Chapter XVII (4)

Next we would observe, that the impression left on our mind by the perusal of these Speeches—which, referring as they do to bygone events, do not excite the slightest feeling of antagonism—is that the value of the matter is generally disproportioned to the grandiose nature of the style, and the uniform pomposity of language. It is quite true, that Mr Macaulay has spoken upon several interesting and important questions; and it is equally true that an orator, in addressing himself to themes of that description, is entitled to assume a higher tone than might be suitable to a meaner subject of debate. But then, he must take care that his thoughts and sentiments are raised to the like elevation. One distinguishing quality of the real orator is, that he rises with his subject. His intellect seems to expand in proportion to the greatness of his theme—he elevates himself in feeling and energy above the level of his audience, and the high thoughts which then rush upon his mind are expressed with corresponding dignity. The orator, like the poet, has his fits of inspiration, varying in intensity and degree according to the subject with which he deals. This, of course, precludes that method of slavish preparation, now unfortunately too common, by means of which not only the substance of the speech, but the very words, are elaborately fabricated in the closet, and committed to memory. The man who adopts that system may be a good speaker, but he never will attain the highest point of elevation as an orator. Like the swimmer on a stormy sea, the orator should rise and fall with the wave of his audience; for he is contending for the mastery over a moral element, than which the natural one is not always more fluctuating or fierce. It may be well to calculate and consider beforehand the line of argument to be adopted, just as a prudent general will make his dispositions before going into battle. But as no commander can foresee what may happen in the field, can provide for every emergency, or lay down for himself a course of action from which he will not deviate—so neither ought the orator to commit himself to a certain form of words, which possibly may prove either unappropriate to the occasion, or injurious to his cause. Men think differently in the closet, and in the scene of action. In the former they are comparatively unimpassioned—in the latter they must necessarily exhibit passion if they seek to rouse it in others. The most skilful and elaborate discourse, if coldly conceived and expressed, will have a drenching rather than an inspiring effect upon an audience which is already possessed with a considerable degree of enthusiasm. Their feeling, favourable to the speaker and his cause, must not be put back—it ought, on the contrary, to be heightened. The force of these observations will become apparent to every one who will take pains to investigate the subject, for there is nothing more certain, than that the success of an orator depends mainly upon the amount of energy which he can display. Energy was the secret of the success of Demosthenes; and Cicero, with all his art, could not find a higher quality to recommend. It must be confessed that modern statesmen have been too much in the habit of disregarding this evident truth. Some of them—and we would instance as a notable example the late Sir Robert Peel—might have secured a far more enthusiastic following than they ever could boast, but for their extreme and over-cautious frigidity. To this remark Lord John Russell, who perhaps has had more opportunities than any other living man of acquiring personal influence, is also peculiarly liable. On the contrary, take the case of Lord Palmerston. He is not implicitly trusted by any strong party in the state; and yet, in the House of Commons, no man can produce a greater effect, or possesses a larger personal influence. And why is this? Because he can carry an audience along with him—because he is never frigid, never dull, never addicted to circumlocution—because he possesses and exerts energy in a high degree; and is, in truth, what few of his contemporaries can claim to be—an orator. Read one of his speeches, and you see at once that it was not concocted in the closet—that he had not stooped to polish sentences beforehand, or to select language which should pass for a pattern of composition. Mark, too, the variety of his style—how quietly and playfully he disposes of a small matter—how, during debate and attack, to use the language of Canning, he “silently concentrates the power to be put forth on an adequate occasion.” No wonder that, when the occasion arrives, he should extort admiration even from his adversaries. Very different is the case with Mr Macaulay. Whatever be the subject, he rises to lecture, and has his lecture thoroughly prepared. He is speaking to-night, amidst the hum of the House of Commons, what he wrote yesterday in the quiet seclusion of his chambers in the Albany. He had no thought whatever of his audience; he was thinking simply of his style. That he may adorn and heighten; but he cannot vary it at pleasure. Ask him to pronounce a panegyric upon a deceased hero, and a discourse upon a drowned mouse, and he will execute both in the same strain. The victor in a hundred fields will not be celebrated in periods more stately than the invader of a hundred cheeses. Simplicity is not part of his nature—he must have recourse to rhetoric or be dumb.

Now, although this style may be tolerated in writing, it becomes very tedious when adopted in public speaking. Dress up a mere commonplace with the utmost skill and ingenuity, and yet, to the hearer, it retains its original character. The way in which a thing is said, does not alter the substance of the thing itself—the fine features cannot conceal the emaciation of the body beneath. We have gone over several of the speeches contained in this volume, for the purpose of ascertaining the real value, power, and ingenuity of the arguments set forth; and we are compelled to say, that in no one instance have we been able to discover the trace of an independent thought, or of a purely original idea. Some of them are unquestionably able speeches. Ask a man of high talent and extensive information, like Mr Macaulay, to deliver a discourse upon any possible theme, and he will do so in a manner which shall elicit shouts of applause from a Mechanic’s Institute. Nay, he will be loudly cheered even within the walls of Parliament, provided that a considerable interval is allowed to elapse between each exhibition—because, as we know from the history of Euphuism, fine language commands admiration, and rounded periods are always grateful to the ear. Besides this, it would be untrue, and highly unfair to Mr Macaulay to insinuate that he cannot make proper use and disposition of such arguments as lie before him. He states them well and adroitly; though, as we have already hinted, frequently marring their effect by the extreme remoteness of his illustrations. But neither our reading nor our recollection can furnish us with one case in which Mr Macaulay has put forth an original view, or disentangled himself from the general mass of debaters. In political life or strife, he appears simply as a furbisher of old iron, a process in which he certainly is expert; and he manages to make an exceedingly rusty rapier pass for a tolerable Toledo. More he seldom attempts. His speeches are often brilliant, in the same sense in which we apply the epithet to fireworks; tolerably, though not strictly logical; always sententious, rounded, and adapted to a mouthing delivery—but never ardent, never eloquent, never calculated to excite enthusiasm. If mere rhetoric could make an orator, Mr Macaulay ought undoubtedly to be the first of the age. He has studied it on the same principle as did Gorgias, who made it his boast that he could speak, and speak well upon any given subject, even though he was not conversant with its details, by aid of the commonplaces which he could dress up for the occasion. Gorgias had some reputation during his lifetime, but he is now remembered only on account of his extravagant boast. His works have long since perished; and we do not think that the efforts of Mr Macaulay, as an orator, will survive even so long as those of Gorgias.

If there had been, in this collection, one speech upon which we could have dwelt with any feeling of artistic interest—one which we could have withdrawn from the rest, to rank among the remarkable specimens of British eloquence—we should not only have been delighted, but proud to have selected it for eulogy. That which we have perused with the most pleasure, on account of its sentiment and manly feeling, is the speech delivered in 1846 upon the subject of the Ten Hours’ Bill. Regarded merely as an oration, it may not be of high value; but it displays, in a most pleasing light, the genuine kindness of his heart, his strong sympathy with suffering, and his genuine hatred of oppression. Such speeches are worthy of record, because they rank in the category of good deeds and noble actions; and deserve to be remembered with gratitude as exertions in the cause of humanity. We do not inquire now into the abstract merit of the speeches of Wilberforce, nor does his fame depend at all upon his oratorical skill. He has passed from the roll of speakers to the catalogue of philanthropists; and instead of directing the attention of youthful aspirants after public distinction to the force of his style, or the energy of his expression, we pay homage to his memory as the chief instrument, under Providence, of removing the fetters from the slave. In like manner, notwithstanding certain peculiarities which lead us rather to admire than to love, Mr Macaulay has high claims to the public gratitude and respect. In open questions, and those in which party considerations do not materially interfere, he has always shown himself accessible to conviction, generous in his views, and just in the expression of his sentiments. There are, among living public men, some who are more genial and attractive; but there are not many who are better entitled to our respect. Our criticism has been framed utterly irrespective of politics. We cannot boast, at the present day, of so large a list of men, either of genius or of high talent, as to omit the opportunity of paying tribute, where tribute is justly due. “I hope that I am,” says Mr Macaulay, in the last sentence of his last recorded speech, “at once a Liberal and a Conservative politician.” We hope so too; and we hope, moreover, that the avowal was made—not because Lord Aberdeen and Lord Palmerston, Lord John Russell and Mr Gladstone, Sir William Molesworth and Mr Sidney Herbert, have agreed to lie down together—but because Mr Macaulay wishes henceforward to emancipate himself from party trammels. It is certainly time that he should do so. He has occupied a subordinate rank in the Whig regiment longer than he ought to have done for his own reputation; and we are not sorry to see this disclaimer put forth in so marked a manner at the very end of his last publication. It is, like the reading of the closing line of the Iliad in the famous manuscript copy, which the supporters of the Cyclic theory point to as clearly indicative of further action, a phrase fraught with meaning; and when the coalition is dissolved, as it soon must be by the influence of a political thaw, we trust that Mr Macaulay’s tendencies may indeed appear to be Conservative, without the sacrifice of the true liberality which becomes the gentleman and the scholar. We do not believe that the general verdict of the public upon this collection will be of a different tenor from our own. But, after all, Mr Macaulay has no great reason to repine because he has failed to achieve a high place in the roll of British orators. His speeches will not be quoted for their eloquence and power, as those of Burke, Grattan, Erskine, and Canning are; but his history and essays, and even ballads, will insure him a reputation not less extensive and enduring. We need scarcely remind him that men who have attained high reputations as statesmen, and been conspicuous as public speakers, have altogether failed in their attempts to found a literary name. No one who has perused the historical chapters composed by Fox, can regret that his design proved abortive, and that the subject has been left to the more brilliant and dexterous treatment of Macaulay. We cannot say with truth that Lord John Russell’s literary efforts inspire us with an exalted idea of the author’s powers—we are even of opinion that he would have done well in abstaining from appearing before the public, either as a dramatist, biographer, or editor. _Ne sutor ultra crepidam._ It is by natural instinct that every man addresses himself to the occupation in which he is qualified to excel; and that ambition which prompts men to deviate from their destiny, and undertake tasks which are not congenial to their feelings and sympathies, ought to be repressed. We cannot view Mr Macaulay’s career without being convinced that nature designed him to play his part as a literary man rather than as a politician. He has indeed tacitly admitted that; for he has withdrawn himself very much of late years from debate, preferring literary occupation to the excitement of political strife. We are sorry that he has been induced to interrupt his more interesting labours for the sake of undertaking this collection; for, although the volume will find its way into many libraries—as what volume that bore his name upon the title-page would not?—it will be regarded hereafter with little interest, and may possibly be cited as an instance of unsuccessful ambition. We repeat that Mr Macaulay’s fame rests upon his writings, and that the publication of his speeches is by no means calculated to extend or heighten his intellectual reputation; though it cannot diminish the just estimation in which he is held as a man.

FIFTY YEARS IN BOTH HEMISPHERES.[10]

The memoirs of a man of a singularly adventurous and speculative turn, who, having entered upon the occupations of manhood early, and retained its energies late, has prolonged the active period of his life to upwards of half a century, who has been an eyewitness of not a few of the important events that occurred in Europe and America between the years 1796 and 1850, and himself a sharer in more than one of them, who has been associated or an agent in some of the largest commercial and financial operations that British and Dutch capital and enterprise ever ventured upon, and has been brought into contact and acquaintance—not unfrequently into intimacy—with a number of the remarkable men of his time, can hardly, one would imagine, be otherwise than highly interesting, if the author have but sufficient command of his native tongue plainly to write down what his memory has retained, sufficient discrimination and self-restraint to avoid dwelling upon details of too trifling and egotistical a nature. Generally speaking, we have but little confidence in the interesting qualities of German septuagenarian autobiographers. Garrulity is the privilege of age, and German garrulity is a grievous thing, particularly when it displays itself upon paper. In Germany, where nearly everybody capable of grammar writes a book, even though he have nothing to write about, elderly gentlemen, who really have seen something worth the telling, are apt to imagine they can never make too much of it, and instead of delighting us with the pure spirit, drench us with a feeble dilution. Such was the case, we well remember, with our old acquaintance, Baron von Rahden, whose military experiences during the stirring period of 1813–14–15 we brought before our readers now just seven years since, and who, instead of cutting short the tolerably prolix history of his life and adventures at the date when peace sheathed his sword, elaborated two other ponderous and very wearisome volumes, scarcely relieved by an account of General Chassé’s defence of Antwerp, and by sketches of a campaign in Catalonia, in which the indefatigable and restless old fire-eater, unable to pass his latter days in tranquillity, served under the orders of the Carlist general Cabrera. There is more variety and vivacity in the book now before us than in the baron’s interminable record, of which, however, it has in some respects reminded us. Von Rahden, a soldier by profession and inclination, gave us far too much of his proceedings in times of peace, and dwelt at tedious length on garrison rivalries, his own unrewarded merit, and German provincial topics. Mr Nolte, on the contrary, by profession a man of peace, whose weapon is the pen, his field of battle the Exchange, and his campaigns amongst cotton bales, whose tutelar deity has been Mercury instead of Mars, and whose commanders and allies, instead of the martial-sounding appellations of Blucher, Gneisenau, and Chassé, have borne the pacific but scarcely less famous names of Hope, Labouchere, and Baring, has mingled, in the rather complicated narrative of his mercantile pursuits, triumphs, and disasters, much adventure both by flood and field, in which he himself was personally engaged, and displays, in the telling, not a little of the go-ahead spirit proper to the people amongst whom he has passed a large portion of his life. He has really seen a great deal, and his reminiscences, although here and there his style of narrating them be trivial and in questionable taste—whilst some of his long accounts of financial and commercial operations will more particularly interest bankers and merchants than the general reader—contain much that will attract all. In Germany the first edition of his book has gone off at a gallop,—no small testimony to its merits in a year during which present politics have been the all-absorbing topic. We do not wonder at its popularity; for, besides the mass of anecdote and historical recollections it comprises, the author has contrived to give an interest to his individuality, by the off-hand style in which he tells of his errors and of his triumphs, of his many reverses and disasters, as well as of his rarer moments of prosperity and success.

We should as soon think of attempting, within the compass of an article, a digest of an encyclopædia as of Mr Nolte’s volumes. We should fill half a magazine by merely tracing his itinerary. There never was such a rolling stone. He treats the Atlantic as most men do Dover Straits, and thinks no more of a few hundred leagues of land travel than a modern Cockney of a run to Ramsgate. Whole years of his life must have been passed on board ship, and behind post-horses. His book necessarily partakes of the desultory nature of his career. It better bears dipping into than reading from end to end.

Born at Leghorn, in the year 1779, of a German father, Mr Vincent Nolte’s first reminiscence, of much interest to his readers, is connected with the invasion of Italy by the French under Buonaparte. His father had for some years left Italy, and settled in Hamburg, his native place; but young Vincent, after being educated in Germany, was sent back to Leghorn, to take his place as junior clerk in his uncle’s counting-house, one of the most important in that city. He was in his seventeenth year when, upon the last Saturday in June 1796, a courier from the British minister at Florence brought news to the consul at Leghorn that the French were approaching. There was great bustle amongst the English merchants to get their property shipped, and place it and themselves under the protection of Nelson’s squadron, then cruising off the port. After unremitting labour, and favoured by the wind, the last ships, with English goods on board, left the harbour at noon on Monday. They had been but two hours gone, when it suddenly became known in the city that the French were close at hand, advancing by the Pisa road, and presently a party of cavalry galloped round the fortifications to the _Porta Colonella_, and rode straight up to the fort, on which the Tuscan flag waved. Suddenly those colours disappeared, and were replaced by the French tricolor, displayed for the first time to the wondering eyes of the Tuscans. Almost at the same moment the cannon of the fort thundered, and sent some shots after those English vessels nearest to the harbour—thus signalling to Nelson the entrance of the French. Young Nolte, who had little love for the desk, whose wish it was to become a painter, and who then, and all his life through, was ardent, impetuous, and a lover of excitement, could sit still no longer, but ran out of the respectable counting-house of Otto Franck & Co., consul for Hamburg, &c., to stare at the invaders. At the head of a body of cavalry, a horseman of remarkable beauty galloped up the street, and alighted at the door of the Genevese banker, Dutremoul. It was Murat. This was between two and three in the afternoon.

“At six in the evening, the news spread that General Buonaparte was at the Pisa gate. No sooner did he learn that the English residents had had time to escape with their property, than he broke into a violent rage. At that moment Count Spannochi, attired in the ordinary uniform, a blue coat, red waistcoat, and white breeches (the full-dress uniform consisted of a white coat and red waistcoat and breeches), and, surrounded by his officers, and by the chief authorities of the city, advanced to welcome the general, who still sat upon his horse. Buonaparte gave him no time to speak, but at once violently assailed him. ‘How dare you,’ he cried, ‘appear before me thus? Do you not know your duty? You are an insolent fellow, a traitor! You have let the English escape; you shall pay for that. A court-martial shall sit immediately. You are my prisoner—give up your sword!’ And Count Spannochi disappeared. Buonaparte’s words were repeated to me that same evening by my fellow-clerk, Giacomini, who had gone with the crowd outside the Pisa gate, and had heard them. Next day we learned that the governor had been sent under arrest to Florence, and that the French general, Vaubois, commanded in his stead. Hardly had Buonaparte and his staff reached the grand-ducal palace, when police-agents went round to all the houses, ordering a general illumination, under heavy penalties in case of disobedience. The only Leghorn newspaper that then existed announced, upon the following day, the arrival of the victor of Lodi and Arcola, adding, that the inhabitants had _spontaneously_ illuminated. I then, for the first time, got a correct idea of a _spontaneous illumination_, and was never afterwards at a loss to understand the expression. At eleven o’clock the next morning, the foreign consuls waited upon the general, who quickly dismissed them, when suddenly his eye was attracted by my uncle’s red coat. ‘What is that?’ he cried. ‘An English uniform?’ My uncle, taken quite aback, had just enough presence of mind to reply, ‘_No, Padrone, questa e l’uniforme di Amburgo!_’ and endeavoured, but in vain, to make his escape. Buonaparte burst forth with a violent diatribe against everything that looked English, against all who thought like Englishmen, or had anything to do with England. ‘Those English,’ he said, according to my uncle’s account to me upon his return home, ‘shall get such a lesson as they have never yet had! My road now lies to Vienna, then farther north, to destroy their nests in Hamburg and elsewhere, and then to seek them in their own robbers’ den!’”

Young Nolte was bent upon seeing the hero of the day, who, before attaining his eight-and-twentieth year, had played such havoc amongst Austria’s veteran commanders, and, disregarding his uncle’s commands to keep in-doors, and out of the way of the dense mob upon the _Piazza d’Arme_, he again played truant, and stationed himself at the corner of the palace, at whose entrance an open carriage awaited the French general. His account of the impression he carried away of Napoleon’s appearance has some originality. The peculiar expression, attributed by him to the eyes, reminds one of the present French Emperor.

“At last there came out, accompanied by a number of officers, a little, youthful-looking man, in a plain uniform, with a pale, almost a yellow complexion, and long, lank, raven-black hair, hanging over his ears, after the fashion of the Florida savages called _Talapouches_. That was the hero of Arcola! Whilst he took the right-hand place in the carriage, and whilst his aides-de-camp got in, I had a few moments to observe him closely. There was a continued smile round his mouth, with which, however, the man himself had evidently nothing to do, for the fixed indifferent look of his eyes showed that the mind was busy elsewhere. I never again beheld so remarkable an expression. It was the dull gaze of a mummy, barring a certain beam of intelligence betraying the inward life, but only by a faint and glimmering gleam. Macbeth’s words to Banquo’s ghost, ‘There is no speculation in those eyes!’ would almost have fitted here, had not previous and subsequent events sufficiently shown what a spirit lurked behind those impressive orbs. The carriage drove away—seven years elapsed before I again beheld that extraordinary man. He left the town the next day. I must not omit to mention a colossal and well-built officer, who stood, in a respectful attitude, beside the carriage-door. This man, who had just been named town-major of Leghorn, was the grenadier who, seven years previously, on the 14th July 1789, led the storm of the Bastile, and was the first to scale its walls, who afterwards, as General Hullin, was governor of Berlin after the battle of Jena, and presided over the court-martial appointed to try, or rather to shoot, the unfortunate Duke d’Enghien.”

The presence and proceedings of the French in Leghorn were alike odious to the inhabitants, who found an important branch of their trade—that with England—completely cut off, and who had to satisfy unceasing demands for money and equipments. Large bodies of ragged, barefooted troops continually entered the town, to quit it well shod and with new uniforms. The republican cockade became an abomination in the eyes of the Leghornese, who christened it _il pasticcino_—the little pie—and wrote innumerable lampoons upon its wearers. Leghorn was converted into a camp, and on a large altar in the middle of the _Piazza d’Arme_, a statue of Liberty was erected, at the foot of which the popular representatives, Garat and Salicetti, daily harangued the troops upon parade. Business was at a standstill; Vincent Nolte deserted his desk and roamed about the town, sketching the groups of foreign soldiers. And even when things began to settle down, he would do nothing but ramble in picture-galleries and make love to pretty Florentines, until at last his uncle, despairing of his doing any good, wrote to his father that he was on the high-road to perdition. This alarming piece of information produced an instant summons to Hamburg, where, in the paternal counting-house, the young scamp amended his ways and applied earnestly to business, displaying great energy, industry, and capacity.

The year 1799 was a disastrous one for Hamburg. Within six weeks there occurred upwards of one hundred and thirty failures for a total of thirty-six millions of marks. The panic was universal, and trade was shaken to its foundations. Mr Nolte’s house weathered the storm, but was compelled, three years later, to suspend its payments in consequence of the failure of the Leghorn establishment. The creditors received eighty-five per cent, and the numerous friends of the unfortunate merchant subscribed a capital of one hundred and twenty thousand marks to start him again in business. Upon the list figured the well-known name of Francis Baring, a former schoolfellow of the insolvent’s, for the munificent sum of twenty thousand marks, upon which he positively refused to receive interest. Thus supported, Mr Nolte again applied himself to business. But he was then a man advanced in years and of little enterprise, and his son, bold and ambitious, saw that he was not likely to strike out new paths to wealth, whereas the old and ordinary avenues to commercial profits were then closed, all over the European continent, by the iron hand of Napoleon, that mortal foe to trade, and contemner of its votaries. And as young Nolte could be of no use to his father, who despised his views as the dreams of a stripling, bent upon pleasure and unworthy of attention, he sought employment abroad. This he found in the house of Labouchere and Trotreau at Nantes, where he accepted an engagement for three years, to carry on the German and English correspondence. And so, in his twenty-fifth year, he took leave of his parents, with a heavy heart, he says, but without uneasiness as to the future, and travelled, by way of Bremen, to Paris.

Mr Nolte’s arrival in the French capital coincided with the proclamation of Napoleon as emperor, and with Moreau’s imprisonment on the charge of a plot against the government and life of the First Consul. It was his first visit to Paris—the period was interesting. He was so fortunate as to find a friend who willingly undertook to be his cicerone, and a few weeks flew rapidly by, during which, thanks to his guide’s familiarity with places and persons, he acquired a better knowledge of both than he would in as many months had he been left to himself; for it would have served him little (except, perhaps, in the way of emptying his pockets) that the doors of Frascati’s, then the favourite resort of the Parisian fashionable world, were open to all who could pay for admission, and who chose to roam through its gorgeous saloons and brilliantly illuminated gardens, had he not had with him some one able to inform him that yonder beautiful woman was Madame Recamier—yonder elegant young man, leaning against the pedestal of a statue, the renowned ball-room hero Trénis—and the one beyond him, with a music-book in his hand, the celebrated singer Garat. But of all that Mr Nolte saw and heard, nothing made a deeper impression upon him than the lively and universal interest taken in the fate of Moreau. “Rarely,” he says, “was that name uttered by the middle and lower classes without an expression of love and respect, and without a curse upon his two implacable persecutors, the First Consul, and the governor of Paris, General Murat, whose proclamations exhibited at every street corner the name of Moreau in juxtaposition with the words—‘Traitor to the Republic.’ Men could not and would not credit the guilt of the distinguished general; and the Paris wits, never at a loss, declared that there were but two parties in France, ‘_les moraux_ (Moreaus) _et les immoraux_’—a saying which one heard everywhere repeated.” Condemned to banishment, the conqueror of Hohenlinden betook himself, by way of Cadiz, to the United States, where Mr Nolte some years afterwards met him, and made his acquaintance.

Mr Nolte was present at the first review passed by the new emperor, on the Place du Carrousel at Paris. He was very desirous to get a near view of the victorious general and successful adventurer, whom he had first seen, seven years before, in the full flush of triumph at Leghorn. Two officers of the Danish life-guards, with whom he had travelled from Bremen, made interest for him with their ambassador, and procured him admission to the gallery of the Louvre, a favour granted to few. “I saw the great man of the day, surrounded by a brilliant staff, and by uniforms of every kind, ride several times up and down through the ranks, then gallop full speed along the front of the lines of cavalry drawn up outside the inner court, amidst cries of ‘_Vive l’Empereur!_’ when suddenly his horse fell, and Napoleon rolled upon the ground, still grasping the bridle tightly. In a few seconds he had mounted again, and galloped on, before even a part of his staff, who quickly dismounted, could go to his assistance. The newspapers said nothing of this incident, and its ominous character struck me the more by reason of their silence.”

The chief partner of the mercantile house into whose employment Mr Nolte now entered, was a younger brother of the late P. C. Labouchere, of the celebrated house of Hope of Amsterdam. Mr A. M. Labouchere was very desirous to extend his connection and business with the United States, but did not seem fully to appreciate the facilities for so doing afforded him by his close alliance with the Hopes and Barings, whose names appeared as references in the circulars of the Nantes house. Nolte, whose energy and talent early earned him a considerable share of his employer’s confidence, urged Mr Labouchere to send an agent to the States to carry out his wishes, and offered to go himself, if no better was to be found. He was told to put upon paper his ideas concerning America, and concerning the advantages to be derived from a journey thither. This statement he executed in a manner to excite the warm approval of Mr Labouchere, who desired him to forward it to his brother in Amsterdam. The reply was a summons to the Dutch capital. There the elder Labouchere, who had formed a high opinion of Nolte from his correspondence, unfolded to him a gigantic project, the mere sketch of which bewildered him; and although not diffident of his own powers, he declared that he did not hold himself sufficiently experienced to undertake such responsibility, and felt that he should not be able to come up to his employer’s expectations. “That is my business, and not yours,” Mr Labouchere replied. “I have but one thing to recommend to you, and that is, never to do aught that shall give you cause to blush before me or before yourself.” This was lightening the load of responsibility from which the young man shrank, and giving him fresh confidence by showing him that others appreciated him more highly than he did himself, and he no longer made objections. He was to go to the United States, and for a few months merely to look around him and acquire a knowledge of the country. Before entering, however, which he does at great length, into an account of the important business about to be confided to him, and into whose details he was not initiated until some time afterwards, he gives an amusing chapter to a sketch of the celebrated banker and contractor Ouvrard, from whose combinations the proposed operation issued, and with whom Mr Nolte was well acquainted, and had frequent intercourse at several periods of his life. The chapter includes some curious traits and anecdotes of Napoleon, who, it is well known, detested Ouvrard, and tyrannised over him, although he was more than once obliged to seek his aid. Napoleon notoriously hated and despised traders and bankers. “I do not like merchants!” he is reported to have said—with that _brusquerie_ which, in a less man, would have been designated as brutal ill-breeding—to the deputation from the merchants of Antwerp that went to welcome him to the town; “a merchant is a man who would sell his country for a three-franc piece!” He was jealous of, or at least indignant at, Ouvrard’s enormous wealth, and the influence it gave him—both of which he considered too great for any private person to possess; but, according to Mr Nolte, who seems quite conversant with the scandalous chronicles of any day during the last half-century, there were other private causes of irritation, which most of Napoleon’s biographers either were ignorant of, or thought it unnecessary to mention, and which certainly are less out of place in the present author’s far from prudish pages than they would be in a grave biography. Ouvrard’s own Memoirs, published nearly thirty years ago,[11] are now little remembered; and Mr Nolte is evidently indebted to them for the outline of his sketch, as well as for several incidents and anecdotes, but he has filled up details which the great speculator thought proper to omit. The relative positions of Ouvrard and Napoleon, at different periods of their lives, present the strangest contrasts. When the former, quitting the army in which he had for a short time served, applied himself with skill and success to commercial and speculative operations, and quickly realised a fortune of several millions of francs, Napoleon was so needy as to be desirous to avail himself of a decree of the Committee of Public Safety, by which officers were entitled to receive as much cloth as would make them a uniform. The anecdote is well known. Napoleon’s application was rejected because he was not just then employed, and he was very glad when Ouvrard, with whom he had become acquainted at the house of the Director Barras, induced Madame Tallien, whose lover the capitalist then was, to give him a letter of recommendation to the commissary of the 17th military division; a letter which procured young Buonaparte what he had great need of—a new uniform. Subsequently, in Napoleon’s days of power and magnificence, when he began to spite and squeeze Ouvrard, the latter loved to tell this anecdote—a contrast with Talma, who had been Napoleon’s intimate, and had often lent him money in his days of penury, and who became ever more reserved in his communications and behaviour the higher his friend ascended upon fortune’s ladder. To Ouvrard Napoleon was unquestionably harsh, cruel, and unjust. His dislike to him seemed to augment in a direct ratio with the magnitude of the gains which the capitalist owed to the circumstances of the times, to his great financial capacity, and to the vastness of his operations. Of the extent of these and of his profits, we may form some idea from a passage in Mr Nolte’s book, where he states positively that Ouvrard cleared six hundred thousand pounds sterling by his contract for victualling the Spanish fleet under Mazaredo when it lay at Brest, and afterwards at Cadiz. But if his gains were large, his losses, arising chiefly from Napoleon’s ill-will and despotic acts, were also heavy. During the Egyptian campaign, the Directory borrowed ten millions of francs from him, which he produced with the greatest ease. After Buonaparte’s return and the fall of the Directory, the First Consul asked him for twelve millions more. Ouvrard declined. The other Paris bankers were applied to; they either could not or would not. The First Consul was furious—doubly so when Ouvrard claimed repayment of the ten millions lent to the Directory. He had him paid in assignments on the revenue of the past year, which had all been expended. It was equivalent to a repudiation of the debt. Soon afterwards, Ouvrard was arrested, under pretext of fraud in his dealings with the government and supply of the French navy. He was kept in strict confinement, his papers were sealed up, and a committee of councillors of state was appointed to investigate his affairs. Nothing could be substantiated against him, but it was ascertained that his fortune, in landed property, money and French _rentes_, (then worth but 15 per cent) amounted to twenty-seven millions of francs. “On this occasion,” says Mr Nolte, quoting almost the words of Ouvrard, “a discovery was made which deeply wounded the First Consul—namely, that, during his absence in Egypt, Ouvrard had supplied Josephine, who was an old friend of his, and who had remained at Malmaison, with money. She had become his debtor to a considerable amount. This circumstance, combined with the refusal of the twelve millions, inspired Buonaparte with the most violent antipathy to Ouvrard, at whose arrest all Paris (especially the bankers) was indignant and loud in complaint. Collot, afterwards director of the mint, who was one of the First Consul’s most intimate advisers, did not scruple to tell him that it was beginning badly, thus to let all apprehend that they might in their turn be the victims of such arbitrary measures. ‘A man,’ replied Buonaparte ‘who possesses thirty millions, and sets no value on them, is much too dangerous for my position.’” Josephine and other influential personages interceded for Ouvrard, who escaped the military tribunal with which Napoleon threatened him, and was set at liberty, but remained under the surveillance of gens-d’armes. This in no way prevented his continuing to receive with princely hospitality at his château of Raincy (afterwards the Duchess of Berry’s) the best society of Paris, and the most distinguished foreigners who visited that capital—amongst others, Fox and Lord Erskine, who were his guests after the peace of Amiens.

But we must take Mr Nolte away from Paris—which seems his favourite city, but where he can never linger without getting scandalous—and across the Atlantic. He sailed in July 1805, and reached New York in forty-two days, then a marvellously rapid passage. The astonished owner of the American ship “Flora” could hardly believe his eyes when he saw her come into port before he had received advice of her arrival at Amsterdam. Mr Nolte found the yellow fever in New York, and left the place for a few weeks, but returned thither in time to witness the arrival in the bay of a vessel from Cadiz, with General Moreau on board. The drums beat, and the militia turned out and formed up in Broadway. As each company had a different uniform—sometimes a very odd one—the effect of the whole display was a good deal like that produced by a harlequin’s jacket, which did not prevent the commander of the motley corps from being prodigiously proud of his warriors, and asking Moreau—when he landed, plainly dressed in a blue coat, and rode into the town, upon a horse in waiting for him, amidst cheers and music, and surrounded by the variegated staff of the militia—what he thought of the American troops? Moreau replied that he had never in his life seen such soldiers—which he probably never had. A similar reply has been since attributed to General Bertrand, when he landed in the States some years ago, and a review was held in his honour. The speculative spirit of the Yankees, who love to combine business with pleasure, and to turn an honest dollar whilst admiring a hero or listening to a Lind, slumbered not in 1805 any more than in 1850. The same genius for advertisement which made a hatter pay some hundred dollars for the best place at the Swedish Nightingale’s concert, stimulated the promoters of one that was to be given, on the night of General Moreau’s arrival, in the great hall of the City Hotel—then the first in New York—to beseech his presence, and, as soon as he had promised it, to placard his name. The crowd was tremendous. Moreau, it was on all hands agreed, looked very little like a French general, in his simple dress, without cocked hat, feather, or embroidery—whereas General Morton, chief of the militia, had a most martial aspect in his Washington uniform. He introduced to the French leader all who chose, and there was a prodigious shaking of hands. Mr Nolte was standing near the two generals when a Quaker was presented, who shook Moreau’s hand heartily. “Glad to see you safe in America,” quoth Broadbrim. “Pray, general, do you remember what was the price of cochineal when you left Cadiz?” The hero of Hohenlinden shrugged his shoulders and confessed his ignorance. It was not until some time afterwards, in Philadelphia, that Mr Nolte became personally acquainted with Moreau, whom he found, he says, “a mild, agreeable, but, in an intellectual point of view, upon the whole, an insignificant and uninteresting man. His manners were simple, and possessed a certain naturalness which was attractive, but his conversation, or rather his monologue—for we seldom had long dialogues—fettered the attention only when its subject was that of his certainly highly remarkable and distinguished military exploits. Then there was pleasure in listening to him. Of Napoleon he scarcely ever spoke but as ‘the tyrant.’” The best portrait—indeed, the only good one we are acquainted with—of Moreau, that by Gérard, conveys quite the same idea here given of him by Mr Nolte—that of a mild, amiable, but by no means a highly intellectual man, with less of the military air and look about the head than perhaps in any other distinguished general of the French republic or empire.

We do not purpose going into the details of Mr Nolte’s commercial proceedings as one of Hope’s agents in America. They were connected with Ouvrard’s well-known colossal plan for drawing specie from Mexico, in whose treasury—owing to the interruption, by the war with England, of intercourse between Spain and her colonies—seventy millions of dollars had accumulated. The duties assigned to Mr Nolte compelled him to take up his quarters at New Orleans, then in its infancy as a commercial city, and in the worst possible repute. Louisiana, after belonging alternately to France and Spain, and then to France again, had been but recently sold to the United States, and three-fifths of the white population of its capital were French by birth or extraction. New Orleans then had about sixteen thousand inhabitants, one-third of whom were slaves and coloured people. The character its citizens enjoyed in the Northern States may be judged of by the following anecdote: A friend of Mr Nolte’s, who had just formed an establishment at New Orleans, finding himself at Boston, and seeing a vessel advertised to sail thence for the former city, called upon the owner to ask him to consign the ship to his house. Whereupon the owner told him in strict confidence that he had just as much intention of sending his vessel to the moon as to New Orleans, and that he had inserted the advertisement merely in the expectation that amongst the persons applying for a passage he should find a rascal who had defrauded one of his friends of a considerable sum. “It is probable,” he added, “that he will try to get to New Orleans, that being the natural rendezvous of all rogues and scoundrels.” Not one of the eighteen or twenty commercial houses existing at New Orleans when Mr Nolte first went there possessed capital worth the naming, and a respectable character was nearly as great a rarity as ready cash. Roguery, disguised under the polite name of “cleverness,” was commonly practised and indulgently viewed. Juries and authorities were corrupt, false witnesses easily purchased, and justice was hard to obtain. In illustration of this state of things Mr Nolte tells some curious stories, one in particular, in which the celebrated American jurist Edward Livingston figures. “I well remember,” he says, “the remarkable trial of a certain Beleurgey, the editor of one of the first American newspapers which appeared in New Orleans, in 1806 and 1807, in French and English, under the name of _Le Telegraphe_. To obtain money he had forged the signature of a rich planter, to whom, when his crime was discovered, he wrote, confessing his guilt, and earnestly entreating him not to prosecute him. The planter seemed disposed to accede to his prayer, but the letter was already in the hands of justice. How then did Livingston contrive, as Beleurgey’s counsel and defender, to obtain his acquittal in spite of that damning proof of his guilt? Davezac (Livingston’s brother-in-law and factotum) brought forward witnesses who swore that they knew Beleurgey to be such a liar that no word of truth had ever issued from his lips. ‘See here,’ then said Livingston to his French jury—‘it is proved that the man is incapable of speaking the truth; the very confession is a lie, for none but a madman would accuse himself. So that Beleurgey either has lied or is out of his senses; in either case he knew not what he did, and cannot be found guilty!’ And the jury acquitted him!” New Orleans was evidently not a tempting place to settle in, for an honest man, with money to be robbed of; but then, with conduct and judgment, there was money to be made, and moreover Mr Nolte, as a mere agent for others, had no choice but to abide there. Presently the arrival, in quick succession, of three fast-sailing schooners from Vera Cruz, bringing half a million of Mexican dollars to the address of Vincent Nolte, drew attention to the young man whom previously few had heeded—save the French planters, to whom his knowledge of their language was a recommendation. But now boundless hospitality was shown him, no party was complete without him, and for three months he passed a pleasant enough life, when suddenly the yellow fever laid him on his back. Upon the morning of the third day there appeared at his bedside one Zachary, the cashier of the Louisiana bank, and one of the very limited number of honourable men in the city, and gravely asked him if he had made his will. To this ominous inquiry Mr Nolte replied by a negative and an interrogative. “No! Why?”—“Well,” continued Zachary, “I suppose I need not tell you that you have got the yellow fever, and that it is more than possible you will die tomorrow, for the fourth is the critical day, which one does not generally get over. You have large sums lying at the bank—larger sums than have ever before been seen here—and, if you die, the capital will fall into very unsafe hands. The persons appointed by the State to take charge of the property of foreigners dying intestate, are not only undeserving of confidence, but, to speak plainly, are downright rascals.” The sick man’s reply was that he neither felt inclined nor intended to die. “And as I am sure not to die,” he concluded, “I see no use in bothering my head about my will.” Zachary looked hard at him. “Well, my dear Mr Nolte,” he at last said, “since that is your mood, I too am certain you will not die,”—a prognostic justified by the patient’s speedy recovery. In the yellow fever, as in other maladies, a faint heart kills many.

We pass over several chapters and some years. They include a good deal of interesting matter, and, of course, abundance of travelling;—a return to Europe, and brief residences in various cities of the United States, in London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Hamburg. On a voyage from the Havana to Baltimore, Mr Nolte was wrecked upon the Carysford reef, which owes its name to the total loss of the frigate Carysford in 1774; and he gives a capital account of his sufferings and those of his ten companions on a raft composed of three small spars, six oars, and a hencoop, half immersed, and neglected by passing vessels, who took them for shipwrecked Spaniards, and feared to succour them, lest, when rescued, they should rise against their deliverers and take the ship into Cuba, an act of ingratitude that had been recently perpetrated under similar circumstances. A woodcut of the frail and curiously-constructed raft is the only illustration the book contains. At Philadelphia, Mr Nolte, who, it is to be observed, has been all his life an unlucky man, was run away with in his tandem, and, jumping out, broke his leg, which, badly set by two ignorant American Sawbones, occasioned him terrible suffering and long confinement. His agency for Hope’s house at an end, and after declining two advantageous offers of partnerships in Europe, one of which he would perhaps have done wisely in accepting, he determined to apply the very liberal sum he had received for his services to the establishment of a commercial firm at New Orleans, in aid of which the houses of Hope and Baring advanced him funds, opened him a credit, and allowed him to put their names in his circular as his friends and supporters. This brings us to the most interesting portion of his book.