The Emperor And The Poor Author
"The pen is mightier than the sword."
Great men are not the less liable or addicted to very small, and very
mean, and sometimes very rascally acts, but they are always fortunate
in having any amount of panegyric graven on marble slabs, shafts and
pillars, o'er their dust, and eulogistic and profound histories written
in memories of the deeds of renown and glory they have executed. An
America
upon Bonaparte and his brilliant career, as a soldier and a conqueror;
but how precious few, insignificant pages do we ever see of the
misdeeds, tyrannies and acts of petty and contemptuous meanness so great
a man was guilty of! Why should authors and orators be so reluctant to
tell the truth of a great man's follies and crimes, seeing with what
convenience and fluency they will lie for him? We contend, and shall
contend, that a truly great man cannot be guilty of a small act, and
that one contemptible or atrocious manifestation in man, is enough to
sully--tarnish the brightness of a dozen brilliant deeds; but
apparently, the accepted notion is--vice versa.
In 1830, there lived in the city of Philadelphia, a barber, a poor,
harmless, necessary barber. His antique, or most curious costume,
attracted much attention about the vicinity in which he lived, and no
doubt added somewhat to the custom of his shop, itself a bijou as
curious almost as the proprietor. But as our story has but little to do
with the queer outside of the barber or his shop, and we do not now
purpose a whole history of the man, we shall at once proceed to the pith
of our subject--the Emperor and the poor Author, or Napoleon and his
Spies--and in which our aforesaid Philadelphia barber plays a
conspicuous part.
Some of the writers, a few of those partially daring enough to give an
impartial expose of the history of the Bonapartean times, seem to
think that Napoleon committed a great error in his accession to the
throne, by doubting the stability of his reign, and having pursued
exactly measures antipodean to those necessary to seat him firmly in the
hearts of the people, and cement the foundation of his newly-acquired
power. But we don't think so; the means by which he obtained the giddy
height, to a comprehensive mind like his, at once suggested the
necessity of vigilance, promptness, and unflinching execution of
whatever act, however tyrannous or heartless it might have been, his
unsleeping mind suggested--
"Crowns got with blood, by blood must be maintained."
Jealous and suspicious, he sought to shackle public opinion--the fearful
hydra to all ambitious aspirants--to know all secrets of the time and
states, and render one half of the great nations he held in his grasp
spies upon the other! The most profligate principles of Machiavel sink
into obscurity when contrasted with the Imperial Espionage of
Napoleon. When no longer moving squadrons in the tented field--whole
armies, like so many pieces of chess in the hands of a dexterous
player--he sat upon his throne, reclined upon his lounge or smoked in
his bath, organized and moved the most difficult and dangerous forces in
the world--an army of Spies!
All ages, from that of infancy to decrepitude--all conditions of life,
from peer to parvenu--from plough to the anvil--pulpit to the
bar--orators and beggars, soldiers and sailors, male and female of every
grade--men of the most insinuating address, and women of the most
seductive ages and loveliness, grace and beauty were enlisted and
trained to serve--in what the pot-bellied, bald-headed little monster of
war used to call his Cytherian Cohort! Snares set by these imperial
policemen were difficult to avoid, from the almost utter impossibility
of suspicioning their presence or power.
In 1808, a learned Italian, noble by birth, in consequence of the
movements and executions of Napoleon, found it prudent to shave off
his moustache and titles, and change the scene of his future life, as
well as change his name. A master of languages and a man of mind, he
sought the learned precincts of Leipsic, Germany, where he preserved his
incognito, though he was not long in winning the grace, and other
considerations due enlarged intellect, from those not lacking that
invaluable commodity themselves. Herr Beethoven--the new title of our
Italian "mi lord"--conceived the project of convincing the mighty
Emperor--the hero of the sword--that so little a javelin as the pen
could puncture the sac containing all his great pretensions, and let
the vapor out; in short, to show the conqueror, that the pen was
mightier than his magic sword. Beethoven purposed writing a pamphlet
memorial, involving the bombastic pretensions, the gigantic
extravagance and arrogant ambition of Bonaparte. The man of letters well
knew the ground upon which he was to tread, the danger of ambushed foes,
involving such a brochure, and the caution necessary with which he was
to produce his work. But Beethoven felt the necessity of the production;
he possessed the power to execute a great benefit to his fellow man, and
he determined to wield it and take the chances. Though scarcely giving
breath to his project--guarding each page of his writing as vigilantly
as though they were each blessed with the enchantment of a
Koh-i-Noor--a mysterious agency discovered the fact--Napoleon shook
in his royal boots, and swore in good round French, when the following
missive reached his royal eye:--
Sire(!)--A plot is brewing against your peace; the safety of your
throne is menaced by a villainous scribe. My informant, who has
read the manuscripts, informs me that he has never seen any thing
better or more imposing, and ingenious in argument and force, than
the fellow's appeal to all the crowned heads and people of Europe.
It is calculated to carry an irresistible conviction of the wrongs
they suffer from your imperial majesty to every breast. These
manuscripts are fraught with more danger to your Imperial Majesty's
Empire, than all the hostile bayonets in the world combined against
you, Sire.
Leipsic, 1808. Baron De----.
Here was a hot shot dangling over the magazines of the mighty man, and
the "little corporal" jumped into his boots, and began to set the wheels
of his great "expediency" in motion. A message flew here, and another
there; a dispatch to this one, and a royal order to that one. A dozen
secretaries, and a score of amanuensises were instantly at work, and
the alarmed "Emperor of all the French" fairly beat the reveille upon
his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of
an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to
lend enchantment by their rapid quills.
Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found
scattered all over his little sanctum--the spies had him and his
effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the
emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the
dreaded fiat! Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written?
They had the man, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a
pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of the words he had
invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his
clothes--tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few
pieces of statuary, but all in vain--the sought for, dreaded, and hated
documents, for which his Imperial highness would have secretly given
ten--twenty--fifty thousand louis--was not to be found! The rage of
the inquisitors was terrific--showing how well they were chosen or paid,
to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all
manner of unpleasant finales, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed.
"I have written nothing--published nothing, nor do I intend to write or
publish anything," was Beethoven's reply.
"Speak fearlessly," said the chief of the inquisitors, "and rely upon a
generous monarch's benevolence. My commission, sir, is limited to
ascertain whether poverty has not compelled you to write; if that be the
case, speak out; place any price upon your work--the price is nothing--I
will pay you at once and destroy your documents."
"Your offers, sir," responded the poor author, "are most kind and
liberal, and I regret extremely that it is not in my power to avail
myself of them. I again declare, sir, that I have never written anything
against the French government--your information to the contrary is false
and wicked."
The spies, finding they could not gain any information of the author, by
threat or bribe, carried him to France, where his doom was supposed to
be sealed in torture and death, in the Bastile of the Emperor.
But where was this fearful manuscript--this dreaded scribbling of the
God-forsaken, poor, forlorn author? The emissaries of his serene
highness had the blood, bones, and body of the wretched scribe, but
where was that they feared more than all the warlike forces of a million
of the best equipped forces of Europe--the paltry paper pellets of a
scholar's brain--the memorial to the crowned heads, and people of the
several shivering monarchies of continental Europe?
A few brief hours--not two days--before the pseudo Herr Beethoven was
honored by the special considerations and attentions of the Emperor of
all the French--the conqueror of a third, at least, of the civilized
world--he had conceived suspicions of a man to whom in the most
profound confidence he had revealed a slight whisper of his
projects--impressed with the foreshadowing that a mysterious something
dangerous was about to menace him, he made way with the manuscripts, to
which his soul clung as too dear and precious to be destroyed--he gave
them to the charge of a tried friend--and before the Cytherian Cohort
were upon the threshold of the author, his memorial was snugly
ensconced in the obscure and remote secretary of a gentleman and a man
of letters, in the renowned city of Prague. The alarm and friend's
appearance seemed most opportune--for an hour after the visitation of
the one, the other was at hand--the documents transferred and on their
way to their place of refuge.
But difficult was the stepping-stone to Napoleon's greatness--the more
the mystery of the manuscripts augmented--the more enthusiastic became
his research--the more formidable appeared the necessity of grasping
them; and the determination, at all hazards, to clutch them, before they
served their purpose!
"Bring me the manuscripts"--was the fiat of the Emperor: "I care not
how you obtain them--get them, bring them here; and mark you, let
neither money, danger nor fatigue, oppose my will. Hence--bring the
manuscripts!"
Again Leipsic was invested by the Cytherian Cohort of the modern
Alexander; the rival of Hannibal, the great little commandant of the
most warlike nation of the earth. The Baron ----, who was master of
ceremonies in this great enterprise, now arrested the secret agent who
had given the information of the existence of the memorial. This
wretch had received five hundred crowns for his espionage and
treachery. His fee was to be quadrupled if his atrocious information
proved correct; so dear is the mere foreshadowing of ill news to
vaunting ambition and quaking imposters. Bengert, the German spy, was
sure of the genuineness of his information--he was much astonished that
the Baron had not seized the memorial, as well as the body of the
hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at
length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.
"I have it," he exclaimed, a few days before his arrest. "I saw a friend
visit Beethoven; I know they both entertained the same sentiments in
regard to the Emperor--that man has the manuscripts."
Where was that man? It was finding the needle in the hay stack--the
pebble in the brook. Again the Emperor urged, and the Cytherian Cohort
plied their cunning and perseverance. That friend of the poor author
was found--he was tilling his garden, surrounded by his flower pots and
children, on the outskirts of Prague, Bohemia. It was in vain he
questioned his captors. He dropped his gardening implements--blessed his
children--kissed them, and was hurried off, he knew not whither or
wherefore! Shaubert was this man's name; he was forty, a widower--a
scholar, a poet--liberally endowed by wealth, and loved the women!
It was Baron ----'s province to find out the weak points of each victim.
"If he has a particular regard for poetry, he does love the fine
arts," quoth the Baron, "and women are the queens of fine arts. I'll
have him!"
In the secret prison of Shaubert he found an old man, confined for--he
could not learn what. Every day, the yet youthful and most fascinating,
voluptuous and beautiful daughter of the old man, visited his cell,
which was adjoining that of Shaubert's. As she did so, it was not long
before she found occasion to linger at the door of the widower, the
poet--and sigh so piteously as to draw from the victim, at first a holy
poem, and at length an amative love lay. Like fire into tow did this
effusion of the poet's quill inflame the breast and arouse the passions
of the lovely Bertha; and in an obscure hour, after pouring forth the
soul's burden of most vehement love, the angel in woman's form(!), with
implements as perfect as the very jailor's, opened all the bolts and
bars, and led the captive forth to liberty! She would have the poet who
had entranced her, fly and leave her to her fate! But poetry scorned
such dastardy--it was but to brave the uncertainty of fate to stay, and
torture to go--Bertha must fly with him. She had a father--could she
leave him in bondage? No! She had rescued her lover--she braved
more--released her parent in the next hour, by the same mysterious
means, and giving herself up to the tempest of love, she shared in the
flight of the poet. In a remote section of chivalric Bohemia, they found
an asylum. But Bertha was as yet but the deliverer from bondage, if not
death, of her soul's idol; he, with all the warmth and gratitude of a
dozen poets, worshipped at her feet and besought her to bless him
evermore by sharing his fate and fortune. There was a something
imposing, a something that brought the pearly tear to the heroic girl's
eye and made that lovely bosom undulate with most sad emotion. The poet
pressed her to his heart--fell at her feet, and begged that if his
life--property--children--be the sacrifice--but let him know the secret
at once--he was her friend--defender--lover--slave. Another sigh, and
the spell was broken.
"Why--ah! why were you a state prisoner--a secret prisoner in
the ----?"
"Loved angel," answered the poet, "I scarce can tell; indeed I have not
the merest hint, in my own mind, to tell me for what I was arrested
and thrown into prison!"
"Ah! sir," sighed the lovely Bertha, "I can never then wed the man I
love--I cannot brave the dangers of an unknown fate--at some moment
least expected, to be torn from his arms--lost to him forever!"
"We can fly, dearest," suggested the poet, "we can fly to other and more
secure lands. In the sunshine of your sweet smile, my dear Bertha,
obscurity--poverty would be nothing."
"No," said the girl, "I cannot leave my father--the land of my
birth--home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point
out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the
nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret."
"Ah! what mean you?"
"In a foolish hour," continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and
heaving bosom, "you impaled your generous self to save a friend--the
friend fled--you were arrested--"
"Good God!" exclaimed the poet, "Herr Beethoven----"
"Gave you possession of----" she continued.
"No! no! no!" interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe
"yes," even to the ear of his fair preserver.
"Sir," calmly continued the girl, "I have risked my own life and liberty
to preserve yours, I have----"
"I--I know it all, dear--dearest angel, but----"
"Those manuscripts," she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze
upon the poor victim.
"Ha! manuscripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be----"
"It is known--I know it--I learned it from your captors; but for my
love," said the girl, "mad--guilty love--your life would have been
forfeited--your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in
quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be
happy--Bertha's love must die with her--Bertha be ever miserable!"
"I-a--I will--but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false--false!"
exclaimed the almost distracted poet.
"Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and
throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?"
"Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God's sake! Rise; let
me at your feet swear, in answer--No!"
"Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned
viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of
your misery; O! bless me--bless your Bertha; give me those accursed
manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at
once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of
your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"
This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room,
sighed, tore his mouchoir, oscillated between honor and
temptation--the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In
course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchanting spy, opened
the secret drawers of the poet's secretary, and amid carefully-packed
literary rubbish, the dreaded memorial was found--clutched with the
eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of
eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor
author's manuscripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and
while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid
with each scathing word of the memorial, he hurriedly issued his
orders--gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy a
countess, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and
misery to his children.
"Fly!" the monarch shouted, "search every one suspected of a hand in
this; let them be dealt with instantly--trouble me not with detail, but
give me sure returns. Stop not, until this viper is exterminated; egg
and tooth; fang and scale; see it done and claim my bounty--fly!"
That snake was scotched and killed--the few brief pages of an obscure
author that drove sleep, appetite and peace from the mighty Emperor, for
days and nights--made busy work for his thousands of
emissaries--scattered his gold in weighty streams--was read, cursed and
destroyed, and all suspected as having the slightest voice or opinion in
the secret memorial, met a secret fate--death or prolonged
wretchedness.
Herr Beethoven, the poor author, alone escaped; being overlooked in the
hot pursuit of his production, and by the blunder of those having charge
of himself and hundreds of other state prisoners--guilty or suspected
opponents to the vaulting ambition and power of him that at last ended
his own eventful career as a helpless prisoner upon an ocean isle--was
liberated and lost no time in making his way beyond the reach of
monarchs, tyranny and bondage. Beethoven came to America and settled in
Philadelphia, where, in the humble capacity of an e-razer of beards and
pruner of human mops, he eked out a reasonable existence for the residue
of his earthly existence; few, perhaps, dreaming in their profoundest
philosophy, that the little, eccentric-attired, grotesque-looking
barber, who tweaked their plebeian noses and combed their caputs, once
rejoiced in grand heraldic escutcheons upon his carriage panels as a
veritable Count, and still later made the throne tremble beneath the
feet of a second Alexander!
But God is great, and the ways of our every-day life, full of change and
mystery.
More
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I'm going to state to you the remarkable adventures of a very remarkable man, who went to market to get a leg of mutton for his Sunday dinner. I have heard, or read somewhere or other, almost similar stories; whether they were real or imaginary, I... The Man That Knew 'em All
If you have ever "been around" some, and taken notice of things, you have doubtless seen the man who knows pretty much every thing and every body! I've seen them frequently. As the old preacher observed to a venerable lady, in reference to fore... The Perils Of Wealth
Money is admitted to be--there is no earthly use of dodging the fact--the lever of the whole world, by which it and its multifarious cargo of men and matters, mountains and mole hills, wit, wisdom, weal, woe, warfare and women, are kept in motion,... The Pigeon Express Man
In nearly all yarns or plays in which Yankees figure, they are supposed to be "a leetle teu darn'd ceute" for almost any body else, creating a heap of fun, and coming out clean ahead; but that even Connecticut Yankees--the cutest and all firedest ... The Question Settled
"Doctor" Gumbo, who "does business" somewhere along shore, met "Prof." White,--a gemman, whose complexion is four shades darker than the famed ace of spades,--a few evenings since, in front of the Blade office, and after the usual formalities of g... The Race Of The Aldermen
In 183-, it chanced in the big city of New York, that the aldermen elect were a sort of tie; that is, so many whigs and so many democrats. Such a thing did not occur often, the democracy usually having the supremacy. They generally had things pret... The Re-union Thanksgiving Story
"Behold, for peace I had great bitterness, but thou hast in love to my soul delivered it from the pit of corruption: for thou hast cast all my sins behind thy back."--Isaiah. A portly elderly gentleman, with one hand in his breech... The Science Of Diddling
Jeremy Diddlers have existed from time immemorial down, as traces of them are found in all ancient and modern history, from the Bible to Shakspeare, from Shakspeare to the revelations of George Gordon Byron, who strutted his brief hour, acted his ... The Skipper's Schooner
No better specimen of the genus, genuine Yankee nation, can be found, imagined or described, than the skippers of along shore, from Connecticut river to Eastport, Maine. These critters give full scope to the Hills and Hacketts of the stage, and th... The Story Of Capt Paul
I love to speak, I love to write of the mighty West. I have passed ten happy and partly pleasant years travelling over the immense tracts of land of the West and South. I have, during that time, garnered up endless themes for my pen. It was my cus... The Tribulations Of Incivility
"A gentleman by the name of Collins stopping with you?" "Collins?" was the response. "Yes, Collins, or Collings, I ain't sure which," said the hardy-looking, bronzed seaman, to the gaily-dressed, flippant-mannered, be-whiskered man of vast im... The Troubles Of A Mover
"Mr. Flash in?" "Mr. Flash? Don't know any such person, my son." "Why, he lives here!" continued the boy. "Guess not, my son; I live here." "Well, this is the house, for I brought the things here." "What things?" says our friend, Flann... The Two Johns At The Tremont
It is somewhat curious that more embarrassments, and queer contre temps do not take place in the routine of human affairs, when we find so many persons floating about of one and the same name. It must be shocking to be named John Brown, troublesom... The Vagaries Of Nature
Nature seems to have her fitful, frightful, and funny moods, as well as all her children. Now she gets up a stone bridge, the gigantic proportions and the symmetrical development of which attract great attention from all tourists and historians wh... The Washerwoman's Windfall
Some years ago, there lived, dragged and toiled, in one of our "Middle States," or Southern cities, and old lady, named Landon, the widow of a lost sea captain; and as a dernier resort, occurring in many such cases, with a family of children to pr... The Wolf Slayer
In 1800 the most of the State of Ohio, and nearly all of Indiana, was a dense wilderness, where the gaunt wolf and naked savage were masters of the wild woods and fertile plains, which now, before the sturdy blows of the pioneer's axe, and the far... The Yankee In A Boarding School
"Well, squire, as I wer' tellin' on ye, when I went around pedlin' notions, I met many queer folks; some on 'em so darn'd preoud and sassy, they wouldn't let a feller look at 'em; a-n-d 'd shut their doors and gates, bang into a feller's face, jes... Used Up
I am tempted to believe, that few--very few men can start in the world--say at twenty, with a replete invoice of honesty, free and easy--kind, generous--good-natured disposition, and keep it up, until they greet their fortieth year. There are, dou... Waking Up The Wrong Passenger
In "comparing notes" with a travelled friend, I glean from his stock of information, gathered South-west, a few incidents in the life of a somewhat extensively famed Boston panoramic artist--one of which incidents, at least, is worth rehearsing. S... Wanted A Young Man From The Country
All of our mercantile cities are overrun with young men who have been bred for the counter or desk, and thousands of these genteel young gents find it any thing but an easy matter to find bread or situations half their time, in these crowded marts... We Don't Wonder At It
In the city, we get so many new kicks, and put on so many new ways of living and doing up things, that no wonder the quiet and matter-of-fact country folks make awkward mistakes, and get mixed up with our conventionalities, and other doings. Dinin... What's Going To Happen
In fifty years the steam engine will be as old a notion, and as queer an invention, as the press Ben. Franklin worked is now. In fifty years, copper-plate, steel-plate, lithography, and other fine engravings, will be multiplied for a mere song, in... Who Killed Capt Walker?
Few incidents of the campaign in Mexico seem so mixed up and indefinite as that relative to the taking of Huamantla, and the death of that noble and chivalric officer, Capt. Walker. In glancing over the papers of Major Mammond, of Georgia, which h... Who Was That Poor Woman?
I do not know a feminine--from the piney woods of Maine to the Neuces--so given to popularity, newspaper philippics, and city item bombards, as Aunt Nabby Folsom, of the town of Boston. The name and doings of Aunt Nabby are linked with nearly all ... Wonders Of The Day
The "firm" who save a hogshead of ink, annually, by not allowing their clerks and book-keepers to dot their i's or cross their t's, are now bargaining (with the old school gentlemen who split a knife that cost a fourpence, in skinning a flea for h...