the little degree of credit due to those extravagant French statements on which so many in this country still found their opinion of the principal actors in the great events that marked the end of the last and commencement of the present century. In merely sketching the campaigns of Napoleon's Rise, we have naturally deprived ourselves of the opportunity of entering into an examination of his general conduct during the period of his prosperity-of shewing, in fact, that he was the same man from first to last. To the present writer this omission is naturally a matter of regret, as many will think that the talents and character of the French emperor cannot be fairly estimated by the history of his fall, by his conduct during years of adversity, and by the contents of a work, in which the actions of his rise are only brought forward as an introduction to shew the vast power to which he had attained. It is of course for the reader to decide on an objection we deem more plausible than just. Except in very peculiar cases, we certainly think that the talents and character of an individual may be fairly estimated by his conduct during an active and important period of his life, especially when it extends, as in the present case, to a period of more than three eventful years. We candidly confess that we do not see how any man possessing talents, genius, firmness, and courage, proportionate to his station, could possibly have behaved in the manner Napoleon behaved during the period of his fall;-how the great stakes then contended for,-fame, honour, empire, could fail to awaken some sparks of genius, courage, heroism, in any heart or head which had ever owned a particle of the brilliant elements. We know, of course, that men have changed, that minds of great power and vigour have given way, sunk to absolute imbecility in the space of a few months or years. But such changes have generally resulted from illness, age, from severe blows, moral or physical,-from marked and distinct causes, the consequences of which were soon perceived by all who surrounded the sufferer. Nothing, however, of this kind happened to Napoleon: he was in the hale and active years of life, had not completed his forty-sixth year when he fought the battle of Waterloo, and seems always to have enjoyed extreme good health. Nor do his friends and admirers pretend that his faculties had declined, or that the lustre of his genius had ceased to shine with its usual brilliancy. They ascribe his fall to treason, the desertion of friends, to adverse fortune, and to circumstances over which he could exercise no control; they account for it by statements that will not stand the test of one moment's rational investigation; but never to any failing of his talents, which shone, according to them, as brightly at Moscow and Waterloo, as at Austerlitz and Marengo. Some readers may, perhaps, endeavour to turn our own argument against us, and ask why, if a man is tried by his conduct during a partial period of his life, we do not try the character of Napoleon by the longer period of his prosperity, instead of trying him by his conduct in adversity? Our reply may be brief. In endeavouring to establish any particular opinion, or proposition, every author has, of course, the option to select what he may deem the proofs best calculated to make out his case, even as the reader has the power to reject as insufficient the evidence that is tendered. Though the Rise of Napoleon would, in the estimation of the present writer, have tended strongly to confirm the views advocated in the history of his Fall, the latter period was the one to be chosen the moment it became evident that the Rise and Fall-for both were written-formed together too voluminous a work for publication. The history of the Fall had a natural, and distinctly marked termination; the events to be recorded were nearer our own time, had still a greater hold on public interest, were of gigantic magnitude, led to proportionate results, and form altogether a vast cyclopean landmark in European history. With such advantages they were, of course, better suited "to point the moral and adorn the tale" we had to relate than a mere adventurous rise to power by the impulse of a revolutionary tempest possibly could be. There have been many Napoleons, many men who, in revolutionary times, have raised themselves, or were raised, from humble rank to supreme authority; but there is only one French Revolution recorded in the annals of civilised times, -only one convulsion which threw the wild and boundless power,-absolute control over the lives and properties of a whole people successively into the hands of such men as Robespierre, Danton, Barras and Bonaparte. It must farther be added, that the evidence for bringing out the real character of the events included within the period of Napoleon's fall is stronger and more complete than any by which his early history can be supported. While great events were on the gale, while the sword was still in every hand, there was comparatively little writing. It was only after the general peace, after years of leisure and repose, that the principal actors in the great scenes took up the pen to record the events in which they had participated; and by that time many of the actors in the earlier scenes had already passed away, or had nothing to relate which could excite interest when placed by the side of the closing catastrophe of the great European drama. For these reasons the period of Napoleon's fall was chosen, as sufficient, in the author's opinion, to illustrate the "Bastard Cæsar's" real character; and from the mass of evidence he has necessarily gone over, he feels confident that when the history of Napoleon's rise shall be fairly written, when the mighty roll of events resulting from the tempest of revolution shall be taken fully into account, it will then be seen that Bonaparte was, as general, consul and emperor, the very same from first to last. The impartial reader of history will then see, that this boasted man, at all times as callous of heart as destitute of principle, possessed but moderate talents, was presumptuous and arrogant in the hour of prosperity, timid, destitute of resources, deficient in firmness-his high station considered-deficient even of personal courage in the hour of adversity. It will then be evident, that the conduct displayed on the retreat from Moscow and Leipzig was only, under altered circumstances, a repetition of the feebleness already evinced on the Corsaglia and at Castiglione; that the disgraceful flight from Waterloo, which outstript even the speed of the civil authorities attending the army, sprung from the same want of gallant and manly feeling already perceptible at Marengo and on the explosion of the Infernal Machine, and that the tame abdication, signed at the bidding of despicable senates, was, if possible, more than a repetition of the craven part acted on the 18th Brumaire ! In now taking our leave, we can only remind the reader, that every new theory or opinion advanced on a point of history, science, or philosophy, has invariably, whatever the ultimate result might prove, found critics, who in the first instance proclaimed it "absurd" and "paradoxical," termed it a "crotchet," with other equally convincing names. We claim for our trifling speculations no exemption from a fate which has attended the most brilliant discoveries; we claim only a fair hearing, and hope that those who take an interest in the subject will not condemn us unheard, and without examining the facts from which our inferences are drawn, the evidence on which our opinion is founded,―facts and evidence, the strength and accuracy of which remain, as yet, unchallenged and unquestioned. THE RECTOR'S DAUGHTER. CHAPTER II. IN the close of our last paper we had reconducted Alice to Newby Grange, and her fond, glad heart had bounded with joy, as the day after her arrival she saw Lord Arthur's travelling carriage drive up to the door. She had received him with the unconstrained demonstration of the pleasure which she felt. Half an hour after his arrival, and when he had paid his civilities all around the circle, he had contrived unobserved, and with the tact so peculiarly his own, to draw her a little aside. "Ah, Alice," said he (they were standing in the recess of a window, just out of hearing of the gay assembled group), "what a dream of love was ours before we parted! and propitious Fortune renews it to us again. Alice, I have felt that we must live for one another-I have felt that my hope, my joy, my being, are in your keeping; without you I languish, and vegetate rather than live." Alice was gratified, but puzzled. Those words were not surely supposed to contain a proposal of marriage? No; Lord Arthur had made no proposition, asked no question, preferred no request; yet it was only in married life that the hope, and joy, and being, of two persons of different sexes could be moulded together. No, it was not a proposal, but it was the notice and prelude of one soon to follow. The days passed as before; Lord Arthur hung about Alice as she sat, rode by the side of the carriage when she had her seat there by Mrs. Newby; he hovered over the piano when she played, read to the working party when she plied her needle amongst them. In fact, he seemed happy only by her side. He was so agreeable, well-bred, and highly-informed-so elegant in his attentions, which were diffused over the whole party, that whilst he had the deep, fond love of one, he possessed the admiration and good-will of all. With talents to eclipse any man, he would rival no one; when he conversed it was observed that, whilst he interested all, others were drawn out by him, and appeared to surpass themselves. Mrs. Newby rather wondered that he yet deferred his proposal; no doubt, however, entered her mind but that it would eventually come. Alice was too happy to think much upon the subject. Lord Arthur, however, resolved once more to sound her feeling upon the matter before he finally resolved to abandon his liberty by marriage. On an occasion when they found themselves alone together, he said to her, "Do you remember, Alice" (for by that name he had long fondly called her), "a conversation that we had the day before you went to attend your sister's wedding?" "I well remember it, Lord Arthur." "And do you hold entirely the opinion that you then expressed?" "Most entirely; what you term an opinion, I should rather term a knowledge of right and wrong upon the subject." "Do you not think that you may have been influenced a little by the common prejudice of minds less enlightened than your own, so as to be led to confuse a mere habit, a form, with that which constitutes essentially right and wrong?" "Oh, no, no, no, Lord Arthur! the marriage-tie is hallowed in my most serious judgment. What you term a mere habit or form of society, secures a great reality; it draws the line between vice and that which is holy in the eyes of God and man; to dispense with it is always crime, and it entails the heavy punishment due to crime. Did I suppose that you thought otherwise, Lord Arthur, I should suspect you of an approach to libertinism. I should see how cruelly I had been mistaken in my estimate of you, and I would, at whatever cost of grief, renounce your society and your presence as contaminating." Lord Arthur bit his lip. Alice had spoken so earnestly, that no doubt not the shadow of a doubt, could linger in his mind, that he must marry her or renounce her. He was annoyed that he had awakened a suspicion in her, annoyed that the ideal subject of a lecture had been formed by himself, and annoyed also at what he deemed his utter failure; he, however, saw that he must cover his principles and stifle his vexation. He said smiling, and with his own peculiar grace, "I am in no danger, Alice, of your repudiation; you made a perfect convert of me when we talked before, though, indeed, there was but slight difference between us; and I have now only renewed the subject for the pleasure of hearing a woman of pure and delicate mind argue it more fully than we then did, for our conversation was interrupted." Alice unquestioningly believed this statement, but she instinctively felt that she had been trifled with by such a conversation, and she said, with displeasure upon her lovely features, "You never appeared to me to disadvantage, Lord Arthur, but on the two occasions when you have led the conversation to this subject, and no passing thought of you as less than a man of noble and exalted excellence has at any other time flitted across my mind. Permit me to adopt your own terms, and to observe, that it is hardly the subject on which to talk with a pure and delicate-minded woman.' Lord Arthur's annoyance had almost grown into resentment under this reproof. For one moment he felt disposed to gratify it, and quit Newby Grange, and think no more of the rector's daughter; but he looked at her, and that disposition vanished. He took her hand, and said, "You are warm, Alice, but I believe I deserve your reproof; pardon me, and let us return no more to this subject we need not, for we think exactly alike. We both know that the marriage-service cannot marry souls (all I ever argued), and well both feel that marriage is indispensable to holy union, that all union without it is disgrace and crime." Now Lord Arthur was just the man who could brave the opinion of the world in marrying a woman of grade lower than his own. She was, at least, by birth a gentlewoman; she had education and grace; to introduce her to his friends would be no disparagement to them. The objection founded merely on degree it would cost him nothing to meet; his intellect rose above it. Then as to fortune, he had enough, and was by no means avaricious; that consideration had not weight with him. But he foresaw the day would come when he should tire of Alice-when, charming as she was, she would have lost the charm of novelty. He would fain have escaped the embarrassment of a wife, but there was nothing for it, and he must meet it. A day or two after the conversation detailed above, he was musing in a large recessed window of the library how he should effect his proposal, when he saw Alice hovering about among the flowers. He went to join her, and, walking by her side, led her onward to a quiet shady avenue, "Where," he said, "the rays of the sun glanced feebly in among the foliage, giving the beauty of light and protection from the heat." As he walked by her side, he, for the thousandth time, admired the fine chiselling of her features, the elegant tournure of her form; he talked easily of the subjects which the scene presented, the soil which promoted best the growth of beech, the habits of the humble bee, one of whose tribe was boring at the roots of a tree in the avenue. Alice lifted from the ground a fallen leaf, on which grew a singular excrescence. She held it to her companion he took not the leaf, but her extended hand, and looking with delicacy, yet infinite fondness, into her blushing face, he said, "Grant me, dear Alice, this opportunity to speak to you of something more important to us both than the insect or the soil. I had been tempted to seek the occasion earlier, but I thought it much more important to us both that we should each know the other well; we do so now, and with such knowledge, and with all the affection and esteem which it inspires, I venture to ask you to share life with me, to let marriage secure, and strengthen, and render permanent, the happiness which we each find in the other. You have me entirely in your power, Alice-you could blast my hope and joy for ever, but I think I need entertain no fear (looking at her archly for a moment, and then the look subsiding again into her earnestness)I think we understand each other too well, that there is no mistake in our mutual attachment." For a moment their eyes met; then Alice's were averted and fell, large swelling drops came slowly into them, obscuring vision, then fell; others more rapidly followed, and then they chased each other swiftly down her cheeks, and choked her utterance. Alice could not explain them to herself. She had been anticipating the proposal which she had just heard, she knew it must come, she had wished for it. Her mind was firmly decided-no shadow of a doubt lurked there. But how decided soever may be a woman's wishes-how confident soever she may be, that if they are gratified, her happiness will be in safe keeping, and though she may have been expecting the proposal, yet, when it comes, she seems to be suddenly placed in a new position; she feels like one who stands on a narrow isthmus, between two seas. She would not fall back upon the past, the solemnity of the future appals her. At that moment, too, the very strength of her affections, her delight in the knowledge that they are reciprocated, overwhelm her. So it was with Alice. She wept from mingled joy and awe, though she could not explain her emotions to herself. Lord Arthur interpreted her truly; he felt all the value of those tears-he felt for the moment that they almost made welcome the sacrifice which he had offered. Emotion often disgusted him, but now there were no witnesses to annoy him, and this proved to him how devotedly her heart was his. She soon recovered power to speak, and then, in brief and modest words, she told him he had made no error in counting upon her love, she thanked him for singling her out— a girl without rank or fortune, assured him that that proof of his affection rendered it tenfold dearer to her, and referred him to her father, VOL. XXXIV. NO. CCIII. assuring him that, her parent's consent being given, the alliance which he made with her, if not brilliant, should secure him that which a brilliant lot does not always secure, bright and perpetual happiness. For," said she, 66 never wife brought more tenderness, and love, and duty, than I will shew to you, Lord Arthur. Ah! what a life of bliss I picture to myself, and I trust our happiness will but increase with rolling time!" They sauntered long talking tenderly, so full were they of joy that time went by unheeded, and it was not until the great dressing-bell sent forth its deep tone that they were called to recollection. They entered the house together. Mrs. Newby was already gone up-stairs; Alice sought her in her boudoir. "Will you give me a moment before you dress?" she said, slipping her hand within that of her friend. "That I will, my dear girl. Prescot (to the maid who just then appeared), I am not quite ready. I will ring presently (the maid retired). And now, Alice, sit by me here, and tell me what makes you look so particularly happy, and what has dyed your check so deep a rose ?" "I am indeed, most happy, dear Mrs. Newby. Lord Arthur has asked me to become his wife, and my father's consent alone is wanting to our union. He has done it in a way so delicate, so tender, so entirely in accordance with my own taste and feeling, that no circumstance could have added to my pleasure. I foresce a future of happiness, so bright, so much beyond the usual lot, that I am all thankfulness to Heaven, and gratitude to you, my kind, dear friend, whose goodness to me could not have been exceeded by that of a mother, and through whom I have met with this most happy lot. And now I suppose I may give full license to my affection towards him? Do you not give me joy, Mrs. Newby?" "Indeed, indeed, my child, I do! You have carried off the prize for which so many fashionables have wished in vain. In obtaining rank and fortune I esteem you fortunate, indeed; but, more than this, Lord Arthur is so amiable a man, he stands so high in general estimation PP |