As they were about to cross a turbulent stream upon an insecure-looking bridge, in a carriage, the Empress expressed a wish to alight. Napoleon forcibly interfered, but permitted the fair narrator of the incident, who was in the carriage with them, to do so, upon her informing him with the naïveté of a true French-woman, that there was a special reason for her avoiding a fright! Josephine wept in helpless terror, even when the ordeal was safely passed. By-and-by, the whole cortége stopped, and every one alighted; the imperial tyrant rudely seizing the empress by the arm, dragged her towards the destination of the party, in a neighboring wood, saying, as he urged her forward: "You look ugly when you cry!"
One of Napoleon's biographers has said of him that many passages in his letters to Josephine were such as no decent Englishman would address to his 'lady light o' love,' and it is well known that his earliest intercourse with the proud daughter of the House of Hapsburg—the shrinking representative of the hereditary refinement of a long line of high-bred women—was marked by the merest brutality. It was left to a citizen of our Republic to discover, in the year of our Lord one thousand, eight hundred and fifty-five, that this man was the "Washington of France!" and to communicate the marvellous fact to the present occupant of the imperial throne of the Great Captain—who is, by the way, the grandson of the repudiated Josephine!
Steaming along the Ohio, some years ago, I had the good-fortune to fall in with the most agreeable companions, a father and son, Kentuckians, of education and good-breeding. The father had won high public honors in his native State, and the son was just entering upon a career demanding the full exercise of his fine natural gifts. I was particularly attracted by the cordial confidence and affection these gentlemen manifested towards each other, and by the manly deference rendered by the youth to his venerable sire.
A storm drove us all into the cabin, in the evening, and, while the elder of my two new friends and I pursued a quiet conversation in one part of the room, his son joined a group of young men at some distance from us. Gradually the mirth of those youngsters became so roisterous as to disturb our talk. Hot and hotter waged their sport, loud and louder grew their laughter, until our voices were fairly drowned, at intervals. More than once, I saw the punctilious gentleman of the old school glance towards the merry party, of which, by the way, his son was one of the least boisterous. At length he spoke, and his clear, calm voice rang like a trumpet-note through the apartment:
"Frederick!"—there was an instant lull in the storm, and the faces of each of the group turned to us—"make a little less noise, if you please."
The youth rose immediately and advanced towards us: "Gentlemen," said he, with a heightened color and a respectful bow, "I beg your pardon! I really was not aware of being so rude."
I said something about the very natural buoyancy of youthful spirits; but I did not say that this little scene had the effect upon me that might be produced by unexpectedly meeting, in the log-hut of a back-woodsman, with a painting by an old master, representing some fine incident of classical or chivalrous history—as, for instance, the youthful Roman restoring the beautiful virgin prisoner to her friends with the words, "far be it from Scipio to purchase pleasure at the expense of virtue!"
My pleasure in observing the intercourse of these amiable relatives in some degree prepared me for the enjoyment in store for the favored guest, who, at the earnest instance of both father and son, a few days afterwards, turned aside in his journey to seek them, at home. It was a scene worthy the taste and the pen of Washington Irving himself, that quaint-looking old family mansion,—in the internal arrangements of which there was just enough of modern comfort and adornment to typify the softened conservatism of the host,—and the family group that welcomed the stranger, with almost patriarchal simplicity and hospitality. Really it was a strange episode in busy American life. My venerable friend sat, indeed, "under the shadow of his own vine and fig-tree, with none to make him afraid," reaping the legitimate reward of an honorable, well-spent life, and beside him the friend who had kept her place through the heat and burden of the day, and now shared the serene repose of the evening of his life. What placid beauty still lingered in that matron face, what "dignity and love" marked every action! And the fair daughters of the house, who, like Desdemona, "ever and anon would come again and gather up our discourse," in the intervals of household duty, or social obligation—they seemed to vie with each other and with their brother in every thoughtful and graceful observance towards their parents and towards me, and the noble boy—for he really was scarcely more, even reckoned by the estimate of this "fast" age—unspoiled by the dangerous prerogatives of an only son, manifestly regarded the bright young band of which he still made one, with the mingled tenderness and pride that would ever shield them from
"The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."