« 이전계속 »
French. The smoke of their guns, and the clouds of dust raised by their horses' hoofs, enveloped them in impenetrable obscurity. Napoleon, from a distance, with his eagle glance, perceived the approach of this whirlwind of battle. Putting spurs to his horse he galloped to the spot. He here encountered crowds of soldiers, some of them wounded and bleeding, flying in dismay. It was a scene of awful tumult. At that moment an officer, bareheaded and covered with blood, galloped to meet the Emperor, exclaiming:
"Sire! the Cossacks, supported by an immense body of cavalry, have broken our ranks, and are driving us back." The Emperor rushed into the midst of the fugitives, and, raising himself in his stirrups shouted in a voice that rung above the uproar of the battle, "Soldiers! rally! Will you fly when I am here? Close your ranks; forward!"
At that well known and dearly beloved voice, the flying troops immediately re-formed. Napoleon placed himself at their head and, sword in hand, plunged into the midst of the Cossacks. With a shout of Vive VEmpermr! the men followed him. The Cossacks were driven back with enormous slaughter. Thus one thousand men, headed by the Emperor, arrested and drove back six thousand of their foes. The Emperor then tranquilly returned to his post, and continued to direct the dreadful storm of war. During every hour of this conflict, the masses of the Allies were accumulating. Night at length darkened over the dreadful scene, and the feeble bands of the French army retired into the town of Arcis. The Allies, alarmed by this bold march of Napoleon toward the Rhine, now concentrated their innumerable forces on the plains of Chalons. Even Blucher and Bemadotte came back to join them.
Soon after the battle of Arcis, the Austrians intercepted a French courier who had, with other dispatches, the following private letter from Napoleon to Maria Louisa. "My love! I have been for some days on horseback. On the 20th I took Arcis-sur-Aube. The enemy attacked me there at eight o'clock in the evening; I beat him the same evening; I took two guns and retook two. The next day the enemy's army put itself in battle array, to protect the march of its columns on Brienne and Bar-sur-Aube; and I resolved to approach the Mame and its environs, in order to drive them further from Paris, by approaching my own fortified places. This evening I shall be at St. Dizier. Farewell, my love! Embrace my son!"
Another council of war was held by the Allies. The dread of Napoleon was so great, that many argued the necessity of falling back upon the Rhine, to prevent Napoleon from entering Germany, and relieving his garrisons which were blockaded there. Others urged the bolder counsel of marching directly upon Paris. Napoleon was now at Arcis. The Allies were thirty miles north of him at Chalons, on the banks of the Mame. On the 85th of March the Allies, united
in one resistless body, advanced once more toward Paris, thronging, with their vast array, all the roads which follow the valley of the Mame. Napoleon was about two hundred miles from Paris. He hoped, by doubling his speed, to descend the valley of the Seine, and to arrive at the metropolis almost as soon as the Allies. There he had resolved to make his last and desperate stand.
As soon as Napoleon leamed that the combined army were marching vigorously upon Paris, he exclaimed, "I will be in the city before them. Nothing but a thunder-bolt can now save us." Orders were immediately given for the army to be put in motion. The Emperor passed the whole night shut up in his cabinet, perusing his maps.
"This,"saysCaulaincourt, "was anothercrue\ night. Not a word was uttered. Deep sighs, sometimes escaped his oppressed bosom. He seemed as if he had lost his power of breathing. Good heaven! how much he suffered!"
His brother Joseph was then in command of the city. Napoleon dispatched courier after courier, entreating him, in the most eamest terms, to rouse the populace, to arm the students, and to hold out until his arrival. He assured him that if he would keep the enemy in check but for two days, at the longest, he would arrive, and would yet compel the Allies to accept reasonable terms.
"If the enemy," said he, " advance upon Paris in such force as to render all resistance vain, send off, in the direction of the Loire, the EmpressRegent, my son, the grand dignitaries, the ministers, and the great officers of the crown and of the treasury. Do not quit my son. Recollect that I would rather see him in the Seine than in the hands of the enemies of France. The fate of Astyanax, prisoner of the Greeks, has always appeared to me the most unhappy fate recorded in history."
Napoleon at Arcis, was four marches further distant from Paris than were the Allies at Chalons. It was a singular spectacle which the two armies now presented. The Allies, numbering some three hundred thousand, were rushing down the valley of the Mame. The war-wasted army of Napoleon, now dwindled to thirty thousand men, with bleeding feet, and tattered garments, and unhealed wounds, were hurrying down the parallel valley of the Seine. The miry roads, just melting from the frosts of winter, and cut up by the ponderous enginery of war, were wretched in the extreme. But the soldiers, still adoring their Emperor, who marched on foot in their midst, sharing their perils and their toils, were animated by the indomitable energies of his own spirit.
Throwing aside every thing which retarded their speed, they marched nearly fifty miles a day. Napoleon, before leaving Arcis, with characteristic humanity, sent two thousand franes, from his private purse, to the Sisters of Charity, to aid them in relieving the wants of the sick and wounded. At midnight, on the 29th of March, the French army arrived at Troyes. In the early dawn of the next morning, Napoleon was again upon the march, at the head of his guard. Having advanced some fifteen miles, his impatience became so insupportable, that he threw himself into a light carriage, which chance presented, and proceeded rapidly to Sens. The night was cold, dark, and dismal, as he entered the town. He immediately assembled the magistrates, and ordered them to have refreshments ready for his army, upon its arrival. Then, mounting a horse, he galloped, through the long hours of a dark night, along the road toward Fontainebleau.
Dreadful was the scene which was then occurring in Paris. The Allied army had already approached within cannon-shot of the city. Mortier and Marmont made a desperate, but an unavailing resistance. At last, with ammunition entirely exhausted, and with their ranks almost cut to pieces by the awful onslaught, they were driven back into the streets of the city. Marmont, with his sword broken, his hat and clothes pierced vrith balls, his features blackened with smoke, disputed, step by step, the advance of the enemy into the suburbs. With but eight thousand infantry and eight hundred cavalry, he held at bay, for twelve hours, fifty-five thousand of the Allies. In this dreadful conflict the enemy lost, in killed, wounded, and prisoners, fourteen thousand men. The Empress, with the chief officers of the state, and with the ladies of her court, had fled to Blois. Her beautiful child, inheriting the spirit of his noble sire, clung to the curtains of his apartment, refusing to leave.
"They are betraying my papa, and I will not go away," exclaimed the precocious child, who was never destined to see that loved father again. "I do not wish to leave the palace. I do not wish to go away from it. When papa is absent, am I not master here?" Nothing but the ascendency of his governess, Madame Montesquieu, could calm him. And she succeeded only by promising faithfully that he should he brought back again. His eyes were filled with tears as he was taken to the carriage. Maria Louisa was calm and resigned; but pallid with fear, she took her departure, as she listened to the deep booming of the cannon, which announced the sanguinary approach of her own father.
The batteries of the Allies were now planted upon Montmartre, and upon other heights which commanded the city, and the shells were falling thickly in the streets of Paris. Joseph, deeming further resistance unavailing, ordered a capitulation. Mortier, in the midst of a dreadful fire, wrote, upon a drum-head, the following lines to Schwartzenberg:
"Prince, let us save a useless effusion of blood. I propose to you a suspension of arms for twenty-four hours; during which we will treat in order to save Paris from the horrors of a siege; otherwise we will defend ourselves, within its walls, to the death."*
* "Had Paris held out for two days longer, Napoleon's army would have entered it, and every one is well
Marshal Marmont also, who was contending against Blucher, sent a similar proposition to the Allies. But the fire was so dreadful, and the confusion so great, that seven times the officers, who attempted, with flags of truce, to pass over to the hostile camp, were shot down, with their horses, on the plain. During this scene, Marmont slowly retreated, with one arm severely wounded, the hand of the other shattered by a bullet, and having had five horses killed under him during the action.
In the gloomy hours of the night, when Napoleon was galloping along the solitary road, the allied monarchs were congratulating themselves upon their astonishing victory. Napoleon had avoided Fontainebleau, lest he should encounter there some detachments of the enemy. The night was intensely cold; gloomy clouds darkened the sky, and Napoleon encountered no one on the deserted roads who could give him any information respecting the capital. Far away in the distance the horizon blazed with the bivouaefires of his foes. The clock on the tower of the church was tolling the hour of twelve as he entered the little village of La Cour. Through the gloom, in the wide street, he saw groups of disbanded soldiers, marching toward Fontainebleau. Riding into the midst of them, he exclaimed with astonishment—
"How is this! why are not these soldiers marching to Paris?"
General Belliard, one of Napoleon's most devoted friends, from behind a door recognizing the voice of the Emperor, immediately came forward and said, " Paris has capitulated. The enemy enters to-morrow, two hours after sunrise. These troops arc the remains of the armies of Marmont and Mortier, falling back on Fontainebleau, to join the Emperor's army at Troyes."
The Emperor seemed stunned by the blow. For a moment there was dead silence. The cold drops of agony oozed from his brow. Then, with rapid step, he walked backward and forward on the rugged pavement in front of the hotel, hesitating, stopping, retracing his steps, bewildered by the enormity of his woe. He then, in rapid interrogatories, without waiting for any answer, as if speaking only to himself, exclaimed,
"Where is my wife? Where is my son? Where is the army? What has become of the National Guard of Paris, and of the battle they were to have fought, to the last man, under its walls? and the Marshals Mortier and Marmont, where shall I find them again?"
acquainted with his skill in the management of affairs. He would have had no hesitation to have thrown the arsenals open to the people. His presence would have influenced the multitude. He would have imparled a salutary direction to their enthusiasm, and Paris would no doubt have imitated the example of Saragossa; or, to speak more correctly, the enemy would not have ventured to make any attempt upon it; for, independently of the Emperor's being for them a Medusa's head, it was ascertained, at a later period, that in the battle which preceded the surrender of the capital, they had consumed nearly the whole of their ammunition. Tears of blood are ready to flow at the bare recollection of these facts."—Memoirs of the Duke of Rovigo, vol. iv. p. 44.
After a moment's pause, he continued, with impatient voice and gesture: "The night is still mine. The enemy only enters at daybreak. My carriage! my carriage! Let us go this instant! Eet us get before Blucher and Schwartzenberg! Let Belliard follow me with the cavalry! Let us fight even in the streets and squares of Paris! My presence, my name, the courage of my troops, the necessity of following me or of dying, will arouse Paris. My army, which is following me, will arrive in the midst of the struggle. It will take the enemy in rear, while we are fighting them in front. Come on! success awaits me perhaps in my last reverse!"
General Belliard then acknowledged to him that, by the terms of the capitulation, the army of Paris was bound to fall back upon Fontainebleau. For a moment Napoleon was again silent, and then exclaimed: "To surrender the capital to the enemy! What cowards! Joseph ran off too! my very brother! And so they have capitulated! betrayed their brother, their country, their sovereign; degraded France in the eyes of Europe! Entered into a capital of eight hundred thousand souls without firing a shot! It is too dreadful. What has been done with the artillery? They should have had two hundred pieces, and ammunition for a month. And yet they had only a battery of six pieces, and an empty magazine, on Montmartre. When I am not there, they do nothing but heap blunder upon blunder."
A group of officers successively arriving, now closed sadly around their Emperor. Napoleon became more calm, as he interrogated them, one by one, and listened to the details of the irreparable disaster. Then taking Caulaincourt aside, he directed him to ride, with the utmost speed, to the head-quarters of the Allies. "See," said he, "if I have yet time to interpose in the treaty which is signing already perhaps, without me and against me. I give you full powers. Do not lose an instant. I await you here." Caulaincourt mounted his horse and disappeared. Napoleon then, followed by Belliard and Berthier, entered the hotel.
Caulaincourt speedily arrived at the advanced posts of the enemy. He gave his name, and demanded a passage. The sentinels, however, refused to allow him to enter the lines. After an absence of two hours, Caulaincourt returned to the Emperor. They conversed together for a few moments, during which Napoleon, though calm, seemed plunged into the profoundest grief, and Caulaincourt wept bitterly.
"My dear Caulaincourt," said Napoleon, "go again, and try to see the Emperor Alexander. You have full powers from me. I have now no hope but in you, Caulaincourt." Affectionately he extended his hand to his faithful friend.
Caulaincourt pressed it fervently to his lips, and said, "I go, Sire; dead or alive, I will gain entrance into Paris, and will Epeak to the Emperor Alexander."
As, several years after, Caulaincourt was relating these occurrences, he said, "My head is burning; I am feverish; should I live a hundred
years, I can never forget these scenes. They are the fixed ideas of my sleepless nights. My reminiscences are frightful. They kill me. The repose of the tomb is sweet after such sufferings."
It was now past midnight. Caulaincourt mounted another horse, and galloped in the deep obscurity by another route to Paris. Napoleon also mounted his horse, and in silence and in sadness took the route to Fontainebleau. A group of officers, dejected, exhausted, and woewom, followed in his train. At four o'clock in the morning he arrived at this ancient palace of the kings of France. Conscious of bis fallen fortunes, he seemed to shrink from every thing which could remind him of the grandeurs of royalty. Passing by the state apartments which his glory had embellished, and to which his renown still attracts the footsteps of travelers from all lands, he entered, like a private citizen, into a small and obscure chamber in one angle of the castle. A window opened into a small garden, shaded with funereal firs, which resembled the cemeteries of his native island. Here he threw himself upon a couch, and his noble heart throbbed with the pulsations of an almost unearthly agony. But he was calm and silent in his woe. The troops which had followed him from Troyes, and those which had retired from Paris, soon arrived, and were cantoned around him. They numbered about fifty thousand. Their devotion to the Emperor was never more enthusiastie, and they clamored loudly to be led against the three hundred thousand Allies, who were marching proudly into Paris.
THE POOR CHILD'S CRADLE.
BABYHOOD is certainly an important period of human existence. Important, not only to the individual in that juvenile stage, who has his long career of three score and ten before him, and is forming the shape of his legs, the configuration of his features, and, for aught we know, going through an analogous process of mental development, but also to his anxious parents, and his kindred more or less remote.
How important a personage is the first-bom of the family on his first appearance! How his coming is heralded, like that of the hero on the stage, by flourish of (their own) trumpets, by nurses and doctors! What stores of baby linen and soft outer wrapping! What consultation over Christian names; what balancingof choice between the plain patronymic and the tempting surname of pet hero, presidential candidate, or parson! The baby is born, and is at once king of the household, Grand Lama of the domestic Thibet. Gentle must be the footfall about his couch, that his slumbers be not rudely broken, pleasant-featured the countenance that greets his waking eyes, tender the touch, gentle the hand and arms that move and dandle. Not only are father and mother abject slaves themselves of the new comer, but they see to it that all others shall be so as well. The stranger within their gates must play the courtier if he would maintain his occasional right to draw his chair to the fireside, and ply knife and fork
over the mahogany. He must, forgetful of the allegiance sworn under like circumstances the evening before, at the square below, vow that the red-faced cherub dandled up to his nose is the finest baby he ever laid eyes on, handle the precious burden thrust into his arms as gently as his awkwardness will admit, and restoring "Time's noblest offspring" to awaiting nurse, handle the snow-white, ribbon-bordered blanket which forms the outer robe of the minute dignitary, with as reverential a touch as if it were royal purple.
In default, however, of doing justice to our theme of baby-dom in plain prose, we must have recourse to the higher powers of verse, and in this call to our aid the lines of no less a master than Thomas Hood. He describes the accession of the opulent Miss Kilmansegg, distinguished at a later period of her history as the possessor of a golden leg, which replaced trie articlo of a similar character furnished by nature, but hopelessly damaged by an accident.
4' She waS'one of those who, by Fortune's boon
In her mouth, not a wooden ladle:
With a damask canopy over;
"Like other babes, at her birth she cried;
Ay, for twenty miles around her;
u And how was the precious baby drest?
Of notions so exalted
And although the tale seems fabulous,
E'en the wealthiest Nahob's daughter—
"In short, she was born, and bred, and nurst,
To please the genteelest censor—
All this, however, presupposes the mouth which
We have in this country no foundling hospitals with revolving baskets, in which a baby may be dropped as easily as a letter in the post-office, and dispatched on its journey through life with equal confidence in the government by tho authors of the flesh and blood as of the literary production. Nor, in truth, do we think we want tho basket aforesaid. It is too great a temptation to the needy and the vicious. Foundlings are, however, amply provided for, as they should be, by our city charities. But we have nothing to do at present with anonymous babies. We have an eye to the parent as well as the child. The poor baby (especially if tho first-born) is as important an individual in the eyes of his parents as your hoir to thousands. The same " pride, pomp, and circumstance" may not attend him, but equal or greater sacrifices are made to his welfare. He is hugged as closely, kissed as heartily, lauded as loudly, dandled as daintily, wrapped as warmly, as his richer contemporary. His mother, however, must live, in order for baby to do so likewise, and in this getting-a-living process, baby is sadly in tho way. The Indian squaw gets over the difficulty by swathing up the small specimen to a board, with a hoop to it, which has the double advantage of helping to make his back straight, and enabling him to be commodiously disposed of on his mother's back or a neighboring tree.
A French woman on her travels tucks baby up nicely in a shallow one-handled basket. This we know from personal observation, having once, in answer to a polite request from a cherry-cheeked Normande, reached down our arm from the banquette of a French diligence for what we supposed to be a basket of eggs, and consequently drew up with a care still more befitting its actual contents of humanity in a more advanced stags of race and age. It appeared to answer the punpose, as the infant slept well, and was done up in a much more convenient form for handling than long clothes and blanket, and was an article of luggage decidedly preferable, in a qui. escent state, to a bandbox. Neither of these plans would, we fear, answer for the laboring woman. She could not fall to scrubbing a floor with baby pick-a-back, and to hang him up with her bonnet would not answer. For women who work together, as in binderies, large clothing establishments, or factories, it would be still worse, as the most tender-hearted proprietor, the most philoprogenitively organized head, could hardly
stand the united chorus of sundry shelves or pegrows tenanted by crying—for under such circumstances it is naturally to be expected that they would be crying—babies.
We occasionally see a fruit-stall keeper with a baby in her arms ; but how could the active apple-women, who glide about the composing cases in printing-offices, manage a baby as well as a basket; or the energetic females who vend oranges to travelers leaving our city shores balance a pyramid of globular fruit in one set of digits, and clutch a baby commodiously in the other? If the mother has to go out, therefore, to earn her daily bread, her baby must be left at home. But in whose charge! The eldest sister—for we will suppose our young friend one of the junior members of the family—should be out at work, the next oldest at school, the third is too little to be trusted for much supervision. The boys are ready enough for the kindly care; but they should be at work or at school too, and if they are not, are too full of animal spirits, and somewhat too clumsy for the office. It is hardly fair, too, to tax their good-nature continually, even for the welfare of brother or sister. Baby, in place of a never-ending source of delight, at due internals, may degenerate into a bore. Remember Johnny and Moloch in Dickens's Christmas story, and to make sure that you do, we will freshen your recollection:
"Another little boy was tottering to and fro, bent on one side, and considerably affected in his knees, by the weight of a large baby, which he was supposed, by a fiction that obtains sometimes in sanguine families, to be hushing to sleep. But oh! the inexhaustible regions of contemplation and watchfulness into which this baby's eyes were then only beginning to compose themselves, to stare over his unconscious shoulder!
"It was a very Moloch of a baby, on whose insatiate altar the whole existence of this particular young brother was offered up a daily sacrifice. Its personality may be said to have consisted in its never being quiet, in any one place, for five consccutivo minutes, and never going to sleep when required. 'Tetterby's baby' was as well known in the neighborhood as the postman or pot-boy. It roved from door-step to door-step in the arms of little Johnny Tettcrby, and lagged heavily at the rear of the troops of juveniles who followed the tumblers or the monkey, and came up, all on one side, a little too late for every thing that was attractive, from Monday morning until Saturday night. Wherever childhood congregated to play, there was little Moloch making Johnny fag and toil. Wherever Johnny desired to stay, little Moloch became fractious, and would not remain. Whenever Johnny wanted to go out, Moloch was asleep and must be watched. Whenever Johnny wanted to stay at home, Moloch was awake, and must be taken out Yet Johnny was verily persuaded that it was a faultless baby, without its peer in the realm of England, and was quite content to catch meek glimpses of things in general from behind its skirts, or over its limp, flapping bonnet, and to go
staggering about with it like a very little porter with a very large parcel, which was not directed to any body, and could never be delivered any where."
There are the other lodgers or the neighbors as an occasional resort; but they have their own little responsibilities, and will require a reciprocation. It is evident, therefore, that a portion of hard-earned wages must be paid to some old woman or "half-grown gal" to look after baby, and a proportionate retrenchment made in beef and bread, or baby must look out for himself. The mother must give a morning kiss, and depart for her work with her head full of the awful stories she reads in the papers of little children falling out of the window or on to the stove, or rolling down stairs, being maimed or killed in a hundred ways.
This poor baby ought to be looked after; but how is it to be done? None of our existing charities can do it. They will help to bring the child into the world, and, if its parents abandon it, take care of the bantling. If the parents know their duty better, and shun such a crime as they would infanticide, they must take care of him. The Dispensary will vaccinate and drug, if needful; but if the child be healthy, he must not look for any thing more from the city until he is sufficiently advanced for ABC and the Primary school. His future course through the Free-school and Free Academy to manhood is well provided for; the hospitals will attend to him if he fall sick or get run over; and the last scene of all will be kindly and decorously cared for like the first. These infant years are, therefore, the heel of Achilles of the body politie, almost the only chance left, as it seems to us, for the ingenuity of philanthropy to exercise itself upon.
The want has been supplied in Paris by institutions called Crhhes (a child's crib). As, thanks to some philanthropic American ladies, who have brought home ideas as well as bonnets from that great city, an establishment of the kind is about to be opened in New York, we have thought that an illustrated account of a " creche" would be acceptable to our readers, and lead to the good example of our New York ladies being copied elsewhere.
The object of these establishments is to provide a place where mothers going out to day's work may leave their children in the morning and come for them in the evening, secure that, during the interval, their infants will be fed and carefully tended by good nurses. For this they arc charged a small sum daily, designed as much to impress upon the parents the duty of providing for their offspring as for the support of the establishment. Infants are received at any age up to two years.
The first Parisian creche was that of St. Pierre, at Chaillot, situated in a region inhabited by a poor population, although in the neighborhood of the Champs Elysees. It was founded by the cure of the parish and some ladies who had established an infant school with success, and saw that this institution was the next step in the suns