Kitabı oku: «Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. XXVII, August 1852, Vol. V», sayfa 8

It is very evident that no portion of the people regard Louis Napoleon with enthusiasm. At the great fête in the Champs Elysée, which called all Europe to Paris, to witness the restoration of the ancient eagles of France to the standards of the army, it was almost universally supposed out of Paris, that the hundred thousand troops then passing in proud array before the President would hail him Emperor. A countless throng encircled the area of that vast field. It was estimated that nearly a million of people were there assembled. Yet when Louis Napoleon made his appearance with his brilliant staff, I did not hear one single citizen's voice raised in applause. As he rode along the ranks of the army, a murmur of recognition followed his progress, but no shouts of enthusiasm.

Immediately after the fête, a magnificent ball and entertainment were given by the army, to Prince Louis Napoleon. It is said, that one hundred and sixty thousand dollars were expended in canopying the vast court yard of the Ecole Militaire, and in decorating it for this occasion. Fifteen thousand guests were invited. The scene of brilliance and splendor, no pen can describe. About half-past twelve o'clock the President entered upon an elevated platform, accompanied by the foreign ministers and the members of his court. But not one single voice even shouted a welcome. He remained a couple of hours conversing with those around him, and then bowing to the enormous throng of those whose invited guest he was, retired. One man, by my side, shouted in a clear, shrill voice which filled the vast saloons, "Vive l'Empereur," two others promptly responded, "Vive Napoleon." No other acclaim was heard.

The prospect of France is gloomy. Such a government as the present can not be popular. No other seems possible. No one seems to expect that the government can last for many years. And yet a change is dreaded. Rich men are transferring their property to England and America. Never did I love my own country as now. Never did I appreciate as now, the rich legacy we have inherited from our fathers. The hope of the world is centred in America. We must let Europe alone. To mortal vision her case is hopeless. We must cultivate our country, spread over our land, virtue and intelligence, and freedom; and welcome to peaceful homes in the new world, all who can escape from the taxation and despotism of the old. In half a century from now, the United States will be the most powerful nation upon which our sun has ever shone. Then we can speak with a voice that shall be heard. Our advice will have the efficiency of commands. Europe now has apparently but to choose between the evils of despotism, and the evils of anarchy. And still it is undeniable that the progress, though slow and painful is steadily onward toward popular liberty.

In this paper I have but commenced the description of the Palaces of France. In a subsequent number I may continue the subject.

A LEAF FROM A TRAVELER'S NOTE-BOOK

BY MAUNSELL B. FIELD

"Another flask of Orvieto, Gaetano, and tell the vetturino that we start to-morrow morning, punctually at six," exclaimed one of three foreigners, seated around a table, in the smokiest corner of the "Lepre" – the artist-haunt of the Via Condotti.

The speaker was a plain looking French gentleman, who, under the simplest exterior, concealed the most admirable mind and the highest personal qualities. A Provincial by birth, a Parisian by education, and a cosmopolite by travel, he united all the peculiar sagacity of his nation with that more dignified tone of character so rarely met with in his countrymen. Descended from a family of Lorraine, who had inherited the magistracy for centuries, and who, ruined at the emigration, had only partially recovered their fortunes at the restoration, our friend (ours, at least, reader) found himself, on attaining his majority, possessed of a sufficient competency to enable him to travel in a moderate way, so long as the taste should continue. And here he had been residing in Rome a twelvemonth (not rushing through it with cis-Atlantic steam-power), studying art with devotion, and living the intense life of Italian existence. His companions at the moment our recital commences, were an old Hollander, who had emerged from commerce into philosophy (no very usual exit!) and myself, whom chance had made a lounger in European capitals – a pilgrim from both Mecca and Jerusalem – and a connoisseur in every vintage from Burgundy to Xeres.

Carnival, with its fantastic follies, when the most constitutionally sedate by a species of frenzied reaction become the most reckless in absurdity, was past. Holy Week, with its gorgeous ecclesiastical mummery – its magnificent fire-works, and its still more magnificent illumination was likewise gone. Nearly all the travelers who had been spending the winter in Rome, including the two thousand English faces which, from their constant repetition at every public place, seemed at least two hundred thousand, had disappeared. Our own party had lingered after the rest, loath to leave, perhaps forever, the most fascinating city in the world to an intelligent mind. But at last we too, had determined to go, and our destination was Naples.

That very afternoon we had taken one of the tumble-down carriages, which station on the Piazza di Spagna, to make a farewell giro through the Forum. Leaving Rome is not like leaving any other town. Associations dating from early childhood, and linking the present with the past, make familiar, before they are known, objects in themselves so intrinsically interesting and beautiful, that the strongest attachment is sure to follow a first actual acquaintance with them. And when that acquaintance has been by daily intercourse matured, it is hard to give it up.

The weather was delicious. And as our crazy vehicle rattled over the disjointed pavement of the Appian way, among sandaled monks, lounging Jesuits, and herdsmen from the Campagna, a heart-sickness came over us which, in the instance of one, at least, of the party, has since settled down into a chronic mal du pays.

We had been taking our last meal at the "Trattoria Lepre," where we had so often, after a hard day's work, feasted upon cignale (wild boar), or something purporting so to be, surrounded by the bearded pensionnaires of all the academies.

Our Figaro-like attendant, who had served us daily for so many months, was more than commonly officious in the consciousness that the next morning we proposed to start for Naples. And, in fact, on the succeeding day at an early hour, an antediluvian vehicle, with chains and baskets slung beneath, drawn by three wild uncouth-looking animals, under the guidance of a good-for-nothing, half-bandit Trasteverino, in a conical hat and unwashed lineaments, might be seen emerging from the Porta San Giovanni, with their three Excellenzas in the inside.

The hearts of all three were too full for utterance – several miles we jogged on in silence, straining our eyes with last glimpses of St. Peter's, the Pantheon, and St. John Lateran.

At Albano we proposed to breakfast; and, while the meal was being prepared and the horses being refreshed, we started for a walk to the Lake, familiar to all the party from previous visits.

As we were seated on the bank, cigars in mouth, and as moody as might be, the Frenchman first endeavored to turn the current of our thoughts by speaking of Naples, which he alone of us knew. The effort was not particularly successful. But the Frenchman promised that when we resumed our journey, he would tell us a Neapolitan story, the effect of which, he hoped, would be to raise our spirits.

After returning to the inn, and breakfasting upon those mysterious Italian cutlets, the thick breading upon which defies all satisfactory investigation into their original material, we resumed our journey.

Legs dovetailed, and cigars relighted, the Frenchman thus commenced the story of

CARLO CARRERA

The summer before last, after a shocking soaking in crossing the Apennines, I contracted one of those miserable fevers that nature seems to exact as a toll from unfortunate Trans-Alpines for a summer's residence in Italy. I had no faith in Italian doctors, and as there was no medical man from my own country in Florence, I was persuaded to call in Doctor Playfair a Scotch physician, long domiciled in Italy, and as I afterwards discovered, both a skillful practitioner and a charming companion. I was kept kicking my heels against the footboard in all some six weeks, and when I had become sufficiently convalescent to sit up, the doctor used to make me long and friendly visits. In these visits he kept me posted up with all the chit-chat of the town; and upon one occasion related to me, better than I can tell it, the following story, of the truth of which (in all seriousness), he was perfectly satisfied, having heard it from the mouth of one of the parties concerned.

"Do throw some bajocchi to those clamorous natives, my dear Republican, that I may proceed with my story in peace."

Well, then, to give you a little preliminary history – don't be alarmed – a very little. The liberal government established in Naples in the winter of 1820-21, on the basis of the Spanish Cortes of 1812, was destined to a speedy dissolution. The despotic powers of the Continent, at the instigation of Austria, refused to enter into diplomatic relations with a kingdom which had adopted the representative system, after an explicit and formal engagement to maintain the institutions of absolutism. An armed intervention was decided upon at the Congress of Laybach, with the full consent and approbation of Ferdinand I., who treacherously abandoned the cause of his subjects. It was agreed to send an Austrian army, backed by a Russian one, into the Neapolitan dominions, for the purpose of putting down the Carbornari and other insurgents who, to the number of one hundred and fifty thousand men, badly armed, badly clothed, and badly disciplined, had assembled under the command of that notorious adventurer, Guiliemo Pepe, for the protection of those feebly secured liberties which had resulted to their country from the Sicilian revolution of the previous summer. This foreign force was to be maintained entirely at the expense of Ferdinand, and to remain in his kingdom, if necessary, for three years. The feeble resistance offered by the patriots to the invading forces – their defeat at the very outset – and their subsequent flight and disbandment – constitute one of those disgraceful denouements so common to Italian attempts at political regeneration.

"By all the storks in Holland," exclaimed the Dutchman, "cut short your story – I see nothing in it particularly enlivening."

"Badinage à part," resumed the Frenchman, "I have done in a word."

After the disastrous engagement of March 7, at Rieti, and the restoration of the old government, the patriot forces were scattered over the country; and as has too often been the case in southern Europe upon the discomfiture of a revolutionary party, many bands of banditti were formed from the disorganized remnants of the defeated army. For a long time the whole of the kingdom, particularly the Calabrias, was infested by robber gangs, whose boldness only equaled their necessities. Most of these banditti were hunted down and transferred to the galleys. The Neapolitan police has at all times been active in the suppression of disorders known or suspected to have a political origin. Fear of a revolution has ever been a more powerful incentive to the government than respect for justice or love of order; and "Napoli la Fidelissima" has so far reserved the name, and inspired such confidence in the not particularly intellectual sovereign who now sits on the throne, that the last time that I was there, his Majesty was in the habit of parading his bewhiskered legions through the streets of his capital, completely equipped at all points – except that they were unarmed!

And now for the story.

Among the most notorious of the banditti chieftains was one Carlo Carrera. This person, who had been a subaltern officer, succeeded for a long time, with some thirty followers, in defying the attempts of the police to capture him. Driven from hold to hold, and from fastness to fastness, he had finally been pursued to the neighborhood of Naples. Here the gendarmes of the government were satisfied that he was so surrounded as soon to be compelled to surrender at discretion. This was late in the following winter.

About this time his Britannic Majesty's frigate "Tagus," commanded by Captain, now Vice-Admiral, Sir George Dundas, was cruising in the Mediterranean. In the month of February Sir George anchored in the bay of Naples, with the intention of remaining there some weeks. It happened that another officer in his Majesty's navy, Captain, now Vice-Admiral, Sir Edward Owen, was wintering at Naples for the benefit of his health, accompanied by his wife and her sister, Miss V – , a young lady of extraordinary beauty and accomplishments. Sir George and Sir Edward were old friends. They had been together in the same ship as captain and first-lieutenant on the African station, and their accidental meeting when equals in rank was as cordial as it was unexpected.

A few days after the arrival of the frigate, a pic-nic excursion to the shores of Lake Agnano was proposed. The party was to consist of the persons of whom I have just been speaking, together with a few other English friends, chiefly gentlemen from the embassy. Accordingly they set off on one of those delightful mornings which are of themselves almost sufficient to make strangers exclaim with the enthusiastic Neapolitans, "Vedi Napoli e poi mori!" The surpassing loveliness of the scene, its perfect repose with so many elements of action, brought to the soul such a luxurious sense of passive enjoyment, that it seemed like the echo of all experienced happiness. I can not say if the Strada Nuova, in all its present paved perfection, then existed; but there must have been some sort of a road following the indentations of that lovely shore.

I have traced from Genoa to Nice the far-famed windings of the Maritime Alps – I have sailed along the glittering shores of the Bosphorus – I have admired the boasted site of the Lusitanian capital – and yet I feel, as all travelers must feel, that the combined charms of all these would fail to make another Naples.

Far out before them lay the fair island of Capri, like a sea goddess, with arms outstretched to receive the playful waters of the Mediterranean. Behind, Vesuvius rose majestically, the blue smoke lazily curling from its summit, as peaceful as if it had only been placed there as an accessory to the beauty of the scene; and further on, as they turned the promontory, lay the bright islets of Nisita and Procida, so fantastic in their shapes and so romantic in their outlines.

On reaching the shore of Lake Agnano, our travelers left their carriage near the villa of Lucullus. Of course they suffocated themselves, according to the approved habit of tourists, in the vapor baths of San Germano – and according to the same approved habit, devoted an unfortunate dog to temporary strangulation in the mephitic air of the Grotta del cane. After doing up the lions of the neighborhood, our friends seated themselves near the shore, to partake of the cold fowls and champagne, of which ample provision had been made for the excursion.

"I should have preferred the native Lachrymæ Christi to champagne," interrupted the Dutchman, "if the usual quality compares with that of some I once drank at Rotterdam."

The repast finished, resumed the Frenchman, most of the party strolled off to the other extremity of the lake – until after a short time no one was left but Miss V – , who was amusing herself by making a sketch of the landscape. What a pity that the women of other nations are so rarely accomplished in drawing, while the English ladies are almost universally so!

Well then, our fair heroine for the moment, had got on most industriously with her work, when suddenly, on raising her eyes from her paper to a stack of decayed vines, she was disagreeably surprised at finding a pair of questionable optics leveled upon her. Retaining her composure of manner, she continued tranquilly her occupation, until she had time to remark that the intruder was accompanied by at least a dozen companions. At this moment the personage whom she had first seen, quietly left his place of partial concealment, walked up to the astonished lady, folded his arms, and stationed himself behind her back. He was a large, heavy, good-looking person – but the circumstances under which he presented himself, rather than any peculiarity in his appearance, caused Miss V – to suspect the honesty of his profession.

"Indeed you are making an uncommonly pretty picture there, if you will permit me to say so," remarked the stranger.

"I am glad you like it," replied the young lady. "I think, however, that it would be vastly improved, if you would permit me to sketch your figure in the foreground."

"Nothing would flatter me more. But, cara signorina, my present object is a much less romantic one than sitting for my portrait to so fair an artist. Will you allow me to gather up for myself and my half famished friends, the fragments of your recent meal?"

"You are quite welcome to them, I assure you."

The dialogue had proceeded thus far when it was interrupted by the return, to the no small satisfaction of one of the party at least, of the two English officers and some others of the stragglers.

The stranger, in no way disconcerted, turned to Sir Edward Owen, and said,

"I believe that I have the honor of addressing his Excellency, the commander of the British frigate in the harbor."

"Excuse me," said Sir George Dundas, "I am that person."

"Sono il servitore di Vostra Excellenza. The young lady whom I found here has given me permission to make use of the food that has been left by your party. But if your Excellency, and you, sir," addressing the other officer, "will grant me the favor of a moment's private conversation, you will increase the obligation already conferred."

The three, thereupon, retired to a short distance from the rest of the company, when the stranger resumed:

"If your Excellencies have been in this poor country long enough, you must have heard speak of one Carlo Carrera. You may or you may not be surprised to hear that I am he – and that my followers are not far off. I have no desire to inconvenience your Excellencies, your friends, or, least of all, the ladies who accompany you, and shall, therefore, be but too happy to release you at once – I say release, for you are in my power – upon the single condition, however, that you two gentlemen give me your word of honor that you will both, or either of you, come to me whenever or wherever I shall send for you during the next two weeks – and that you will not speak of this conversation to any one."

Disposed at all hazards to extricate the ladies from any thing like an adventure, our travelers willingly entered into the required engagement, and, with a mutual "a rivederla," the two parties separated.

Our English friends returned to Naples, amused at the singular episode to their excursion, and rather disposed to admire the gallant behavior of the intruder than to regard him with any unfavorable sentiments.

Some three days after this, as Sir George Dundas was strolling about nightfall in the Villa Reale, a person in the dress of a priest approached him, and beckoned him to follow. Leading the officer into an obscure corner behind one of the numerous statues, the stranger informed him that he came from the bandit of Lake Agnano, and that he was directed to request him to be at seven o'clock that evening in front of the Filomarini Chapel, in the Church of the Santissimi Apostoli.

The gallant captain did not hesitate to obey. At the appointed hour, on entering the church and advancing to the indicated chapel, he found before it what appeared to be an old woman on her knees, engaged in the deepest devotion. At a sign from the pretended worshiper, the captain fell upon his knees at her side. The old crone briefly whispered to him, that it was known to Carrera that his Excellency was invited to a ball at the British Embassy the next evening – that he must by no means fail to go – but that at midnight precisely he must leave the ball-room, return home, remove his uniform, put on a plain citizen's dress, and be at the door of the same church at one o'clock in the morning.

After these directions the old woman resumed her devotions, and the captain left the church, his curiosity considerably excited by the adventurous turn that things were taking. His brother officer, to whom he related the particulars of the meeting at the Villa Reale, and of the interview in the church, strongly urged him to fulfill the promise which he had made at Lake Agnano, and to follow to the letter the mysterious instructions which he had received.

Of course, the ball at the British Embassy on the following evening was graced by the presence of nearly all the distinguished foreigners in town. The English wintered at Naples at that time in almost as large numbers as they do at present; and in all matters of gayety and festivity, display and luxury, they as far exceeded the Italians as they now do. It is a curious circumstance, which both of you must have had occasion to remark, that the English, so rigid and austere at home, when transplanted south of the Alps, surpass the natives themselves in license and frivolity.

Our captain was of course there, and at an early hour. After mingling freely in the gayeties of the evening, at midnight precisely he withdrew from the ball-room, sans congé, and hastened to his apartments. Changing his dress, and arming himself with a brace of pistols, he hurried to the Church of the Apostoli. In his excess of punctuality, he arrived too early at the rendezvous; and it was only after the expiration of some twenty minutes, that he was joined by the withered messenger before employed to summon him. Bidding him follow her, the old woman led the way with an activity little to have been expected in one apparently so feeble. Turning down the Chiaja, they followed the course of the bay a weary way beyond the grotto of Posilipo. The captain was already tolerably exhausted when the guide turned off abruptly to the right, and commenced the ascent of one of those vine-clad hills which border the road. The hill was thickly planted with the vine, so that their progress was both difficult and fatiguing.

They had been toiling upward more than an half hour since leaving the highway, and the patience of Sir George was all but exhausted, when on a sudden they came to one of those huts constructed of interlaced boughs, which are temporarily used by the vine-dressers in the south of Italy. The entrance was closed by a plaited mat of leaves and stalks. Raising this mat, the old woman entered, followed by her companion.

The hut was dimly lighted by a small lantern. Closing the entrance as securely as the nature of the fastening would permit, the pretended old woman threw off her disguise and disclosed the well-remembered features of the courteous bandit of Lake Agnano.

Thanking his guest for the punctuality with which he had kept his appointment, Carrera motioned him to follow him to the further extremity of the hut. Taking the lantern in his hand, and stooping, the Italian raised a square slab of stone, which either from the skill with which it was adjusted or from the partial obscurity which surrounded him, had escaped Sir George's eye. As he did this a flood of light poured into the hut. Descending by a flight of a dozen or more steps, followed by the robber chieftain, who drew back the stone after them, the captain found himself in one of those spacious catacombs so common in the neighborhood of Naples. Seated around a table were a score or more of as fierce looking vagabonds as the imagination could paint, who all rose to their feet as their leader entered with his guest, saluting both with that propriety of address so peculiar to the lower classes of Italians and Spaniards.

When all were seated, Carrera turned to the Englishman, and said,

"Your Excellency will readily suppose that I had a peculiar motive for desiring an interview. God knows that I was not brought up to wrong and violence – but evil times have sadly changed the current of my life. A poor soldier, I have become a poorer brigand – at least in these latter days, when hunted like a wild beast I am at last enveloped in the toils of my pursuers, egress from which is now impossible by my own unaided efforts. I have no particular claim upon your excellency's sympathy, but I have thought that mere pity might induce you to receive me and my followers on board your frigate, and transport us to some place of safety beyond the limits of unhappy Italy."

Here the astonished Englishman sprang to his feet, protesting that his position as a British officer prevented him from entertaining for a moment so extraordinary a proposition.

"Your Excellency will permit me, with all respect, to observe," Carrera resumed, "that I have treated you and yours generously. Do not compel me to regret that I have done so; and do not force me to add another to the acts of violence which already stain my hands. Your Excellency knows too many of our secrets; we could not, consistently with our own safety, permit you to exist otherwise than as a friend."

The discussion was long. The robbers pleaded hard, pledging themselves not to disgrace the captain's generosity, if he would consent to save them. Sir George could not prevent himself from somewhat sympathizing with these unfortunate men, who had been driven to the irregular life they led as much by the viciousness of the government under which they lived as by any evil propensities of their own. It is not at all probable that the threat had any thing to do with his decision, but certain it is, that the dialogue terminated by a conditional promise on his part to yield to their request.

"If your Excellency will send a boat to a spot on the shore, directly opposite where we now are, to-morrow, at midnight, it will be easy for us to dispatch the sentinel and jump aboard," continued Carrera.

"I will send the boat," answered the Englishman, "but will under no circumstances consent to any bloodshed. You forget your own recently-expressed scruples on the same subject."

It was finally decided that the boat should be sent – that the captain should arrange some plan to divert the attention of the sentinel – and that to their rescuer alone should be left the choice of their destination.

Matters being thus arranged, Carrera resumed his disguise, and conducted his guest homeward as far as the outskirts of the town.

The following night at the appointed hour, a boat with muffled oars silently approached the designated spot. An officer, wrapped in a boat cloak was seated in the stern. As the boat drew near the shore, the sentinel presented his musket, and challenged the party. The officer, with an under-toned "Amici," sprang to the beach.

A few hundred yards from the spot where the landing had been effected, stood an isolated house with a low verandah. The officer, slipping a scudo into the sentinel's hand, told him that he was come for the purpose of carrying off a young girl residing in that house, and begged him to assist him by making a clatter on the door at the opposite side, so as to divert the attention of the parents while he received his inamorata from the verandah. The credulous Neapolitan was delighted to have an opportunity to earn a scudo by so easy a service.

The moment that he disappeared, Carrera and his band rushed to the boat. A few powerful strokes of the oars and they were out of the reach of musket-shot before the bewildered sentry could understand that in some way or other his credulity had been imposed upon.

That night the "Tagus" weighed anchor for Malta. The port of destination was reached after a short and prosperous voyage. Sir George remained there only sufficiently long to discharge his precious cargo, who left him, as may be imagined, with protestations of eternal gratitude.

The fact that the frigate was on a cruise prevented any particular surprise at her sudden disappearance from the waters of Naples. And when she returned to her anchorage after a short absence, even the party to the pic-nic were far from conjecturing that there was any connection between her last excursion and the adventure of Lake Agnano.

Carrera and his band enlisted in a body into one of the Maltese regiments. A year or two later, becoming dissatisfied, they passed over into Albania, and took service with Ali Pasha.

Some seven years after these events, Sir George Dundas was again at Naples. As he was lounging one day in the Villa Reale, a tall and noble-looking man, whose countenance seemed familiar, approached him. Shaking him warmly by the hand, the stranger whispered in his ear,

"Il suo servitore Carrera!"

And thus ends the Frenchman's story.