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of the wheel. Fichler was with me. A sombre cloud spread over his grotesque countenance: his conversation was interspersed with moral saws and broken phrases, and sad and ridiculous witticisms. His manner was constrained: he uttered numberless religious effusions; and at every crucifix which we came to on the road, he made signs of the cross, in deep and gloomy silence. He sighed, and talked at random; made reproaches against the duke for his cruelty, and against me for not sufficiently detesting him, as he merited. I was soon heartily tired of such a travelling companion.

"I was sleeping by his side, holding my child in my arms, when, all of a sudden, I felt several violent blows. I was stunned, and overpowered, and at last I awoke. It appeared to me as if an unknown hand were precipitating me from heaven to earth. I thought that, half stifled and almost insensible to pain, I rolled, in the twinkling of an eye, from precipice to precipice, down to the very centre of the earth. I thought I was dying; and with difficulty I pronounced those two words of which my heart was so full, "My child!" He answered me with a prolonged groan. I found myself stretched amidst the ruins of the berline, on the snow, at the bottom of a horrible precipice, my head cut, and the blood rushing from my wound. "I am not hurt in the least," said Ernest. I recovered breath to embrace my child; and I saw Fichler above us on the verge of the road, conversing with the postilion, and looking down with unmoved eye upon this perilous scene!..

By a singular precaution and foresight, it happened that the baron and the postilion had left the vehicle and horses at the moment when this wretched machine was about to pass over the rocks of a ravine.

"Even in this horrible situation there was something ridiculous. The embarrassment of Fichler in seeing me revive, the appearance of my blood, my screams and those of my child, the snow stained with blood to a considerable distance, the effusion still continuing in spite of all the efforts which I made to stop it, by forming my shawl into a bandage, the terror of the baron himself, all contributed to give this odious person an unique and frightfully ludicrous appearance. "Madame, madame !" said he to me, with his husky voice, "this misfortune has saved you from a greater one." What did he mean? It will be seen hereafter. I escaped this misfortune. I was not to escape another. Fichler merits the attention of those who observe the human mind: that silent enigma!

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'I was taken to a little inn. In spite of my continual swoons, I had the presence of mind to observe closely the master and the valet. Both were perfectly sound; not a scratch appeared on their faces. In the mean time my wound was dressed; and Fichler (who recollected that he ought to have been injured too) came back, with a large towel twisted round his head, to tell me that his eye was strained out of its orbit, and that he feared he should lose it. The postilion too had his ribs broken; and, notwithstanding that, he was going to send him off. Lies upon lies! The blockheads! to betray themselves so easily! I was silent.

'Fichler, no doubt, would remain to take care of me.

No, he took his departure, took with him the postilion, and abandoned me, alone and dying, in a lonely cabin.

I want strength to continue this narrative; and I dare not say what was attempted against me. The German boors began to insult me, as being a Frenchwoman, and afterwards they attempted to poison me.

Alas! I would have suffered them to succeed, if I had not felt my child near me. But though life was a burden to me, that of a child whom I loved so much obliged me to preserve it. I observed the proceedings of these cruel wretches, and I saved his life and my own. Sometimes a cream carefully prepared, and greenish at the top, was given me; sometimes a glass of camomile, the edge of the vessel betraying, by its brownish colour, the resin of opium, which the barbarians had mixed with it: sometimes bitter coffee, the first drop of which burned my lips: sometimes cheese made up with art enough to conceal the sulphate of magnesia which it contained; the chocolate, the bouillon, every thing they gave me, was intended to infuse death into my veins. Did I ask for milk? This and oil were the only things which my hostess could not find in the village. I pretended that I did not know one word of German, and I heard them (I shudder even now to think of it) consulting on the means of getting rid of me.

'After eight days of this martyrdom, Fichler's huntsman came to the auberge. As I had a great interest in knowing every thing, I questioned this man with an air of indifference upon several important points. "Pray, is the baron hurt?"-"He has no mark of any injury." "I thought his eye was injured."-"It is not, madame." Has he sent away his postilion ?"-" No; Frederick is always highest in his confidence.” "Is Frederick hurt ?"-" No; my

master and his valet have both come home in sound health."

• With this man I was desired to set out. Thus delivered up to my enemies, I was compelled to follow them, and to see myself entirely in their hands. What a scene of suffering!

"But I began to accustom myself to death; I looked upon it with a resigned countenance. By a Frenchwoman, whom I accidentally met, I sent my shawl, stained with blood, to my poor sister, letting her know who had shed this blood, and in what manner,

"The huntsman conducted me, in an old voiture, to the house inhabited by Fichler and his family. The genius of evil seemed to hover over this place. It seemed naturally destined to be a scene for mur, der. The convent of the forest (such was the appellation of this frightful place) was concealed amidst a vast and sombre mass of trees, which covered, with their thick shade, the breasts of a rude mountain. Weak, and yielding to grief, I could not look upon the retreat to which I was conducted without terror; and my faculties, which had been so repeatedly plunged in stupor, awoke again, when I came in view of this savage habitation.

Fichler embarrassed, his wife too polished not to have received her lesson, a melancholy silence, and the terror inspired by the resuscitated victim, marked my reception in this place of horror. Its antiquity, desolation, and gloom, would serve for the most terrific scenes of a German poet; they petrified me at the first glance.

The same fears were renewed on my part; I would not eat except of the same dishes of which M. Fichler and his worthy spouse made use. I heaped all the furniture 1 could find against the door of the immense chamber which was assigned to me in the most remote part of the château. I strictly forbade my son to take food from any body. It will be seen whether or not these precautions were necessary.

"I had already once observed, that M. Fichler poured out wine for himself, his wife, and his son, from one bottle, and that another bottle, placed on a different part of the table, contained the wine which he wished to give me. Determined to penetrate this circumstance to the bottom, I requested of M. Fichler at dinner to give me some wine. He uncorked the bottle which was near me, poured the liquid out with strange precipitation, blushed, turned pale, and made signs to his wife. I pretended to observe nothing. I raised the glass to my lips, and appeared to take a few sips, but laid it down again untouched. A few minutes after, his son, a child of ten or twelve years of age, came near me; I seized this opportunity of giving him my glass; he was going to drink; Madame Fichler saw the fatal liquid in his hands, screamed and rushed towards him like lightning, overturning the table, and snatched away the glass, and broke it, exclaiming, like a mad woman, Don't drink! don't drink! don't drink!'

We presume our readers are satisfied with this specimen of Madlle. Panam's book; and here, therefore, we pause, with the single observation, that, as it is evident the many advertisements which preceded the book were for the purpose of extorting from the fears of the Coburg family what their honorable feelings could not be persuaded to grant to the authoress, so the publication of it is in the hope of obtaining for her some of that, the want of which is the burden of her song-money.

The Manuscript of 1814. A History of Events which led to the Abdication of Napoleon. By BARON FAIN, Secretary of the Cabinet at that Epoch, &c.

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Or the multitude of works which have been published relative to the late Emperor of the French, there are none which seem to us to possess fairer claims to attention than that now before us. The period and the events to which it relates, although in themselves sufficiently interesting, do not constitute alone its pretensions to the praise which we bestow upon it; but it is chiefly on account of the candid and manly style in which the author has discharged his task that he succeeds in commanding the respect of his readers. Of his fidelity there can be no doubt; and the facts of which he is the chro nicler have, in the main, been already established by an authority totally inimical to those feelings which, it must be known, swayed him; so that his veracity is placed beyond question. The narrative, in some places, is so meagre, that, if we were not acquainted with the parti culars to which it refers, we should be puzzled to understand it: this, however, divesting the whole work of the appearance of bookmaking, gives us a still higher opinion of the author's character. There is one remarkable feature in the book: the author nowhere indulges in those reproaches which the treachery and duplicity of Buonaparte's former VOL. I. Nov. 1823. Br. Mag.

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adherents would so amply justify: a passing exclamation, or a significant expression of disdain, is all that their almost unprecedented baseness extorts from him. With such inducements as must have presented themselves to him for showing up the perjured and cowardly, the Baron Fain's forbearance speaks powerfully for the manliness of his character. He seems to think it unwise and unworthy of himself to spare a word upon persons so signally contemptible, and leaves them to that fate which has overtaken, or rapidly pursues them, under the imperfect retributive system which prevails here.


The most severe justice seems to pervade the narrative: the author, although faithful to Buonaparte, never goes out of his way, unnecessarily, to praise or to gloss over his actions: bound to him by a strong attachment, he loves the truth still better than the liege lord to whom his fealty was plighted; and, while he gave a dear proof of the latter, the former sentiment is the distinguishing character of his book.

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The narrative commences in November, 1813, and describes concisely, but very interestingly, the preparations made by Buonaparte to preserve the intégrity of France, and to make, consistently with that object, a peace with the allied sovereigns. These particulars are given shortly, and with a rapidity which almost emulates the movements they describe; and yet they convey, more forcibly than any relation we have yet met with, the singular events of that short campaign. Our wonder is constantly excited that, against such odds, even Buonaparte could do so much. The principal features of the opposition which he offered to the entrance of the forces under Prince Schwartzenburg and General Blucher are well known, and it is only the more minute particulars which at this time can be amusing. Of these the following anecdote of Victor is interesting on its own account, as well as for the recent disgrace of that general by the Bourbons, for whom he became a traitor :

'Unfortunately the bravest men were those of whom the emperor had most cause to complain. . . At the battle of Nangis, a movement of cavalry, which would have proved fatal to the Bavarians, failed, and the blame attached to the General l'Heritier, a man distinguished for his intrepidity. On the preceding evening the enemy had surprised some pieces of artillery at the bivouac, and they had been confided to the care of the brave General Guyot, commander of the Chasseurs of the Guard. At Surville, during the heat of the engagement, there was a want of ammunition on the batteries; and this negligence, which, by the rigid laws of the artillery, amounted to a crime, was attributable to General Digeon, one of our most distinguished artillery officers. The forest of Fontainebleau was abandoned to the Cossacks without resistance, and General Montbrun was accused of not having taken sufficient advantage of either his position or his adversaries. To sum up all, perhaps the battle of Montereau might have been unnecessary, and all the bloodshed it cost might have been saved, if on the preceding day our troops had come up with sufficient expedition to surprise the bridge; but fatigue prevented them from arriving in time, and the Duke of Belluno, formerly the indefatigable Marshal Victor, was so unfortunate as to be compelled to urge this excuse.

6 Napoleon could no longer repress his dissatisfaction. Meeting

General Guyot on the road, he reproached him in the presence of the troops, for having so ill guarded his artillery. He was no less violent towards General Digeon, and he ordered that he should be tried by a council of war. He sent the Duke of Belluno permission to retire from the service, and gave the command of his corps to General Gerard, whose courage and activity had surmounted many difficulties during the campaign. In short, Napoleon acted with a degree of severity at which he was himself astonished, but which he conceived to be necessary in the imperious circumstances of the moment.

'General Sorbier, the commander-in-chief of the artillery, after allowing the first moment of anger to pass away, ventured to call to mind the many important services of General Digeon. Napoleon listened to these representations, and then tore the order which he had dictated for the General's trial by a council of war.

'The Duke of Belluno, with deep mortification, received the emperor's permission to quit the army. He repaired to Surville, and with powerful emotion appealed against this decision. Napoleon gave free vent to his indignation, and overwhelmed the unfortunate marshal with expressions of his displeasure. He reproached him for reluctance in the discharge of his duties, for withdrawing from the Imperial head-quarters, and for even manifesting a certain degree of opposition, which was calculated to produce mischievous effects in a camp. The conduct of the Duchess of Belluno was also the subject of complaint: she was the Lady of the Palace, and yet had withdrawn herself from the empress, who indeed seemed to be quite forsaken by

the new court.

The duke in vain attempted to defend himself; Napoleon afforded him no opportunity of reply. At length, however, he gained a hearing. He made a protestation of his fidelity, and reminded Napoleon that he was one of his old comrades, and could not quit the army without dishonour. The recollections of Italy were not invoked in vain. The conversation took a milder turn; Napoleon now merely suggested to the duke that he stood in need of a little respite from the exertions of a military life; that his ill health and numerous wounds now probably rendered him unable to encounter the fatigues of the advanced guard and the privations of the bivouac, and too frequently induced his quartering officers to halt wherever a bed could be procured.

'But all Napoleon's endeavours to prevail on the marshal to retire were ineffectual. He insisted on remaining with the army, and he appeared to feel the emperor's reproaches the more severely in proportion as they became the more gentle. He attempted to justify his tardy advance on the preceding day; but tears interrupted his utterance: if he had committed a military fault, he had dearly paid for it by the fatal wound which his unfortunate son-in-law had received.

On hearing the name of General Chateau, Napoleon was deeply affected he inquired whether there was any hope of saving his life, and sympathized sincerely in the grief of the marshal. The Duke de Belluno, resuming_confidence, again protested that he would never quit the army: "I can shoulder a musket," said he ; "I have not forgotten the business of a soldier. Victor will range himself in the

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