University of Virginia Library

ALINE.

1. CHAPTER I.

It was a fair scene, the one where we would transport our
reader, in the old days when New York was the queen city of
our young republic, with scarcely a rival to dispute her sovereignty.
We have a fairy spell, be it understood, by which we
pass “bar, and bolt, and porter's lodge,” and now we stand in
the boudoir of the Lady Aline Wentworth.

Judge Wentworth was a thoroughly-bred gentleman of the
old school, very rich, and it had been his pride and pleasure
to surround his motherless girl with every charm of the most
unbounded luxury.

The room where she was sitting was exclusively her own; and
it was a perfect bower of beauty. On a snowy velvet carpet
shone bunches of dark, purple grapes, with their green leaves, as

if fresh gathered. Beside them were thrown wreaths of bright
crimson roses, and blue-bells, looking as if piled up on snow.
Bunches of rare exotics were exquisitely arranged in antique
vases of agate and porphyry, and, here and there, of heavily
chased silver; and the room was filled with a fragrance as subtle
as that of the gardens of Gul.

There were massive mirrors, in heavy golden frames; and on
the wall hung the glorious paintings of many an old master.
There were pure-browed Madonnas, with their prayerful eyes, and
sweet pictures of the Saints, with glory-halos resting on their
tresses. Then there were bunches of flowers and pleasant landscape-scenes,
that made your very soul grow homesick for green
fields and blue sky.

But not a fairer object was there, in that luxurious collection
of the rich and beautiful, than the Lady Aline Wentworth herself.

You would hardly have dared to call her beautiful; for there
was such an air of exclusiveness about her, you would have hesitated
to speak of her as of any other woman.

She had just returned from the opera, where she had been
introduced to a half-dozen handsome students, and reigned the
lady paramount of the occasion.

She had exchanged her opera-dress of claret-colored velvet for
a white silk dressing-gown; but still her arms and hands, and
her raven tresses, literally flashed with jewels, and a cross of
diamonds, on her fair bosom, rose and fell with every breath.

Her forehead was high and calm; her nose Grecian in its outline,
with thin nostrils.

Her mouth was small, and, between her full lips, you caught
glimpses of teeth like pearls. But, though you might notice all

this when you first saw her, it needed to be but a moment in her
presence, ere you forgot all else, in the matchless glory of her
eyes.

Such eyes! — no description could realize their beauty! Large
and full as those of a gazelle, with wells of light in them like
the sea; and yet dark and fearful as the tempest-clouds in a
wild night.

They were not eyes that an artist could paint, or a poet sing;
and yet they were human eyes, destined to influence, for good
or evil, every soul on whom they rested.

There was unmistakable haughtiness in every turn of Aline
Wentworth's small, graceful head; haughtiness in her arching
neck, and even in the tiny, slippered foot which rested with such
provoking firmness upon the velvet carpet. Her position in
society, her whole course of education, had been exactly calculated
to foster this proud self-reliance, and at fifteen (the time
our story opens) Aline Wentworth was a girl no longer, but a
high-spirited woman.

Among the students she had met at the opera, was one whose
image she had borne with her into her palace-home — a man
calm, handsome, and with a full sovereignty of pride, meeting
and matching her own, — Ernest Glenville.

Was the name noble? It might be, and it might not; at all
events, she should see him again to-morrow.

Her dark eyes grew fairly liquid with light as she murmured
his name, and the flush burned on her damask cheek like the
heart of the carnation.

Scarcely a stone's throw from the stately mansion of Judge
Wentworth, in a more obscure part of the city, rose a tall, frowning,
and, even then, somewhat dilapidated wooden mansion. In
one of the most gloomy of its gloomy apartments a student sat,
gazing forth into the night.

The moon-rays fell full upon his face, and you could observe
him closely. His dark-brown hair curled in short ringlets about
his calm, firm brow; his features were regular, and rather small,
and in his clear blue eye lay slumbering a will which might
have moved a world.

He had been called Ernest at his baptism, and his sponsors
had chosen well; for, if ever there was a man on whose face
power, and will, and firmness, were stamped legibly, that man
was Ernest Glenville.

He was poor, but his great soul smiled and mocked at poverty.
His only amusement was the opera, where the music swelled his
heart with a new, exultant sense of strength.

To-night, for the first time, he had come home, bearing with
him a new inspiration, a goddess even more beautiful than fame;
to-night he had, for the first time, seen Aline Wentworth, and it
was she of whom he sat dreaming.

At last, striking his head with his hand,

“Fool, that I am!” he exclaimed, “mad, insensate fool! What
can Judge Wentworth's daughter be to me but a curse?” “And
why a curse?” whispered his cooler judgment; “why think of
her at all?”

“Sure enough, why?” he exclaimed once more. “I shall see
her to-morrow, since she invited me with Irving and the rest,
and then I will forget her. Ha, ha! fancy her dainty feet on

this bare floor! No, no! Ernest Glenville, there is work for
you on earth; you may not pause to bask in fortune's smiles, or
woman's eye.”

So saying, he turned over a file of papers on the rickety table,
drew towards him a large-sized book, bound in black leather,
and commenced studying, as if for life.

In truth, it was a strange fancy to paint the Lady Aline Wentworth
in the student's room. The uncarpeted floor was of rough
pine boards, and the single stiff, high-backed chair, had neither
arms nor rockers. The fire was kindled in a gloomy-looking little
box-stove, and across the top of the one window cobwebs were
woven, thick and strong, as if the growth of years. Here dwelt
Ernest Glenville. Here dreams were nourished which the future
was to gild with glory; and here, for the first time, the eyes of
woman flooded his path with sunlight.

2. CHAPTER II.

There was a gorgeous festival at the mansion of Judge Wentworth.

The light fell pleasantly downward, from lamps of porcelain,
held in the marble fingers of rare statues, over a scene of strange
brilliancy. There were handsome men, and beautiful women;
jewels, and robes of silken sheen.

But there were two who seemed to attract more attention
than any others. The host's fair daughter, Aline, and, standing
beside her, the handsome student, Ernest Glenville.

The proudly-beautiful woman stood in the alcove of a window,
leaning gracefully against a statue of Juno, which might not inappropriately
have been modelled after herself. In one hand
she held her jewelled bouquet-holder, while with the other she
was pulling in pieces a fragrant half-opened moss-rosebud.

The dark waves of her jetty hair were knotted with diamonds,
and a single ruby burned upon her bosom, like a spark of fire.
She was talking in a low, musical tone to Ernest Glenville, of
passion, and poetry, and fame. Her wild eyes burned and
sparkled till they kindled up his soul; and then, in turn, his voice
grew eloquent with music, as he spoke of the past, dwelling
always upon the triumph and success of men of low estate, — those
great souls which have climbed upward, and made themselves
mates for kings and nobles; and Aline Wentworth listened, until
her proud heart did him homage, and for the first time in her
life she loved.

Weeks passed on, and, reckless of the future, forgetful of the
destiny his own hand was to carve, day after day Ernest Glenville
sought the presence of the enchantress, and hushed his very
soul to listen to the music of her voice, or drink in her beauty
like an inspiration.

At last, one night he sought her in her luxurious boudoir, and
told his love. He, who had never before breathed words of passion
in woman's ear, grew strangely eloquent, and the light burned
wilder than ever in Aline's glorious eyes. When he paused, she
drew his hand to her lips, with more than woman's tenderness,
and whispered those three words, so musical on the lips of the
beloved, “I love you!”

For one instant Ernest Glenville caught her to his heart; and
then, resolutely putting her from him, he said,

“My Aline! — no, not mine yet. I have a revelation to
make, before I ask you to become my plighted bride. I am not
wealthy, like your honored father, but poor, abjectly poor, as
far as this world's goods are concerned; I am rich in nothing
but courage, and an unfaltering soul. I can feel my destiny
stirring within me. I know I shall do something, yet, this great
world will not blush to own. If you are mine, it is necessary
you should have faith in me. We must wait, it may be years,
before I could have a home to offer you. Think calmly; will
you, Aline Wentworth, become the poor man's promised bride?
Remember what you say now is said forever, and do not answer
rashly!”

Aline gazed for a second into his clear blue eyes, and then,
turning from him, she paced the room, breathing rapidly, and
wringing her hands. He had cautioned her against rashness;
but every moment that she waited swept over him like an age of
torture. There was a fierce struggle going on in the young girl's
soul, — love and pride contending for the mastery. Which shall
conquer?

Glenville held his breath, and the sweat stood upon his brow
in great beaded drops, until at last the cry of his heart burst
forth, —

“Aline, Aline!”

The girl came and stood beside him. Tears were in her large
black eyes, and trembled on her long, fringe-like lashes, as she
raised her hand to his forehead, and brushed back the clustering

curls. She spoke at last, in answer to the mute appeal in his
passionate glance.

“I cannot, O Ernest Glenville, I cannot! — I love you, God
knows I do, — I who never loved mortal before; but to marry
you, — O, Ernest, do not ask it!”

“It is well, Aline Wentworth; you have chosen;” and, so saying,
Glenville turned away; but apparently a secret impulse
urged him to return; for he came back, and, clasping her trembling
form in his arms, he pressed on her lips one kiss, long and
thrilling, and then, saying once more those solemn words, “You
have chosen,” he left the house.

For a long time Aline Wentworth sat there still and quiet as
he had left her. She saw nothing, heard nothing, but those three
words of warning. They haunted her sleep for many a night
after that. The struggle between love and pride had been terrible,
and the conqueror dared not even triumph in his victory.

Three months after saw Ernest Glenville enlisted in the French
army under Napoleon, at that time himself a subaltern.

Those were stirring times in the early days of the French republic,
when fame and promotion hung upon the broad sword's
gleam and the musket's flash, when ten days could raise the
meanest name to glory. Stirring times, when Europe stood still,
awe-struck, and men's hearts were failing them for fear. Here,
in these wild days, and under an assumed name, Ernest Glenville
struggled with the fierce energy despair so often brings to
a noble soul. Aline knew not where he was; but hope whispered
that for her sake he might win power and glory, and then
return to her side.

She should have known him better. He had well said her

words must be forever; and, had he been the possessor of an
earldom, ten days after their strange parting, he would not have
shared it with Aline Wentworth.

He thought of her, indeed, not in scorn, not in anger; but, O,
not with love, — at least, not with the love of passion; but calmly,
and with a subdued, gentle sorrow, as we think of those long ago
dead; and he only knew that he had been unhappy, by the
desolation which left him nothing for which to hope!

3. CHAPTER III.

— Willis.

A period of six years passed. Other houses had grown up
around the palace-home of Judge Wentworth. New York was
gayer than ever, and Aline Wentworth more beautiful. It was
an autumn afternoon. The country was glorious with the balmy
air, the trees heavy with their ripe fruit, and the fields rich with
waving grain. Something of this autumn glory had penetrated
the heart of the city, and was flooding the gorgeous furniture
in Aline Wentworth's boudoir.

Never had the Lady Aline been fairer. Her robe of many-shaded
India silk became well the clear olive of her gypsy-like
complexion. Her jetty hair seemed almost to emit sparks of
light, and her glorious eyes out-flashed the diamonds on her brow.

A man, in the pride and prime of life, gallant and noble, was
kneeling beside her. His mien betokened one rather used to
command than to entreat; and yet there was a world of tenderness
in the voice which pleaded for that proud woman's love!
The lady rose at last, withdrawing her hand from his passionate
clasp, and stood before him, with her proud eyes, and full, stately
figure.

“I do not,” she said, very calmly, “I do not estimate lightly
the honor you have done me, General Howe. I am but the more
sensible of it when I know that it is profitless. I have listened
to your words, and they awoke no echo in my own heart. God
knows I wish it were otherwise; but so it is, and I will not
wrong your noble nature by giving you my hand without my
heart. Leave me now, and God grant you may be happier than
ever Aline Wentworth could have made you!”

For one moment he bowed his head over the fair hand that
was extended to him, and then Aline Wentworth was alone!

Sinking down among the velvet cushions of her boudoir, she
bent her head, and sobbed pitifully.

“O Ernest, Ernest!” she rather groaned than said, “have I
not been faithful? Wealth, and rank, and power, have tempted
me in vain. Every throb of my heart through all these weary
years has been but thine. Wilt thou never come back?”

Ah, Aline! that fierce pride is working out its own terrible
retribution.

It is a bitter cup, but thou shalt drink it to the dregs!

That same pleasant autumn day, in 1802, witnessed another
wooing.

One there was, in Napoleon's army of fierce spirits, whom

men called “Bravest of the Brave.” He had charged on many
a battle-field, riding down men and spears like dust. His very
name was a host in itself; and where foe met foe, if but his legion
of invincibles hurled themselves into the fight, if but he thundered
upon the enemy, Napoleon would sit down calmly and
write, “The day is won!”

At first but an unknown soldier in the ranks, he had risen
rapidly, until now a Marshal's baton had been the reward of his
valor. And now there was peace, brief, indeed, but yet peace,
though the couch where the tired nations lay still and rested was
piled up on muskets.

In Paris rose many a stately palace, and in the grounds surrounding
one of the fairest walked he whom men called the
“Bravest of the Brave,” with a young girl by his side. Scarce
fifteen summers had deepened the rose-tint upon her cheeks, or
woven their sunshine in her hair. Her brow was like the large
white leaves of the water-lily, broad, and smooth, and fair. Her
eyes were of that rich, violet blue, something the color of the
lapis-lazuli, rarely seen but in the islands of the sea, and seldom
even there. Her figure was slight and fairy-like as a child's;
and the trust and unsullied purity of girlhood shone in her
clear eyes, as she turned them upon her companion.

“Sit down with me, Julie Augne,” at length he said, in a tone
of command better suited to camp than court, and yet with an
inexpressible tenderness.

And then, with that fair young creature sitting by his side,
the soldier told his love, while the shadow of her long lashes
drooped over the cheek of Julie Augne. Her lips quivered,
and her lithe little figure fluttered like a bird.

“Julie,” he said, at length, “one learns but ill courtly phrase
in the mad encounter, where men hold their breaths, and war-horses
dash onward, with the bits between their teeth. And yet,
Julie, one learns there to protect the loved, to guard them, ay,
with one's life; and so would I guard thee, sweet one. Will
you trust me, my beautiful child?”

For one moment Julie Augne raised her clear, truthful eyes to
his, and he could see that the lashes were heavy with tears, and
then she spoke.

“But you, sir, how can you love me? Have you not loved
another? I have heard men say that the secret of your bravery
was because you had nothing more to lose, — because you had lost
all, with a lost love. Where Julie Augne cannot have all, she
scorns to share anything!” and the young girl turned away with
a pride scarcely less imperious than that of Aline Wentworth
herself. But her lover noticed it not, for he resumed,

“Listen to me, Julie, and you shall know everything. I am
not what it has been my interest to appear, the son of poor
French parents. I am an American, whose only heritage in his
orphan boyhood was a noble name, and bitter poverty.

“I was a student. I hardly know how I became one, but
alone and unaided I struggled upward.

“Years ago, when I was very young, I was introduced to one
whom the world would have called far my superior, — one
beautiful as the fairest dream of an opium-eater. I hardly
know whether I ever loved her. I only know she dazzled and
bewildered me, and my whole future seemed bounded by her
smiles.

“My passion for her was sudden; it did not grow up, like my

love for you, from weeks of patient knowledge, while I read your
pure heart like a book.

“It was a dream, — and like a dream it vanished. She
refused to be mine, Julie, because I was poor and unknown;
and yet I know she loved me. She is free still, but I have no
wish to share with her my toil-won glory. She is to me as one
dead; but you, Julie, my beautiful darling, will you not be my
living love, my wife?”

Tears and smiles and blushes chased themselves over the
young girl's sunny face, as she placed her hand in his, and
returned to the house a plighted bride.

Brilliantly, as if for a festival, burned the tall wax tapers in
the cathedral of Notre Dame. Clouds of incense floated out
upon the air, and the organ melody from the lofty choir was
faint and sweet as the far-off anthems of angels. Before the
altar knelt Julie Augne. The first consul, Napoleon himself,
gave away the bride, and Julie rose from that silent prayer a
wife.

It boots not to write of festivals given in her honor, of the
love that surrounded her with luxury; for in the palace, as in the
cottage, the crown word and jewel of a woman's life is love.
Without it fame and glory are but as apples of Sodom, and the
sceptre mocks the hand that wields it.

But there was happiness in the palace-home of Julie Augne,
for she was beloved!

4. CHAPTER IV.

It was the winter of 1807; the power of Napoleon had
reached its zenith. Paris was an universal festival. The shop-windows
were gay with colored lights, and trade, which had been
stagnant during the stormy days of the republic, was brisk and
lively under the brilliant reign of the Emperor Napoleon.

In a hotel on one of the most fashionable streets, sat a beautiful
woman, — remarkable among a thousand, even in that “age
of handsome women.”

She had been in Paris only five days, and already her staircase
was crowded with liveried pages, bearing costly bouquets,
and dainty, perfumed notes. Many a title had already in these
brief five days been laid at her feet, and still Aline Wentworth
(for she it was) walked majestically onward, with her great,
dreamy eyes gazing far away, never seeming to recognize the
bare existence of her titled train of suitors.

She sat in her boudoir, with the busy fingers of her maid
Lucille rapidly employed in arranging her for the opera. Bouquets
of the costliest exotics lay about the room all unheeded;
on some of them she had trampled; and they lay there crushed
and fading, and yet swelling the air with fragrance.

Jewels lay upon the velvet carpet, jewels were strewn upon
the damask lounge, and still others gleamed in their agate caskets,
and bathed the room in a flood of light. Rich robes were
scattered about on chairs and lounges, and on her inlaid table
lay the costliest and most delicate gifts, tokens of the gay world's
homage.

But, amid all this splendor, Aline Wentworth's thoughts were
far away. What mattered it to her that already she was called
the handsomest woman in Paris, that she was surrounded by
more than the luxury of a princess, that the world was going
mad about her beauty? What mattered it, when cheerfully she
would have laid down all this luxury, and gone forth in peasant's
cap and gown, but for one kiss from lips that she had known and
loved long ago?

She heard but one tone, saw but one face, in the magic land
of her fancy, — the face of Ernest Glenville, the tone in which
he said “You have chosen!”

And yet not one word had she heard from him since that
night on which they had so strangely parted. He had sailed
for Europe under an assumed name, and she knew nothing of his
departure from New York, or of his after-fate. It was a love,
strong as her nature, which had then usurped the throne of her
heart. Her pride was fierce and strong, — stronger than death;
but this love had conquered even that, for she would have
bowed her haughty head, and gone forth gladly to shame, or
ruin, so it had been as the bride of Ernest Glenville.

Once, since her arrival in Paris, she had been presented at
court, and the impression she produced there by her marvellous
beauty was very singular. Napoleon himself had gazed on her

with a glance of admiration that brought the blushes to her clear,
transparent cheek; and Josephine, almost the fairest woman of
the time, had taken her hand, and pressed her lips to her brow
with a sister's kindness.

There was one name which, ever since her arrival in Paris,
had fallen on Aline's ear in accents of almost idolatrous admiration,
— that of Marshal Michael Ney, the “Bravest of the
Brave.” She had heard it mentioned reverently by the people,
affectionately by the emperor, and proudly by his brethren in
arms, and already the very sound had a strange power over
her fancy.

It seemed to carry her backward into fields of battle. She
saw a clear blue eye, an unfaltering mien; and she saw this
soldier fight as if some spirit had risen from the grave, armed to
the teeth. Then she saw him, brave and grandly kind, like an
angel of mercy, caring for the wounded, soothing the mourner,
and anon, once more at the head of his division, in the fierce
fight, for death or annihilation.

He had been away from Paris, and on this, the first night of
his return, she had been told she would see him at the opera;
and all day she looked forward to it with an almost feverish
anxiety. But now even this hero of her dreams had faded from
her mind, as she sat there in her Genoa velvet easy-chair, with
the busy fingers of Lucille plaiting the jetty masses of her shining
hair into waves.

The blushing, trembling spell of her girlhood's love was upon
her heart to-night in all its power, and she dreamed on, till, unconsciously
to herself, her parted lips murmured “Ernest,” and
the sound awoke her from her revery.

“You have done well, Lucille,” she exclaimed, as she arose,
and stood before the lofty mirror, extending from floor to ceiling.
“You may knot a few diamonds in my hair; or, stay, I will
wear simply this pearl rose-bud.”

O, what a beauty she was! How fair were the small
hands which smoothed down the folds of her sable velvet! how
delicately rounded the arms, whose exquisite contour seemed
heightened by the drapery of illusion lace!

At last she was attired; the tiny gloves had been drawn over
the slender fingers, a mantle of white cashmere had been folded
about her regal figure, and she placed in her jewelled bouquet-holder
one bouquet more elegant and costly than the rest, for it
was the gift of Josephine herself.

Entering her carriage, in a few moments she was securely
seated in her box at the opera, while whispers of “how beautiful!
how beautiful!” were heard all around her.

It could not but have flattered any ordinary woman's vanity
thus to be the mark for every opera-glass in the most brilliant
assemblage in Paris; but Aline Wentworth betrayed not the
slightest satisfaction in glance or motion. Proud and queenly
she sat there, as if she honored Paris by accepting the people's
homage.

“Vive L'Empereur!” shook the building to its centre, as
Napoleon entered with his suite; and then there was a cry scarcely
less loud, “Long live the Marshal! the `Bravest of the
brave!'” and Marshal Michael Ney entered the Royal Theatre.

At the first glance, Aline Wentworth had uttered a faint cry
and sank down breathless; but she had not been noticed in the
tremendous excitement, and in five minutes she sat erect, strong

and cold, in the full glory of her matchless pride. Her eyes had
recognized, beneath the Marshal's star and the cross of the Legion
of Honor, a breast to which she had once been folded; those
blue eyes had once gazed into her own, that voice had murmured
her name; but she had chosen for herself, and this great, glorious
man had gone forth from her side, to win a name she might not
share; for this soldier, this Marshal Michael Ney, was but
the poor student, Ernest Glenville, older grown.

Well had he said he felt his destiny stirring within him; he
knew he should do something yet this world need not blush to
own!

But he was hers no longer. A being was by his side whose
loveliness could hardly grow dim even in the blaze of her own
beauty.

Aline understood, by love's quick intuition, that it was the
Marshal's wife, this fair child, — for even now she was little past
the age of girlhood, — on whom he gazed so tenderly.

She was very sweet, with a slight form, and hair like an
angel's wing, changing, and bright, and golden. Her eyes, —
but they were like nothing on earth, — and scarcely were the
stars of heaven, set floating in their sea of blue, as beautiful.
Her dress was of pure white satin, and some bright roses lay
trembling with her bosom's rise and fall.

What wonder that Aline Wentworth's heart grew sick and
shuddering? But it was a glorious night; never were the lamps
brighter, never were the dress-boxes a more intense blaze of gems
and beauty, and never, never swelled music on the air with such
high, exultant strains of melody.

Not once, in all this long evening, did Aline take her eyes

from the Marshal and his bride. Her own admirers watched in
vain for a glance, until their patience was exhausted, and their
lorgnettes turned in other directions; and still the lights blazed,
still the music sounded, and still Ernest Glenville knew not that
the eyes of his early love were resting upon his face. But at
last it was all over; stately carriages rolled homeward, and
Paris slept.

Released from the necessity of self-control, it was fearful to
witness the paroxysms of Aline Wentworth's grief. She dismissed
her maid, and paced hurriedly to and fro in her room.
She tore her magnificent hair till it hung in dishevelled masses
about her haughty form; she bit her lips till they were stained
with blood; she snatched off her jewels, and flung them away;
she stamped her delicate feet; she tore the drapery from her
beautiful arms, and the folds of silk and linen from her passionate
heart; she threw herself prostrate on the floor, with her
black locks and torn garments streaming around her. Then she
arose, and lifted up her clenched hand.

Splendid, yet terrible sight! One moment she seemed a fury,
fearful in her grief; the next, she was touchingly beautiful, as
anguish, and sorrow, and regret at this blighting of her first,
strong love, agitated her.

Then the dark eyes were thrown upward in an intensity of
agony, their long lashes trembling on the contracted brows;
then her burning lips quivered, and her hand pressed her
throbbing bosom, while the attitude of that superb form was
eloquent of despair.

Half the night the excited woman gave herself up to this
uncontrollable outbreak of her agony; then she sank into a

feverish slumber. After this, though her disappearance caused
a nine days' wonder, Paris heard no more of Aline Wentworth.

5. CHAPTER V.

Campbell.

It was the morning of June 18th, 1815, eight years after the
close of our last chapter. The star of Napoleon had set, meantime;
— he had spent at Elba a night turbulent with fearful
dreams, and now it seemed to be once more ascending to its
zenith; once more the “man of destiny” was at the head of a
French army, and the broad field of Waterloo resounded to the
wild, triumphant cry, “Vive l' Empereur!”

O, what a grand mental panorama passes before our eyes,
conjured, as by a spell, by that one word, Waterloo! We seem
once more to hear the shrieks which caused old men's hair to
stiffen years afterwards in their dreams at night; to live over
those terrible moments when the enemy was hidden by fire and

smoke, and, seeing nothing, you could only track his presence by
a dull, heavy, rumbling sound, the echo of his tread in the solid
earth, jarring both men and horses; the silence, after a heavy
charge of artillery, broken only by the groans of the dying.

And yet men call war glorious, and speak of battles as a
splendid pastime. Ah! it may seem so, when the fight is raging,
the horses prancing, the bugles sounding; but to die in
battle, — to be left for hostile feet to spurn, hostile cavalry to
trample, and the vulture to swoop upon at last!

It makes one's blood run cold to think of it. It is not the
mere dying; many seek that, and the brave man fears it nowhere;
but it is to die with no fond hand to brush back the
heavy locks from the fevered brow, no gentle voice to murmur
words of strength and love; to have no grave nor any to weep
for us; no prayer, no farewell, nor any blessing! O, may God
save all I love from a fate like this!

But the battle of Waterloo was a glorious battle, as battles
go; and ever before our mind's eye, when its name is called,
rises one figure, tall and stately. Connected as imperishably
with this great battle as that of Napoleon himself, is the name
of the “Bravest of the Brave.”

How he looked, that morning! The white plumes on his helmet
nodded with the heavy dew; his gorgeous uniform glittered
in the light of the morning sun, and he himself, reining up his
proud steed, seemed, with his Herculean stature and bold mien,
as some warlike presence, that had risen out of the earth for
the defence of his country's rights, and the green fields of his
fathers.

The day was nearly ended when was made the last memorable

charge of the Old Guard, — such a charge as time never before
witnessed. Ney had five horses shot beneath him, and then,
chafing like a lion, fought on foot, at the head of his advancing
legions. But now, for the first time in his life, he, the Invincible,
was borne down by superior numbers. France and the
empire were in his hands, and he struggled mightily to wrest
them from the grasp of destiny; but in vain. The “Bravest of
the Brave” had fought his last battle!

In a lowly prison-cell we next find him. He had been condemned
to be shot as a traitor, and was awaiting his doom with
the calmness of a hero. A single lamp burned dimly in his cell,
as he sat there alone, with his head bowed on his hands.

Suddenly a key turned in the rusty lock, the door swung open
on its hinges, and Julie stood before him, with her three fair children.
He was so intensely absorbed in thought, that he did not
even look up until he felt his wife's arms about his neck, her
tears warm upon his face.

“Julie!” he exclaimed; “Heaven be thanked for so much
mercy! I die to-morrow at ten, and I had not thought to see
you here.”

“Die! No, dearest, I am come to tell you you shall not die
I will go to the king to-morrow, and pray him, on my bended
knees, to spare your life. We will go anywhere, — into any
island or desert, so he but leave that; and he will not, he dare
not, refuse it to your wife!”

Ney turned his large blue eyes on her with a mournful smile,

for he knew the Bourbons; but he would not deprive her of this
last, faint hope; so he said, quietly,

“Well, Julie, call my children to me; it will do no harm to
bid them farewell, and I can unsay it when you shall have won
me my life to-morrow.” Then, turning to his children, he added,
solemnly, “Ernest, Julie, Michael, your father blesses you! Be
good children; be faithful to God, to your mother and to France.
Your father has loved France, — do you love her; never remember
how I died, but love your country, and do not disgrace my
memory. You, Ernest and Michael, be good to your mother and
sister, — so only will the good God prosper you.”

Then he clasped them each separately in his arms, and blessed
them; and, turning to his wife, he gave her many words of earnest
and tender counsel. In the midst of his discourse, the
turnkey came to the door, and the hour for their interview was
ended.

“God bless you, Julie!” whispered the hero, amid his choking
sobs; “bear it like a soldier's wife, my poor child, and teach our
children to love their father's memory.”

Already had the jailer led the children from the apartment,
and now, with his key in his hand, he stood impatiently waiting
for the mother.

“Go, Julie, — go, darling!” whispered the Marshal, as he
strained her to his heart in a last embrace. At length she
glided from his arms; but she turned, ere she reached the door,
and whispered,

“Do not fear, dearest; I shall see the king, and you will be
free to-morrow.”

“Yes, free!” cried the hero, as the door rolled together on

its hinges, and shut out Julie from his sight forever; “yes, free;
and I, too, shall see the King to-morrow; but it will be Him
before whom the power of the Bourbons is as dust!” And
then a sense of utter, overpowering desolation came upon him,
and he sank back on his pallet, more exhausted by this last interview
with his wife and children than he had been by five hundred
battles.

At five minutes before ten the next morning, the rosy glow of
the sunshine flooded the king's drawing-room, and fell upon the
pale, deathly face of a woman crouching at his feet, with three
small children clinging to her robe.

O, how the rich glow of the sunlight mocked her as she knelt
there, in her anguish, pleading for life, but for life! O, how
she cursed, in her aching heart, the cold, freezing French politeness,
that could keep her there in her sorrow and answer nothing!

Ah! there is a cup of trouble for thee to drain, Julie, — sharp,
bitter trouble; but rest will come after it, — sunny days, when
the past will be but a half-forgotten memory of sorrow; when
thou shalt be again a bride, when other lips than his shall press
on thine their homage to thy beauty, — and what of him?

A proud, stern man stood alone among his foes. Long,
glittering lines of soldiery were drawn up on either side of
him, muskets were flashing in the sunlight, and in the distance
rolled the surging tide of human beings hungry for death.

Noble, free, unshackled, he stood there, and spoke, with

his hand upon his manly heart, those few, bold words, which
shall be remembered as long as tales are read, or gallant deeds
are told:

“I declare, before God and man, that I have never betrayed
my country; — may my death render her happy! Vive la
France!”

Then, gazing around over the assembled throng, his eye fell
on a carriage, drawn up at a little distance, where, in mourning
robes, with her long veil thrown back, sat Aline Wentworth.
It was the first time he had gazed on that face, with
its strangely-glorious eyes, since their last parting at New
York.

Who shall say whether it seemed to him a ministering angel,
or an avenging spirit? Who shall say how much of the old
love awoke in the hero's heart, in that long, thrilling gaze?
He said nothing — nothing save that one word, “her,” hissed
through his clenched teeth. Then, turning to the soldiers, he
calmly bared his noble breast, and cried, “My comrades, fire
on me!”

Words worthy a hero, — whose reply was the flash of muskets,
and that brave heart was still!

At that moment, a shriek, a woman's shriek, wild, terrible,
unearthly, swelled upon the air, and Aline Wentworth's proud
soul passed before its Judge!

Who shall say whether his spirit called not to hers, as it
winged its flight toward heaven? Who shall say that they, in
this life so strangely parted, met not above? Her woman's
heart, strong in its anguish, strong in its hopeless love, could
beat no longer when its idol ceased to live.

His wife could live on, his children could look calmly upon
the murderers of their father, his comrades who had stood by
his side in so many battles could aim coolly at his heart;
but Aline Wentworth, the strong-minded, proud, high-souled
American woman, lived but in his life, and was faithful to the
“Bravest of the Brave” in death.

Note. — Recent discoveries have induced a belief that Marshal Ney
was, in reality, an American, though it suited his designs to appear of
French parentage. In thus grouping together a few scenes from his
private life, I have but performed a labor of love; and I offer its result
as a humble tribute to a great man's memory.