dreams =
Are where the dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams, In what ethe=
real dances, By what Italian streams. Alas ! for that accursed time They bo=
re thee o'er the billow, From Love to titled age and crime, And an unholy p=
illow ! - From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow =
! That these lines were written in English - a language with which I had no=
t believed their author acquainted - afforded me little matter for surprise=
I was too well aware of the extent of his acquirements, and of the singul=
ar pleasure he took in concealing them from observation, to be astonished a=
t any similar discovery ; but the place of date, I must confess, occasioned=
me no little amazement. It had been originally written _London_, and after=
wards carefully overscored - not, however, so effectually as to conceal the=
word from a scrutinizing eye. I say, this occasioned me no little amazemen=
t ; for I well remember that, in a former conversation with a friend, I par=
ticularly inquired if he had at any time met in London the Marchesa di Ment=
oni, (who for some years previous to her marriage had resided in that city,=
) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand that he had neve=
r visited the metropolis of Great Britain. I might as well here mention, th=
at I have more than once heard, (without, of course, giving credit to a rep=
ort involving so many improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak, wa=
s not only by birth, but in education, an _Englishman_. * * * * * * * * * &=
quot;There is one painting," said he, without being aware of my notice=
of the tragedy - "there is still one painting which you have not seen=
" And throwing aside a drapery, he discovered a full-length portrait =
of the Marchesa Aphrodite. Human art could have done no more in the delinea=
tion of her superhuman beauty. The same ethereal figure which stood before =
me the preceding night upon the steps of the Ducal Palace, stood before me =
once again. But in the expression of the countenance, which was beaming all=
over with smiles, there still lurked (incomprehensible anomaly !) that fit=
ful stain of melancholy which will ever be found inseparable from the perfe=
ction of the beautiful. Her right arm lay folded over her bosom. With her l=
eft she pointed downward to a curiously fashioned vase. One small, fairy fo=
ot, alone visible, barely touched the earth ; and, scarcely discernible in =
the brilliant atmosphere which seemed to encircle and enshrine her loveline=
ss, floated a pair of the most delicately imagined wings. My glance fell fr=
om the painting to the figure of my friend, and the vigorous words of Chapm=
an's _Bussy D'Ambois_, quivered instinctively upon my lips : "He is up=
There like a Roman statue ! He will stand Till Death hath made him marble =
!" "Come," he said at length, turning towards a table of ric=
hly enamelled and massive silver, upon which were a few goblets fantastical=
ly stained, together with two large Etruscan vases, fashioned in the same e=
xtraordinary model as that in the foreground of the portrait, and filled wi=
th what I supposed to be Johannisberger. "Come," he said, abruptl=
y, "let us drink ! It is early - but let us drink. It is _indeed_ earl=
y," he continued, musingly, as a cherub with a heavy golden hammer mad=
e the apartment ring with the first hour after sunrise : "It is _indee=
d_ early - but what matters it ? let us drink ! Let us pour out an offering=
to yon solemn sun which these gaudy lamps and censers are so eager to subd=
ue !" And, having made me pledge him in a bumper, he swallowed in rapi=
d succession several goblets of the wine. "To dream," he continue=
d, resuming the tone of his desultory conversation, as he held up to the ri=
ch light of a censer one of the magnificent vases - "to dream has been=
the business of my life. I have therefore framed for myself, as you see, a=
bower of dreams. In the heart of Venice could I have erected a better ? Yo=
u behold around you, it is true, a medley of architectural embellishments. =
The chastity of Ionia is offended by antediluvian devices, and the sphynxes=
of Egypt are outstretched upon carpets of gold. Yet the effect is incongru=
ous to the timid alone. Proprieties of place, and especially of time, are t=
he bugbears which terrify mankind from the contemplation of the magnificent=
Once I was myself a decorist ; but that sublimation of folly has palled u=
pon my soul. All this is now the fitter for my purpose. Like these arabesqu=
e censers, my spirit is writhing in fire, and the delirium of this scene is=
fashioning me for the wilder visions of that land of real dreams whither I=
am now rapidly departing." He here paused abruptly, bent his head to =
his bosom, and seemed to listen to a sound which I could not hear. At lengt=
h, erecting his frame, he looked upwards, and ejaculated the lines of the B=
ishop of Chichester : _"Stay for me there ! I will not fail_ _To meet =
thee in that hollow vale."_ In the next instant, confessing the power =
of the wine, he threw himself at full-length upon an ottoman. A quick step =
was now heard upon the staircase, and a loud knock at the door rapidly succ=
eeded. I was hastening to anticipate a second disturbance, when a page of M=
entoni's household burst into the room, and faltered out, in a voice chokin=
g with emotion, the incoherent words, "My mistress ! - my mistress ! -=
Poisoned ! - poisoned ! Oh, beautiful - oh, beautiful Aphrodite !" Be=
wildered, I flew to the ottoman, and endeavored to arouse the sleeper to a =
sense of the startling intelligence. But his limbs were rigid - his lips we=
re livid - his lately beaming eyes were riveted in _death_. I staggered bac=
k towards the table - my hand fell upon a cracked and blackened goblet - an=
d a consciousness of the entire and terrible truth flashed suddenly over my=
soul. ~~~ End of Text ~~~ =3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM Impi=
a tortorum longos hic turba furores Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit. =
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro, Mors ubi dira fuit vita sal=
usque patent. [_Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to he erected u=
pon the site of the Jacobin Club House at Paris_.] I WAS sick -- sick unto =
death with that long agony; and when they at length unbound me, and I was p=
ermitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sentence -- the=
dread sentence of death -- was the last of distinct accentuation which rea=
ched my ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merg=
ed in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of revo=
lution -- perhaps from its association in fancy with the burr of a mill whe=
el. This only for a brief period; for presently I heard no more. Yet, for a=
while, I saw; but with how terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the=
black-robed judges. They appeared to me white -- whiter than the sheet upo=
n which I trace these words -- and thin even to grotesqueness; thin with th=
e intensity of their expression of firmness -- of immoveable resolution -- =
of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the decrees of what to me wa=
s Fate, were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly=
locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shuddered bec=
ause no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror,=
the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies which enwr=
apped the walls of the apartment. And then my vision fell upon the seven ta=
ll candles upon the table. At first they wore the aspect of charity, and se=
emed white and slender angels who would save me; but then, all at once, the=
re came a most deadly nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my f=
rame thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, while the a=
ngel forms became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that=
from them there would be no help. And then there stole into my fancy, like=
a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the g=
rave. The thought came gently and stealthily, and it seemed long before it =
attained full appreciation; but just as my spirit came at length properly t=
o feel and entertain it, the figures of the judges vanished, as if magicall=
y, from before me; the tall candles sank into nothingness; their flames wen=
t out utterly; the blackness of darkness supervened; all sensations appeare=
d swallowed up in a mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then sil=
ence, and stillness, night were the universe. I had swooned; but still will=
not say that all of consciousness was lost. What of it there remained I wi=
ll not attempt to define, or even to describe; yet all was not lost. In the=
deepest slumber -- no! In delirium -- no! In a swoon -- no! In death -- no=
! even in the grave all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. =
Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, we break the gossamer web of s=
ome dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) we =
remember not that we have dreamed. In the return to life from the swoon the=
re are two stages; first, that of the sense of mental or spiritual; secondl=
y, that of the sense of physical, existence. It seems probable that if, upo=
n reaching the second stage, we could recall the impressions of the first, =
we should find these impressions eloquent in memories of the gulf beyond. A=
nd that gulf is -- what? How at least shall we distinguish its shadows from=
those of the tomb? But if the impressions of what I have termed the first =
stage, are not, at will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not co=
me unbidden, while we marvel whence they come? He who has never swooned, is=
not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar faces in coals that g=
low; is not he who beholds floating in mid-air the sad visions that the man=
y may not view; is not he who ponders over the perfume of some novel flower=
-- is not he whose brain grows bewildered with the meaning of some musical=
cadence which has never before arrested his attention. Amid frequent and t=
houghtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest struggles to regather some to=
ken of the state of seeming nothingness into which my soul had lapsed, ther=
e have been moments when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief, =
very brief periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the lucid rea=
son of a later epoch assures me could have had reference only to that condi=
tion of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows of memory tell, indistinctly=
, of tall figures that lifted and bore me in silence down -- down -- still =
down -- till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea of the inter=
minableness of the descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, o=
n account of that heart's unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden=
motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a ghastly t=
rain!) had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the limitless, and pause=
d from the wearisomeness of their</p>=20
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