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command in Andalusia, similar to that enjoyed by the independent commanders of the north, drew from him a letter to Napoleon, dated Madrid, Aug. 9th, 1810, in which he talked about requesting to be allowed to join his family, from which he had been separated for six years, and to find in obscurity and domestic affections a peace of which the throne had robbed him.

"If your majesty deprives me of the command of the army of Andalusia, and devotes the revenues of the province exclusively to the army, I have nothing to do but to throw up the game; in so doing I should be scarcely a free agent. In the present state of affairs in Spain, the commander-in-chief in a province is its king. All its resources become inadequate, because what are called the wants of the army are indefinite, and the general increases them as he sees the means of supplying them. Thus the provinces, commanded by generals who are not under my orders, are nothing to me. In Andalusia I hoped to find a few resources, after having assigned to the army what was supposed to be sufficient, if your majesty continues to send two millions every month. But to give the command of the troops to a general who does not recognize my authority, is to give him the administration and government of the country. It is to take from me the only province in which I could hope to live; it is to confine me to Madrid, which gives me only eight hundred thousand francs per month, while my indispensable expenses exceed four millions per month. I am here surrounded by the ruins of a great nation. I have a guard, I have dépôts, I have hospitals, a garrison, a household, a ministry, a privy council, refugees from the other provinces, etc., etc. Even if my honor, if the sentiment of what is due to me, allowed me to maintain so humiliating a position, this state of things could not last two months. For, in fact, if the army of Andalusia is taken from me, what shall I be? The porter of the hospi tals of Madrid and of the dépôts of the army, and the jailor of the prisoners.

"Sire, I am your brother. You presented me to Spain as a second self. I feel the exaggeration of this praise as respects my talents, but I shall not fall below it as respects the faithfulness of my character, the magnanimity of my feelings, and the tenderness of my love for my brother.

"I always hoped that your majesty would come to Spain. There are several indications in these letters that Napoleon had really intended to do so; but he was now fully engaged in enforcing his famous continental system; and, seeing how matters were going on in the Peninsula, he preferred advising and criticising the marshals from a distance, to again taking the command in person. The Spaniards were a sort of enemy he was not accustomed to, and did not like. They did not know when they were beat.] With this expectation I bore up against everything; but this hope recedes, and circumstances press on me."

Joseph then proceeds to express his opinion that the only way to serve Spain, was to give everything up to his

control, and to anticipate most disastrous consequences, should he withdraw. The letter closes as follows:

"I implore your majesty to see in this letter only what I have endeavored to put into itthe simple truth, dictated by the fraternal friendship which attached me to you in your cradle, and, whatever may happen, will accompany me to my tomb. Can the emotion which I feel at this instant, and which interrupts my writing, be caused by personal feeling or by selfish regret? No, sire, it is not 80. I weep over the weakness of human na ture; over the dispersion of a family once so united; over the change in the heart of my brother; over the gradual diminution of an immense glory, which would have been better preserved by generosity and heroism, than by any extension of power.

"Sire, if the conclusion of my letter does not recall to you the tender and valued friend of your infancy; if it does not tell you that I am to you what no other man can be, I have nothing to do but retire."

No doubt Joseph intended this fraternal pathos to be quite overwhelming, and, no doubt, he sealed up and dispatched his letter in the full conviction that it would be so. But Napoleon, who took no notice of this letter, knew his brother Joseph perfectly well. "He often took leave, but was loth to depart."

The younger brother, Louis, unwilling longer to be made the tool of Napoleon's cruelties in forcing the continental system on the unfortunate people of Holland, had resigned his crown and retired to private life. Joseph, for aught that appears, might readily have done the same if he would; but though he talked perpetually about resigning, it was all for effect; and for three years longer, amid increased mortifications and constant forebodings of what was to happen, he clung convulsively to his nominal sovereignty, till he was fairly pushed out of Spain at the point of the English bayonets. In spite of his remonstrances, Andalusia passed under the authority of Soult, but Joseph was consoled by being placed at the head of a new army of the centre, of which the headquarters was to be at Madrid, to be kept in readiness as a reserve to extend succor to such points as might need it most. For this army of the centre, Napoleon appointed as chief of the staff, General Belliard, who had held hitherto, also, by Napoleon's ap pointment, the place of governor of Madrid. Joseph hastened to take advantage of his new appointment, to supersede him in his old office, to which he appointed General Blaniac of his

own Spanish army-a body of troops for which Napoleon, on all occasions, expressed as much contempt and distrust as he had been accustomed to do for Joseph's Neapolitan army. But this attempt of Joseph, to select his own governor of Madrid, only subjected him to a new mortification, since it drew from Napoleon the following letter addressed to Berthier, then minister of war:

"Paris, Jan. 17th, 1811. My cousin: Let the king of Spain know, that having giving the government of Madrid to General Belliard, who has continued to serve me well, I do not choose that it should be taken from him, nor, above all, that it should be given to an officer who is not in the service of France; that if it be true that the king has deprived General Belliard of the government of Madrid, he must restore it to him without delay; that this is my formal order; that, generally speaking, I do not intend any French troops to be under the command of officers in the Spanish service."

Joseph's obsequiousness, in spite of occasional remonstrances, to every wish of his brother, was soon after rewarded by the following gracious epistles:

"Paris, March 20th, 1811. Monsieur mon frère: I hasten to announce to your majesty that the empress, my dear wife, has just been safely delivered of a prince, who, at his birth, received the title of king of Rome; your majesty's constant affection towards me, convinces me that you will share in the satisfaction which I feel at an event of such importance to my family, and to the welfare of my subjects.

This conviction is very agreeable to me. Your majesty is aware of my attachments, and cannot doubt the pleasure with which I seize this opportunity of repeating the assurances of the sincere esteem and friendship with which I am, etc., etc."

"March 20th, 1811. [This letter commences with some details as to the birth of the child which the English editor is too modest to translate, but which the French editor gives as affording a proof of the friendly intimacy between the brothers] This evening, at eight o'clock, the child is to be privately baptized. As I do not intend the public christening to take place for the next six weeks, I shall entrust General Defrance, my equerry, who will be the bearer of this letter, with another, in which I shall ask you to stand godfather to your nephew."

Joseph, accordingly, visited Paris on the occasion of the christening, where -if we are to believe a statement of Napoleon's, to be presently quoted-his brother was anxious to have him remain. Joseph is represented in his memoirs as having been induced to go back by promises of money and of an extension of his military authority, neither of which promises was kept. However, when

The

Napoleon, a year afterwards, was about setting out on his fatal campaign against Russia, from the necessity of having some head to the operations in Spain, he restored, on the 15th of March, 1812, the command in chief to Joseph, with whom, as well as with the French minister of war, the commanding generals were directed to correspond, and who was required to take into his military councils Marshal Jourdan, in retirement since the defeat of Talavera, but now appointed chief of the staff. marshals, however, were little disposed to give up their independent authority; and as Napoleon, far advanced into Russia, was preparing for the battle of Borodino, news reached him of a defeat at Salamanca, on the 23d of July, 1812, which he ascribed to a spirit of insubordination on the part of Marmont, who had succeeded to Massena's command. Marmont had been obliged to retire before Wellington, now again advancing from Portugal, but instead of waiting to be joined by Joseph, who was marching with the army of the centre to his assistance, and anxious to engross to himself the glory of beating the English-at least, such was the construction which Napoleon put on his conduct-he gave battle and suffered a defeat, of which the consequences were very disastrous. Soult was obliged to abandon the siege of Cadiz, and to withdraw his army from the south of Spain, while Joseph, driven from Madrid, retired to Valencia, then recently taken and held by Suchet, to whom Napoleon had confided the command of the three eastern provinces of Valencia, Aragon, and Catalonia.

Again Joseph came to the conclusion that his kingdom of Spain was a hopeless affair, and that he ought to retire; but, instead of doing so, he dispatched an aide-de-camp to Napoleon, with apologies for himself in relation to the battle of Salamanca and the subsequent events, and with a complaint against Soult, who, it seems, had written a letter, which somehow had fallen into Joseph's hands, expressing suspicions that Joseph was betraying the French cause in the hope of pleasing the Spaniards, getting rid of the French, and retaining his throne with the consent of the English. Joseph, on the other hand, charged Soult with treasonable projects, and insisted on his removal.

The aide-de-camp, sent on this mis

sion, reached Moscow on the 18th of October, just as Napoleon was commencing his disastrous retreat, and in a very curious letter, written from Paris on the 3d of January, 1813, and published in this collection, he gives an account of his interview with Napoleon, and of the subsequent ruin of the grand army, of which he was an eye-witness. As to Soult's suspicions, and what Napoleon said on that subject, the aide-decamp writes as follows:

"The emperor then proceeded to the duke of Dalmatia's [Soult's] letter; he told me that it had already reached him through another

channel, but that he had attached no importance to it; that Marshal Soult was in error, that he (Napoleon) could not attend to such trifles while he was at the head of half a million of men, and engaged in enormous undertakings-these were his expressions; that, however, the duke of Dalmatia's suspicions did not much surprise him; that they are shared by many generals belonging to the army of Spain, who think that your majesty prefers Spain to France; that he was convinced that you had a French heart, but that those who judged you by your public speeches might think otherwise. He added, that Marshal Soult's was the only military head in Spain; that he could not withdraw him without endangering the army; that, on the other hand, he was perfectly easy as to Marshal Soult's intentions, as he had just learned, from the English newspapers, that the marshal was evacuating Andalusia and joining the armies of the centre and of Aragon; that this junction will make them strong enough to take up the offensive; that he had no orders to send; that it was impossible to give orders from such a distance; that he did not disguise from himself the extent of the evil: and that he more than ever regretted that your majesty had not followed his advice not to return to Spain."

Joseph, as we have seen, had been in Paris in the spring of 1811, to attend the christening of the King of Rome, and it was, doubtless, then that this advice was given, from which it seems clear that Joseph had nobody to blame but himself and his own hankerings after royalty, for having continued, at least after that period, mixed up with Spanish affairs.

Thus driven from his capital, and reduced to follow the retreating French army, Joseph continued for near a year longer to squabble with the marshals, and to call himself King of Spain. But every day the French became more and more restricted to a narrower line of operations, and even the communications with France were greatly interrupted. Napoleon, whose grand army had perished in the retreat from Moscow, and who had drawn down an avalanche on himself, was no longer able to afford any assistance. The battle of Vittoria, which Joseph's carriage was taken, he fought on the 20th of June, 1813, in himself escaping with difficulty, drove him and the French army out of Spain. A letter to his wife, dated Yrursun, June 23d, 1813, after a short account of that battle, concludes as follows:

"If the emperor has returned, tell him, as soon as I have placed my army on the frontier, and united it to those of the north and of Aragon, I shall repair to Mortefontaine, as I told you at the time that I ought to have done after Salamanca. Let me have the emperor's answer. Whatever it be, I shall go home. I can do no good here. Tell Clary [the banker, his wife's brother] to transmit, through James and Brocq, a hundred thousand franes to my secretary, M. Presle. Among the killed were M. Thibaud, defending my treasure, and poor Alphonse, whom I loved though I scolded him. [Alphonse was wounded and taken prisHe afterwards joined Joseph in America.] Send me back the courier. I shall not stop at Paris, but at Mortefontaine, whether you are there or at a watering-place. Kisses to you and to the children."

oner.

This time, being no longer able to help himself, Joseph carried out his threats of retirement. Here ended his unlucky experiments of royalty; and here, too, we must end for the present, reserving, for a concluding article, the history of Napoleon's family relations as developed in the closing part of this correspondence, which, in many points of view, relating as it does to the period of Napoleon's downfall, is the most interesting portion of it.

I.

ANNIE AT THE CORNER:

FROM A WINDOW.

THE HISTORY OF A HEART.

AM not a married man, I and I do not think that all my lady acquaintances are angels; consequently, I am a miserable old bachelor.

There is absolutely no doubt upon the subject, I am informed by my friends; and so, because I think that something more than the want of wings distinguishes the fair from the other class, and because I spend my life in a suit of apartments, undisturbed by the musical laughter of children-for these reasons, as I have said, I am a crusty, musty, miserable old unmarried misanthrope.

I have been substantially notified of the fact more than once, by Miss Tabitha Ringgold, who lives in the handsome house opposite; and though I am charitable, my friend, I should not be surprised if that fair lady were, at the present moment, directing her private spy-glass into my chamber from behind her white curtain, a corner of which is, I perceive, slightly raised: I would not be at all surprised if Miss Tabitha were there, looking through the open window here, and lamenting the failure of science to discover ear-trumpets, such as might be used to catch a distant conversation.

Miss Tabitha often arranges herself in her best finery, and leans from the window, with nods and smiles, and silent invitations to come in, when I chance to pass. I do not accept these invitations often, as you will understand, if you listen further; but sometimes I do go over, and take a hand at whist in the small parlor; in consequence of which, I am considered, I believe, an admirer of Miss Tabitha, and more than once my cynical and discourteous bachelor companions have gone so far as to declare, that Miss Tabitha has long been engaged in the pleasing occupation of setting her maiden cap at me and my six per cents. Of course I do not give any credit to these scandalous jests and rumors, and I invariably reprove Bob when he gives utterance to them. There is, of course, no truth in the charge, and I'm glad of it. I regret to say that, even if there were not

other objections, I would not solicit the honor of a matrimonial alliance with Miss Tabitha-my affections being engaged.

Ah! do you start a little? Do you look at me with astonishment, and ask, with your eloquent eyes, if I am not uttering a pleasant jest? I engaged― you seem to say with a change of the pronoun--I, the incorrigible old bachelor, the woman-hater, the misanthrope, the miserable, disagreeable, outrageous, old curmudgeon! My affections engaged, when the utmost inquisition of feminine curiosity eternally on the watch, has never discovered the least loop to hang a report upon? Well, my dear friend, perhaps there is some ground for surprise, and your astonishment is not singular. My engagement is certainly not exactly what the world would call binding --and yet it binds me. Such things must frequently result in a matrimonial alliance between the man and the woman

at least sometimes: now, my engagement will not probably have any such termination. Gossips talk about Corydon, when he goes constantly to visit Chloe, in glossy patent leathers, a flowery waistcoat, hair elegantly curled, and a perfumed handkerchief gently waved in a diamond-decorated hand. They talk a great deal about that young man, and the talk rises into a hubbub, when the watchful eyes perceive the youth finally emerging from the mansion of his love, with beaming eyes, and nose raised high aloft with triumph, while Chloe sends a golden smile toward him as he goes, from behind the curtain of the drawing-room. The gossips, I say, talk about Corydon's engagement for a month thereafter; but the most inveterate and ferocious tattle never occupies itself with my little affair.

I never speak of it, and the object of my affections preserves silence, too; and not even Miss Tabitha suspects our little arrangement. If I tell you all about it now, good friend of many years, I do so, because 'tis scarcely loyal to our friendship to have aught of reserve; but, above all, because my burden of thought and feeling cries aloud for utterance.

I linger on the threshold-let me lin

ger a moment longer yet, and ask you, if I have never seemed eccentric to you? Often in passing to your counting-house, you send me a friendly nod as I lean from my window in the sunshine; and, doubtless, you go on to your arduous toils, thinking what a happy fellow I am to afford to be idle, when you and your whole establishment will all day be struggling to balance the books of the firm. You honestly consider me idle at such moments: my friend, I am never busier. You think me solitary: I am surrounded by companions. The street may be wholly deserted; the public square yonder may not tempt a single child to enjoy its green sward and shadow-Miss Tabitha even may be busy at her invisible toilet, and her window deserted-yet I am not alone.

When the real figures of actual, living personages appear, however, they do not, by any means, disturb my reverie. I am not at war with my kind, but often find in the forms of men, women, and children what pleases me, and heightens the zest of my recollections.

I lean upon the sill of my window, and, thrumming idly with my fingers, scan the different wayfarers with smiling attention. I see my friend Dives with his jingling watch-seals, his creaking boots, his spotless shirt bosom, and his dignified look, go by to his warehouse, saluted respectfully by the heads of our two "first families"-the Scribes and Pharisees-who sometimes invite me to their palaces up town. And, as Dives disappears like a moving bank round the corner, I perceive Lazarus, with his maimed limbs, swinging himself by, on his hands, inserted in wooden glovesthe shadow of his low figure mingling with that of Dives. Of course I do not know Lazarus, as I move in good society yet I am glad to see him with his cheerful smile on his pale, thin face; and when he passes on this side of the street, I sometimes drop slily a piece of money into his bosom, and laugh to myself, as I draw back, fancying his puzzled expression. I related this incident at dinner, the other day, to my friend Dives and his guests; but he raised the question, whether such things were advisable, the public charities being amply sufficient for meritorious sufferers; while individual relief encouraged pauperism and idleness.

"But, my dear Dives," I said with a smile, "suppose the coin which I dropped bought some small articles for the children of Lazarus, and so gave them pleasure far greater than any I could have enjoyed by spending the money?"

"The principle in the thing," replied my friend, sipping his claret and shaking his head, "the principle is bad. As members of society, we are bound to observe the laws of society; and as, in a state of society, we must be governed by the rules and regulations of that society, so I think, as a member of that society, you were rather bound to have this individual sent to prison, as a vagrant on society, than to encourage him in what must eventually render it necessary to make an example of him for the good of society."

am

Those were the words of Dives; and, as my friend the Reverend A. Caiphas asked me at the moment to take wine, the discussion was not resumed. I an obstinate, nevertheless, and shall probably continue to outrage the rules and regulations of "society," if the whim seizes me, when Lazarus passes beneath my window.

I am running on pretty much at random, and shall not, at this rate, get to my story. But I take so much interest in my window observations, that I am led to weary you with them. A word more, and I shall get regularly to my narrative.

Besides Dives and Lazarus, I see many other figures pass on the street. I see Strephon go by in the tightest boots, the finest kid gloves, and the glossiest hat, escorting Miss Almira, the daughter of old Two-per-cent; and I stand, or rather lean, in silent admiration of her gorgeous appearance, as she sails by, rustling in silks and satins, with a bird of paradise upon her bonnet. She has chosen to walk on account of the sunshine, and the great carriage, with its liveried driver and footman, rolls by, unoccupied. It is a pity that the poor girl yonder slinking round the corner, and looking so faint and weak, cannot ride a little in it; and I fancy Strephon might procure this favor for her, as the weak girl exchanges a look with him, which seems to indicate acquaintance. The three figures pass on, and disappear; but somehow, the look of the pale, weak girl dwells in my memory, and haunts me. Well, I weary you, good friend, and another

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