Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

for sporting company. I found that Harmony Hall, in defiance of its title, was one scene of riot and confusion; and quite satiated with the pursnits of a Country life, and the wild living of sporting bachelors, I resolved, sans ceremonie, to decamp forthwith: as I knew, however, that it would be in vain to obtain my Cousins' consent to this movement, for they had set it down as settled points that I should remain amongst them for a month at the least, and that I should ride Nimrod at the approaching hunt; I resolved to elope privately; and accordingly taking the advantage of the stage, I returned to my old quarters, and bade adieu to Harmony Hall, and my Cousins in the Country.* ANDREW ARMLESS. H. P. — Regt.

THE COURTEOUS SPANIARD.

SPEAK not ill of a great enemy, but rather give him good words that he may use you the better, if you chance to fall into his hands. The Spaniard did this when he was dying; his confessor told him, to work him to repentance, how the devil tormented the wicked that went to hell. The Spaniard replying, called the devil my Lord; “ I hope, my Lord the devil, is not so cruel:" his confessor reproved him. "Excuse me," said the Don, "for calling him so, I know not into what hands I may fall; andif I happen to fall into his, I hope he will use me better for giving him good words.” SELDEN.

THE STUDENT'S FAREWELL.

Farewell to the towers! farewell to the bowers,

Where the sage wizard, Art, all his charms hath display'd;
And sweet science cowers amongst bright blooming flowers,
In gay robes of glory majestic arrayed!

Farewell, banks of Camus! thou fair scene of blisses,

The Muse', love's, and graces', invariable seat!
Your silver soft stream,-like the tide of Ilyssus,

Aye freshens the air of Hygeia's retreat.

Ye cloisters low bending, and aisles wide extending
To cherish young genius and taste in your gloom :
The spirit befriending, as softly ascending,

It mounts in pure incense to heaven's vaulted dome :-
From you I must sever; then farewell for ever,
Each heart-honour'd object that swells my last theme!
The world is a field I must enter-but never

Can ought charm my soul like your shades Academe !

* DEAR MERTON,

I regret that the above little article should have been delayed so long. Such as it is, however, you are welcome to it; and, be assured, that while my right hand can wield a pen, you may command its exertions in favour of the Magnet.

Puris, May 8th, 1824.

A. Á.

NAPOLEON AND JOSEPHINE.

THE following letters are given to the public by Mr. Tennant, as the authentic correspondence of Bonaparte with Josephine, during his Italian campaigns, about 1796--7. That they are genuine, there can be little doubt, as some expressions in No. III. evidently bear the impress of this wonderful man. His observations concerning the mystery of existence, may be compared with his remarks on animal magnetism in Las Cases, and an evident similarity may be observed. These letters, it has been well remarked, shew this extraordinary man in a new light, that of the tender lover, and warmly affectionate husband. The political ferment excited by a life of such incessant activity, has not yet subsided; it will be for posterity to judge him aright. But it may be remarked, that in the biographical works published since his death, his private life has stood the most rigid test of enquiry. More temperate than Alexander, and chaster than Cæsar: of more polished habits than Charles the XII, his social life was more humane than that of Frederick III. In the early part of the Revolution, and while stationed at Valence, he formed an intimacy with a Mademoiselle Colombier. During the early mornings of summer, in that delightful climate of France, in which the sun knows no clouds, they spent their hours together at the foot of an ancient tree, or followed the windings of the romantic Rhone.*

"It will scarcely be believed, (says he), that our greatest delight was in eating cherries with each other. We were two artless and innocent beings." What a scene for the artist; the future Emperor of France at the feet of this fair one of Dauphiny. The ensuing letters breathe every thing that is amiable and tender, and furnish another interesting page to the moral code by which the actions of his " charmed" life must be judged by the impartial historian.

The first is given in French, as an example of his mode, &c. &c.

"7 heure du Matin.

"Je me reveille plein de toi ton portrait et le souvenir de l'anivrante soirée d'hiers n'ont point laissé de repos à mes sens douce et incomparable Josephine quelle effet byzare faite vous sur mon cœur-vous fachy vous? vous vois-je triste? este vous inquiète? mon ame est brise de douleur, et il n est point de repos pour votre ami - mais en est il donc davantage pour moi lorsque nous livrant au sentiment profond qui me maitrise je puise sur vos levres sur votre cœur une flame qui me brule-ah c est cette nuit que je me suis bien apercu que votre portrait n'est pas vous-tu pars a midi je te verai dans 3 heures en attendant mio dolce amor recois un millier dé baisé mais ne m en donne pas car il brule mon sang. "N. B."+

* Valence (the ancient Valentia) in Dauphiny, is situated on the left bank of the Rhone, in a country overflowing with vineyards; and in which the Hermitage and Cote Rotie Wines are made.

+ Thus translated-"I awake thinking only of you: Your portrait and the recollection of the intoxicating evening of yesterday, have deprived my senses of rest. Sweet and incomparable Josephine, what a singular impression do you make upon my heart! Are you angry? Are you sad? Are you uneasy? My soul is broken with grief, and there is no more comfort for your friend ;-but is there more for me when, giving myself up to the deep feeling which overcomes me, I pour VOL. I. 22.

[ocr errors]

No. II.

"Port Maurice, the 14th Germinal.

"I have received all your letters: but not one of them has affected me so much as your last-do you think, my adorable love, of writing to me in such terms? Do you imagine, then, that my situation is not already cruel enough without an increase of my sorrows and an overthrow of my soul? What a style! What sentiments do you describe-they are of fire-they burn my poor heart. My only Josephine;-far from thee there is no joy--far from thee the world is a desert, where I remain an isolated being, without enjoying the sweets of confidence. You have deprived me of more than my soul;-you are the only thought of my life. If I am tired of the troubles of business, if I dread the result, if mankind disgust me, if I am ready to curse this life, I place my hand upon my heart,— there thy portrait beats.-I look at it, and love becomes to me absolute happiness; all is smiling save the time when I am separated from my beloved.

"By what art is it that you have been able to captivate all my faculties, and to concentrate in yourself my moral existence? It is a magic, my sweet love, which will finish only with my life. To live for Josephinethere is the history of my life. I am trying to reach you,—I am dying to be near you. Fool that I am, I do not perceive that I increase the distance between us. What lands, what countries separate us! What a time before you read these weak expressions of a troubled soul in which you reign? Ah! my adorable wife, I know not what fate awaits me, but if it keep me much longer from you, it will be insupportable,-my courage will not go so far. There was a time when I was proud of my course, and sometimes, when contemplating on the ills that man could do me, on the fate which destiny could reserve for me, I fixed my eyes steadfastly on the most unheard-of misfortunes without a frown, without alarm; but now the idea that my Josephine may be unwell, the idea that she may be ill, and above all the cruel, the fatal thought, that she may love me less, withers my soul, stops my blood, renders me sad, cast down, and leaves me not even the courage of fury and despair. Formerly I used often to say to myself, men could not hurt him who could die without regret; but now, to die without that certainty is the torment of hell; it is the lively and striking image of absolute annihilation-I feel as if I were stifled. My incomparable companion, thou whom fate has destined to make along with me the painful journey of life, the day on which I shall cease to possess thy heart, will be the day on which parching nature will be to me without warmth or vegetation.

"I stop, my sweet love, my soul is sad; my body is fatigued; my head is giddy; men disgust me; I ought to hate them, they separate me from my beloved.

"I am at Port Maurice near Oneille; to-morrow I shall be at Albenga; the two armies are in motion-We are endeavouring to deceive each other

out upon your lips, upon your heart, a flame which consumes me? Ah! it was last night that I discovered that your portrait was not you.

"You set off at noon-I shall see you in three hours. In the mean while, my sweet love, receive a thousand kisses, but do not give me any, for they consume my blood.

"To Madame Beauharnois,”

"N. B."

-Victory to the most skilful! I am pretty well satisfied with Beaulieu—If he alarm me much, he is a better man than his predecessor. I shall beat him, I hope, in good style. Do not be uneasy-love me as your eyes-but that is not enough-as yourself, more than yourself, than your thought, your mind, your sight, your all. Sweet love, forgive me,—I am sinking; nature is weak for him who feels strongly, for him whom you love!

N. B. "Sincere regards to Barras, Sussi, Madame Tallien.-Compliments to Madame Chateau Renard; best love to Eugene and Hortense.

66

'Adieu, adieu, I am going to bed without thee; I shall sleep without thee-pray let me sleep. Many times have I held thee in my arms,-happy dream! but, but it is not thee.

"To Citoyenne Bonaparte."

No. III.

"Albenga, the 16th Germinal. "It is one hour after midnight-they have brought me a letter-it is sad -my soul is affected by it-it is the death of Chauvet. He was Commissaire Ordinateur-in-chief of the army-you have seen him sometimes at Barras'. My love, I feel the want of consolation that is to be obtained by writing to you, to you alone, the thought of whom can so much influence the moral state of my thoughts, on whom I must pour out my troubles. What is the future? What is the past? What are we? What magic fluid is it that surrounds us, and hides from us those things which it concerns us most to know? We are born, we live, we die, in the midst of the wonderful! Is it astonishing that priests, astrologers, charlatans, should have profited by this inclination, by this singular circumstance, to lead our ideas, and to direct them according to their passions? Chauvet is dead! He was attached to me. He has rendered essential services to his country. His last words were, that he was setting off to join me.-But yes, I see his shade--it wanders around me every where-it whistles in the air-his soul is in the clouds-he will be propitious to my destiny! But insensible, I shed tears to friendship, and who shall tell me that I have not already to weep an irreparable loss? Soul of my existence, write to me by every courier, otherwise I cannot live. I am here very much occupied. Beaulieu moves his army. We are in sight. I am a little fatigued. I am every day on horse-back. Adieu, adieu, adieu-I am going to sleep to thee. Sleep consoles me-it places me at thy side-I press thee in my arms— But, alas! on waking, I find myself three hundred leagues from thee. Say every thing to Barras, to Tallien and his wife.

"To Citoyenne Bonaparte, &c."

No. IV.

"N. B."

"Head Quarters, Tortona, Noon, 27th Prairial,

4th year of the French Republic.

"To Josephine,-My life is a perpetual night-mare. A fatal foreboding hinders me from breathing. I no longer live. I have lost more than life, more than happiness, more than repose. I am almost without hope. I send you a courier-He will remain only four hours at Paris, and will then bring me your answer. Write me ten pages; that alone will console me a little. You are ill;-you love me ;-I have made you unhappy. You are

[ocr errors]

with child, and I do not see you! This idea confounds me. I have committed so many faults towards you, that I know not how to expiate them. I accuse you of having remained in Paris, and you are there ill. Forgive me, my darling; the love with which you have inspired me has taken away my reason:-I shall never recover it; one never cures of that complaint. My forebodings are so sad, that I would limit myself to seeing you, to pressing you for two hours to my heart, to dying together! Who takes care of you? I suppose you have sent for Hortense. I love that sweet child a thousand times more since I think that she can afford you some little consolation. As for me, there is no consolation, no repose, no hope, until I have received the courier that I send you, and until you explain to me by a long letter what your illness is, and to what extent it is serious. If it be dangerous, I warn you, I set off instantly for Paris. My arrival will be a match for your illness. I have always been fortunate. Never has my fortune resisted my will, and to-day I am struck where alone I was vulnerable. Josephine, how can you remain so long without writing to me? Your last laconic letter is of the 3d of the month. It is also afflicting for I have it, however, always in my pocket. Your portrait and your letters are incessantly before my eyes. I am nothing without you. I can hardly imagine how I existed without knowing you. Ah! Josephine, if you had known my heart you would not have waited from the 29th to the 16th to set off. Is it possible that you should have listened to false friends, who wished, perhaps, to keep you far from me? I own to all the world, -I have an antipathy to every body who is near you. I calculated your departure on the 5th, and your arrival at Milan on the 15th.

me.

"Josephine, if you love me, if you believe that every thing depends upon your preservation, take care of yourself. I dare not tell you not to undertake so long a journey and in the hot weather;-at least, if you are in a situation to travel, go short days' journeys. Write to me at every sleeping place, and send me your letters in advance.

"All my thoughts are concentrated in thy alcove, in thy bed, in thy heart.-Thy illness! that is what occupies me night and day-without appetite, without sleep, without interest for friendship, for glory, for country, thou, thou and the rest of the world exist no more for me than if it were annihilated. I prize honour, because you prize it; victory, because it gives you pleasure, without which I should have quitted all to throw myself at your feet.

"Sometimes I say to myself that I am alarmed without reason,—already is she recovered,-she is setting off,-she has set off,-she is already, perhaps, at Lyons. Vain imagination! you are in your bed suffering; more beautiful, more interesting, more adorable. You are pale, and your eyes are more languishing-but when will you be well? If one of us must be ill, should it not be I? Most robust and more courageous, I could have borne sickness more easily-Destiny is cruel. She strikes me through you. "What sometimes consoles me is, that it is in the power of fate to make you ill, but that no power can oblige me to survive you.

"In your letter, my good love, take care to tell me that you are convinced that I love you, that I love you beyond what it is possible to imagine, that you are persuaded that every moment of my life is consecrated to you; that an hour never passes without my thinking of you; that the idea of thinking of any other woman has never entered my head; that they are all

« AnteriorContinuar »