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nr booshil. Applv in the passage mnnd
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THE EBP IT
S. M. STRONG, Editor.
TOLIHE i.
MISCELLANY.
From Sitnm’g .Magazine.
AN INCIDENT OF WATERLOO.
BY J. T. IIEADLEY.
A few months since, I was standing on
the field of Waterloo, on the anniversary
day of that great battle. The fields were
waving with the ripening grain, just as
they were on that memorable morning,
before trodden down by the charging
squadrons. As I stood where Welling
ton stood on the ridge occupied by the
English lines, and surveyed the entire
field, and looked down on the narrow val
ley where the fate of all Europe was once
put up and battled for, a world of conflic
ting emotions struggled for mastery with
in tne. The magnificence and pomp of
that stern array were before me, and my
ear seemed distinctly to catch the first
cannon shot that opened the conflict. Far
on the right comes down on Hougoumont,
Jerome Bonapaite, with his twelve thous
and men. A sheet of fire runs along the
walls of the chateau, and a gap opens in
the advancing columns ol the foe. Its
mangled head melts like frost-work be
fore the destructive fire. The smoke of
battle covers them from sight, and rolls
up the valley, and 10, I see nothing but
the melee of horses and riders, the tossing
of banners, and the soaring of the French
eagle amid the cloud of war, and 1 hear
nought but the roar of artillery, the bray
ing of trumpets, tbe blast of the bugle
sounding the charge, and the heavy shock
of cavalry.
Amid the confusion and terror of a
scene like this, which the imagination will
call up on such a battle field, how natur
ally does the mind rest on some single
| character, or incident, and gather around
it all the interest of the fight. It may not
I be with others, but I find it true of myself
in all circumstances. I remember, when
standing on the top of the colonade of St.
Peter’s and looking down at the tens of
thousands, that were waiting the blessing
of the Pope, I forgot nil in a poor pil
grim beggar and his boy, that reclined on
j the ample steps. Their distant home!
! among the Italian hills, their weary aspect 1
;as they slum tiered therein the sunlight,!
and their sudden starling up as the blast
jof a solitary trumpet announced the ap
proach of his “Holiness,” formed the
ground work of a scene more touching
than the one before me. So it was here.
In the church of the little hamlet ol Water
loo, lying on the edge of this field, are a
multitude of tablets, placed above olficers
! who fell in this battle. Among them is
■one recording the death of a mere boy,
! who formed one of Wellington’s suite.
The epitaph closes with--** he was eigh
teen years old, and ibis was his twentieth
battle.” I gazed on it with feelings ol the
profbundest melancholy. So young and
vet so tried. Trained amid the smoke
and thunder of battle, accustomed almost
! from infancy to scenes of carnage and
cruelty, what a moral effect it must have
j had upon his character. An angel could
! not abide such discipline. I walked over
I the field with an English officer ol rank,
| and gleaned from him the following itici
| dents of his life, which I have filled up.
Young Gordon (my memory rnay lie
wrong here respecting the name, it having
become illegible in my note book.) was
the second son of a distinguished English
family. He had obtained a place in Wel
lington’s suite, though a mere boy, and
had been with him through all the Penin
sular campaign. He was fitted by nature
for a soldier. Enthusiastic, bold and
strangely ambitious, the excitement ofbat
tle and the occasions it gave lor distin
guishing himself were his delight. Around
his frank and open countenance clustered
ringlets of chestnut hair, while Ids blue
Saxon ej'e spoke at once the generosity
and fire of his ardent nature. He had one
only sister, the very reverse of him in
I everything but her strong and generous
feelings. Frail as the flower that is born
J and matured in a single night, her very
face reminded one of an early grave. It
was of that delicacy and almost spiritual
transparency, which make you shrink as
you think of the first shock ot life, "ion
look around in vain fir sonic shelter for
such a flower. Her eye was large, and
the very soul of tenderness, telling with
out disguise, and painfully distinct, that
affection was her life. Next in birth to the
young soldier, all her extravagant feelings
and yearning affection had centered in
him. His bold and often reckless conduct
bad caused her many a pang as they play
ed together in childhood, while his gener
ous love as he would come and fling his
arms around her neck and kiss away her
tears, had bound her to him with cords ol
iron. She loved him with that utter aban-
donment of heart, a being constituted as
she was, always loves ; arid he returned rt
with all the strength of bis brave young
heart. She was all faith ams timidity ; he
all hope and courage. Thus had they
passed their childhood together, and when
they came to part, hes heart sank like a
smitten blossom to the blow. As he glan
ced over his rich uniform and sword flash
ing by his side, a deeper flush mantled his
cheek, and prouder feeling beamed in his
eye, while all over her spiritual features,
came the hue of mortal fear and unutter
able dread. Her head sunk on her bosom,
and the big tear drops fell unrestrained
and fast at her feet. At first, he attempt
ed to laugh awav her fears, but seeing that
I j,;. radlcrv pined painfully upon her heart,
PRO PATRIA ET LC-CIBCS.
3IACON, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, MARCH *«. IMS,
he 100 burst into tears, and folded her to
Ins bosom with all the holiness and
strength of a brother's love.
They parted, and her sweet but rare
laugh was still less frequently heard. I
will not follow him through his eventful
career in Spain. Like ali soldiers, h
learned to like his employment, and with
the love of it came the loss of those sensi
tive feelings that had been the beauty of
his early character. Being a bold and
energetic fellow, he was often entrusted
with despatches to different parts of the
army in the midst of battle. At the bat
tle of Talavero, while Mackenzie was te
tiring in magnificient order and with con
summate skill, before the advancing
French, he was sent to that officer with an
order from the Marquis of Wellesley. It
was midnight, and the route lie was to
take was one of great exposure, being
swept by the enemy’s artillery. The fre
quent flaslies of the cannon that blazed
on his path were the only lamps to guide
him as he galloped over the uneven
field. We will not say his bold young
heart did not beat a trifle faster, us the
darkness through which lie rode was sud
denly made dazzling bright by the artille
ry, whose roar caused even his well train
ed war horse to start, while the earth
was ploughed up in every direction by
the shot—but we will say, he did not fal
ter or hesitate, but delivered his order
safely and well. On his return,just as he
had enteied on the place of danger-, a can
non ball struck bis horse’s flank, shatter
eel it to fragments, and sending the blood
and entrails all over his lace and uniform.
He himself was thrown several yards,and
lor a moment lay stunned by the blow.
When he recovered, however, he boldly
crossed the field, traversed by the shot,
and arrived safely at Wellington’s tent.
As he stood with cap in hand, pale, and
covered with blood and mangled ilesli,
(lie Duke thought (or a moment he was
dreadfully wounded, but ns he listened lo
bis account of tbe matter, he warmly
com alimented bis gallantry. From that
moment he became still more anxious to
distinguish himself, and in several in
! stances nearly lost bis life. A sword cut
i over his lefl eye had left a scar, of whic h
1 he was as proud as he would have been of
! two epatdelt-. Ni curl was ever allowed
j !<i fill over it, and he was half vexed to
i think the surgeon had cured the wound so
I effectually.
At length, after a year or more of hard
lighting, he returned to England, before
Wellington joined tbe allied forces on the
Continent. It was a hurried visit, but a
memorable one to his sister, now grown
still more delicate than before. She fold
ed him again and again in her arms, and
wept -as if her heart would break. Many
a long night had she lain awake, imagining
her brother now in the headlong and ruin
ous fight, and now pale and wounded,
gasping on the plain. The terrible scenes
of battle site bad so often pictured lo her
self, bad shattered hei over delicate frame,
and she had become doubly sensitive;
while the scenes of blood he had passed
through, ami the roughness of camp life,
had blunted his feelings and made her
c hildish terrors annoying and foolish. Yet
he loved her as his idol, and when he part
ed from her, he tied her miniature around
liisneck. That separation wastheerown-
ins agonv to her. She told him they
should never meet again, that his body
would be left on the battle-field of the
stranger. It was in vain be attempted to
calm her grief- —a foreboding like the spi
rit of prophecy crushed every hope, and
she saw him depart with the same feelings
she would have seen the grave close over
him. I have sometimes thought these
strangely sensitive and spiritual beings
| bad almost the gift of second sight—that
i “coming events” to them do literally “cast
! their shadows before.” From that mo*
j ment she never smiled, but faded gradu
{ ally awav. The whole story, together
with the epitaph, had made a profound
iexpression on my feelings, and as I stood
on the field of battle and called up the ter-
rific scenes of that teriific day, his form
constituted the foreground of the picture.
The morning of the battle was damp and
heavy, but not the spirits of the young
Gordon. As lie stood beside the Duke
and looked on the magnificent array before
him, be determined his name should be
interwoven with the history of that day.—
The great battle ot Europe was to be
fought. All its kings stood looking on
with breathless interest, for their thrones
were at stake. The feelings of those two
great military chieftains themselves, as
they tints, for the first time, stixid face to
face, and battled lor a Continent, were
scarcely more stirred than his. From the
moment he saw the head of that gallant
column, which Jerome Bonaparte led
down on Hmigotimont, melt away befure
the destructive fire within, all the fury of a j
tiger seemed roused within him. He |
wanted to he somewhere, he cared not in |
what capacity, where the onset was made.
He was not compelled long to wait. The
heavy cannonading that soon opened the
whole length of the lines—the terrible
charges made by the French cavalry soon
gave him work to do. He was sent hither
and thither, with orders, while the shot
fell around him lrke hail-stones. He look
ed on hi* pierced uniform and foam-cover
ed steed with a kindling eve. The press
ing danger now becoming more imminent
on every side, the Duke led oe in person
I #everal distinct charges This was the
■crowning point of vounp Gordon's wishes-
Hr charged brs'de ?b'* PjUe with the im-
petuositv of a veteran, arid whenever dan
ger threatened his beloved commander,,
spurred headlong into it. In the midst of
a terrible carnage. Sir Alexander (Jordon
rode up to the Duke, and expostulated
with him on thus exposing his life, when
every thing rested on his safety.
While he was thus pleading for the life
of another, a bullet pierced him and he fell.
Young Gordon immediately spurred into
his footsteps, and placed himself so as to 1
protect the Duke from the greatest appa
rent danger. The weary veterau regard
ed him with a smile of affection, and then
as he wiped the sweat from his brow, ex
claimed, “Oh that Blucher or night would
come!” The next moment an immense:
body of French cavalry came thundering
down on one of the English squares. It J
had already become weakened by the loss
of whole ranks which the. French artillery,
had mowed down, but withstood the des-:
perate shock with true British bravery. —
The French came down on a plunging
trot, then breaking into a gallop fell like a
rock upon it. Like that rock hurled hack j
from the mountain, they recoiled from the |
shock. Driven to desperation, by their j
repeatedly foiled attempts, ihey stopped j
their horses, and coolly walked them round |
that brave square,and wherever a man fell,
dashed in. Such desperate resolution,
ami suc h recklessness of life, began, at
length, to tell on the conflict. 'J'he square
began to shake and waver, when Welling
ton came dashing up with his guard—the
square opened, and he was in its bosom.
Their chief in their keeping—his fate vol
untarily thrown in their hands, those brave
British hearts could not yield. Rank af
ter rank fell, but not a man stirred from
bis footsteps. The French at length gave
it up, and retired to their position. Again
on separate squaies were these terrific
charges made, and again, as fast as they
wavered, did Wellington fling himself in
their midst. Young Gordon was ever at
his side, and in one of these dangerous nt
lempls, had his sword struck out of his
hand, by a chance shot. But there were
enough other good blades on that ensan
guined field without owners, and he was
soon wielding one, from which the con
vulsed hand of an officer had scarcely
loosened.
Thus, from eleven in the morning till ;
four in the evening, had the battle raged,
when a dark object was seen to emerge
from a distant wood. Larger and larger
it grew, till a whole column stood revealed
with banners waving in the breeze. Bin-1
cber mid his Prussians had come. Both
armies saw that the hour had arrived fbrj
the final issue. Bonaparte then rode up]
to his old and well tried imperial guard,!
that had not been in the battle all day. — j
Placing himself at their head, he led them :
half way down the slope, when he halted i
and addressed them in his impetuous and j
fiery manner. lie told them that the fate ]
of the battle and of France was in their j
hands, lie was answered by those devo-!
ted hearts, "the Emperor forever!" with :i '
shout that rung over the storm of battle, j
and was heard all along the British lines. 1
He then placed them under Ncy, with or
ders to force the English centre and pre
vent the junction of Blucher with the 01-j
lied forces. That hitherto invincible guard i
came down in beautiful order, and with
hearts burning with high hopes. They
knew that their Emperor and the civilized
world were looking on. They carried
thrones and kings as they went. They
needed nothing to fire their steady cour
age. No drum, or trumpet, or martial
strain cheered them on. No bugle sound
ed the charge. In perfect order, and dead
silence thev moved over toe plain. A
hove them soared the French Eagle, no
power had ever yet wrested from their
grasp; and on them was the eye of Bona
parte. The allied army saw. with awe
and dread, the approach ol that nncon- 1
querable legion. The terror of Europe j
was on the march. For a moment the fir- j
ing ceased along the lines. The battle j
was hushed. Tlie muffled tread of that
magnificent legion alone was heard. Oh,
you should have seen young (Jordon then.;
With flushed cheek, and dilating eye, and |
breath coming difficult and thick, he gaz
ed on that silent lx>st. He looked as if ev
ery moment lie would be off like a thun
derbolt.
Tire sudden calm was but momentary, j
The artillery again opened like a volca
no on the fee. wiiole ranks went down
before the destructive fire, yet they falter
ed not a for a moment. Over their fallen
comrades, with the same steady front,
they moved on, across the valley, and tip
the slope. Before them cool, resistless
charge, tire English lines melted like
i frost-work. They took-the last fire of tlx*
artillerv full on their bosoms, then walked
over llie cannon, artillery-men and all.—
On, on, like a resistless wave, they swept,
j carrying every thing down in their passage,
till they approached within a few rods of
| where Wellington stood- All seemed lost,
when a rank of men who had lain flat on
their faces behind a low ridge of earth sod- !
denly heard the ringing order, “Up and at
’em.” They started up as from tfie bow- 1
els of the earth, and poured in their de
structive fire in the very faces of that man
gled guard. They recoiled to the dis
charge as if smitten by a, sudden blow.—
A second and a ibird followed. They
reeled and staggered a moment, and then
broke and fled. Young Gordon could be
restrained no longer. He burstaway with
i a yell like that ot a madnfan, and was lost
in the fight.
• • • • • •
fc.
night .
the foe. ciuugt.
pursuit, and was leading uat._
and bleeding army over the battle-tit*..
The full round moon was riding the quiet
heavens, lighting up the mangled masses
ofhurnan flesh that weighed down the field.
Here an epaulette, and there h shivered
sword, flashed hack its beams. Groans
loaded theair, w hile the death-shriek came
at intervals on the ear. ITellington wept.
The excitement and rage of the battle was
over, and Lis heart sickened at ibe awful
scene before him. Among u heap of the
slain, young Gordon was stretched. His
sword lay shivered at his side, dabbled
with blood. The miniature of his sister
had fallen from his bosom, arid that spirit
ual lace seemed guzing up inwards hea
ven. A bullet had ploughed up his cheek,
and traversing his brain ended his life at a
blow. "He was but eighteen years of age,
and this was his twrntu th battle." He sleeps
in the little church at Waterloo, within
sight of his last battle-field.
• •••••
The history of that sister is soon told.—
In a country chutch-yard of England is a
[ilain monument recording her death and
virtues. I turned away, murmuring to
myself, “And thes. were but two of the
twenty thousand hearts that single battle
broke. Oh, War! thou last invention of
.man for his own destruction.
STORY OF A DIAMOND NECKLACE.
One morning in the month of June,
1300, the Empress Josephine’s jeweller'
was ushered into a little apartment of the,'
Tuileries, in which Napoleon was seated
at breakfast.
“The necklace must lie the very best
you can produce,” said the Emperor.—
“I do pot care fiir the price; nevertheleis I
will have it submitted to a fair valuation.
. . 1 warn you of that. . . . Not
that 1 doubt your integrity. . . . but
because ... in short, because lam
not a lapidary myself, and therefore not
a competent judge of such matters. As
soon as it i3 finished bring it to me, and
take care that you show it to no one. You
understand i"
“Yes, sire. But I wish your Majesty
could allow me u little more time, that 1
may be enabled to select the stone in the i
most satisfactory manner. Choice dia
monds are very scarce at present. .
. . and they liuve risen greatly in
i price.” ' |
At these words the Emperor turned
sharply to the jeweller, and said r
“What do you mean? Since (he cam
paign of Germany the jewel market has
■ been overstocked, l’arblean ! 1 know it
for a fact, that our French jewellers have
1 been purchasing largely from ll>e petty
; Princes of the Germanic Confederation,
; whom the King of Prussia and Emperor of
Russia liuve ruined, by stirring them up
: against me. Go to Bapts, or to Mellerio;
j they can let you have as many diamonds
< as you may want.”
“Sire, I have always made it n rule nev- 1
er to avail myself ol' tlie assistance of other
tradesmen, when 1 have the honor of work
ing for your Majesty’s august family.
. . 1 have at ifiis moment in my pos
session a set of diamonds which F purchas
ed for the King of Prussia, who has com- i
missioned me”—
“That is your business, Foncier. and not
mine. . . . But with regard to tlie -
necklace, do the best you possibly can, and |
shbw ilie people beyond the Rhine, that
we surpass them iri jewelry as well as in
all other things.”
Oil a sign from Napoleon, Foncier made
his last bow ami withdrew. A week af
ter this interview, tlie Emperor received a j
necklace. It was surpassingly beautiful.
The jewels, the pattern, the mounting.
even the case which it was enclosed—all
were unique. Napoleon had it valued; it
was estimated to be worth 800,000 francs,!
precisely Ibe price which Foncier de
manded for it. The Emperor was per
fectly satisfied.
About this lime, (Tune, ISOG,) Prince
Lours Buonaparte, one of Napoleon’s
younger brniliers, was raised to the rank
of sovereignty, and proclaimed King of
Holland.
On the day when Napoleon was to re
ceive the crown of that realm from lire
bands of the Dutch envoys, and to place it
on his brother’s head, all the Court assem
bled at St. Cloud. Louis and Hortense ar
rived in the morning from St. Leu. The
ceremony, which was attended with great
pomp, took place io the Stile du Trane. —
The envoys of the defunct Batavian repub
lic were magnificently entertained, am! it
was announced that the new King and
Queen would set out for their dominions
on the following day. In the evening,
i Napoleon sent to inform Hortense that he
desired to speak with her in his cabinet.j
She immediately attended the summons,!
and when the page threw open the folding
doors to announce her, the title of “Her
Majesty the Queen of Holland” greeted
her ear fir the first time.
“Hortense,” said the Emperor, “you 1
have become the Queen of a brave and vir
tuous people. If you and your husband
act wisely, the house of Orange can never
again return to Holland with its old pre
hensions. However, from my knowledge
1 of the Dutch people, I think I can discern
tn them one remarkable fault; it is, that uc.- <
1 der the outward appearance of great sim
pliepv, thev are f ind of td especi-
day,._
fete given In tne a*. jdoi.
perb necklace adorned her swan-like neck.
But soon came those disastrous day*
when Napoleon’s sun began to set. Hor
tense descended from the throne precisely
as she had ascended it; in willing obedi
ence. On ber arrival in Holland, her sub
jects had greeted her with cries of “God
bless our lovely Queen!" On her depart
ure, those cries were changed to “God
bless our good Queen?" To a heart like
that of Hortense, this last greeting was
consolitory, even at the moment when a
throne was lost. On retiring into private
life, she devoted herself to the education of
her children, and to rendering filial atten
tions to her mother, who, like herself, wa*
the widow of a throne.
• * * * * •
The cannon of Waterloo had ceased to
roar, and Napoleon was obliged to quit the
Elyseei, and to take refuge in Malmaison,
the last abode of tbe Empress Josephine.
One evening when he was alone in the
salon, seated before a table on which lay
scatterec the notes from which his second
act of abdication was to be drawn up, a
lady entered. It was Hortense.
Sire.” she said, in a voice trembling
with emotion, “docs your Majesty remem
ber the present you made me at 9t. Cloud,
about nine years ago? ’
Napoleon gazed at the daughter of Jo
spjihine, with a mingled expression of
giicf and affection, then taking her hand,
he said, "Wei!, Hortense, what have you
to say to me?”
“Sire, when I was a Queen, you gave
me litis necklace. It is of great value.—
But now 1 am no longer a Queen, and you
are unfortunate . . . therefore I en
treat that you will permit me to return it?”
"That necklace. Hortense, replied Na
poleon, coldly. "Why deprive yourself
of it? It is now, probably, the half of
your fortune. And your children?” . . .
"Sire, it is all I posssess in tlie world.—
But as to my children, they will never re
proach tlhdr molher for having shared
) with their benefactor the bounty which he
was pleased to confer on her.”
She burst intotears, and Napoleon strug- r
gled to conceal bis emotion.
"No, Hortense,” said, he, averting hi*
head, and gently repelling the hand which
was stretched out to him; "no I cannot—’’
i "Take it, Sire; I implore you. There
Jis no time to be lost. They are coming !
With these words she
j thrust the jewel case into his hand. A few
hours afterward* the necklace was stitch
ed into a silken ccinturc, which Napoleon
j wore under His waistcoat.
Six weeks after this incident, Napoleon
was on the deck of the Bellerophon, pre
paring to embark on board the Northum
berland. The arms of his suite were
taken from them, their baggage was in
spected, and they were not permitted to
take with them either money or jewels.
The trunks of the illustrious prisoner be
ing searched, a box was found containing
4000 Napoleons d’or- He was informed
that tire money must be given up. This
sum, together with some funds which Na
poleon had lodged in the hands of Lafitte,
prior to his departure from Paris, was ail
his fortune.
Whilst the inspection was going on,
Napoleon was gently pacing up and down
if he quarter-deck with M. Las Cases.
Casting a furtive look around him, and
finding that he was not observed, he drew
1 from beneath his waistcoat the silken
I ceinturt, and gave it to his companion,
saving—
“My dear Las Cases, a certain Greek
philosopher used to say flint he carried
aA his fortune about wiih him, though
certainly he had not a shirt to his back.
1 don’t know how he managed ; but this I
know, that ever since our departure from
Paris I have been carrying all my treas
ure under my waistcoat. I now begin to
wearv of the burden. Will you relieve
me of it ?” He unfastened bis ceinture,
and Las Cases, without making any re
ply, took it from him, and fastened it
round his own .waist.
It was not until after his arrival at St.
Helena that Napoleon informed M. de
Las Cases that the silken bond which he
bad confided to his care on board the
Bellerophon contained a necklace worth
, 800,000 francs. Subsequently Las Cases
expressed a desire to restore it to Napo
leon. “Does it not incommode you?”
inquired the Emperor, drily. “No, Sire.”
“Then retain it," rejoined Napoleon;
“fancy it is a charm or amulet, it will not
trouble you.”
Fifteen months afterwards, Las Cases
was by order of the English Government,
unexpectedly separated from Napoleon.
He and his son were removed from Long
wood, and conveyed to Plantation House,
where they were*kept under strict served*
lance until they emnarked for the Cape
of Good Hope.
Meanwhile, Las Cases still held pos
session of the diamond necklace. Time
ran on, and he was informed that he had
only a few days longer to remain at St.
Helena. He was distressed at the thought
lof departing without being able to return
i the treasure .tn its owner. Whit could
he do f All communication between him
*