leaven which still permeates the blood that came to me with the name I inherited from my sires.
My paternal grandfather had two sons, one a soldier, the younger a sailor. The latter is answerable for my sins—if I have ever committed any.
The vicissitudes of life are strange, bordering at times on fiction. During the war France had to wage against almost every other nation in Europe to defend her soil from the invasion instigated by a fallen monarchy against the Republican element which originated in 1789, an army, spontaneously raised from her “people,” crossed the Alps, carrying the tricolor flag into Italy, where many hard battles were fought.
These strangely composed, ill clad, badly fed, ragged hordes of French soldiers were led to victory by two young, inexperienced generals—both ambitious, energetic men—the younger, General Bonaparte, in whom the “Directoire” possessed a dangerous enemy of the Republic; the senior, my uncle, whose special mission was to watch the impetuous Corsican and counter-balance the evident sway and influence he was daily gaining over the young army by the daring of his actions and electrifying effect of those short, pithy allocutions he invariably made to the soldiers whom he sometimes so rashly led to death—but always to victory. During the Italian campaign the two young leaders vied with each other in their efforts to drill and train the undisciplined battalions, recruited and enlisted on the Champ de Mars, in Paris, during the terrible period so graphically termed the “Reign of Terror.”
From the victories gained in Italy originated that wonderful army whose glorious deeds have placed France foremost as a military Power.
During one of the most decisive battles on the fields of Novi, after a days’ hard fighting, and when the victory once more had smiled on his flag, my uncle fell, shot through the heart. When his body, carried reverently by his staff, was brought to his tent, a sealed packet was found on the General’s camp-table—a packet containing an official order from the “Directoire” to assume the supreme command of the French army!
What changes in the destinies of Europe have resulted from this stray shot! Two men then ruling the armies of France—one a staunch Republican, seeking only the welfare of his country; the other an ambitious parvenu, ever ready to sacrifice the lives of hundreds of thousands to his own aggrandisement. Who can say what might have been the result had Bonaparte fallen instead of his brother officer?
I only refer to this episode in the early history of the family whence I spring because I consider that it very likely had to a great extent a direct influence on my after life, even though it occurred a quarter of a century before I made my first appearance in this wicked world. It gave rise to a jealous feeling in my father’s heart and led him to leave the navy.
Soon after Napoleon became the ruler of the French Empire, my father, like the Roman of old, exchanged the sword for the plough. Instead of making a name in the naval engagements of Aboukir or Trafalgar he devoted his life to a quieter and perhaps better purpose—the drainage of the then pestilential morasses of Medoc, which have since acquired a world-wide fame for the production of some of the best wines in the south of France.
In some of the libraries of my native country some useful works are to be found on the culture of the vine, the drainage of land in the south of France, as well as a treatise on artesian wells, which was one of my father’s hobbies—the first of these useful perforations having been made in Medoc, and ultimately the great artesian well of Grenelle, in Paris.
II.
PEEP OF DAY.
HAVING so far established the genealogy of the author, it might be as well to bring him to the fore, and to state that on the 31st day of July, 1824, I made my entrée at Angoulême, one of the prettiest towns in France—a town now seldom visited by tourists, owing to its peculiar position on the summit of a sugar-loaf-shaped hill, almost surrounded by the river Charente—too steep for a railway. The engineers who planned the iron road in that locality avoided Angoulême, so that even in this age of progress my native town is, I may say, what it was when I left it many, many years ago—a quiet, unpretentious city, merely known by the paper mills, which afford the principal item of trade of its inhabitants. These mills, in the early part of the present century, belonged to my grandfather; and to this day the water lines on the paper manufactured at Angoulême bear the names “Laroche-Joubert,” the former family having intermarried with ours.
Earlier than it is usual now to put a youth to school, I was sent to Bordeaux, and made to plough up Latin and Greek under a most strict and overbearing taskmaster. In those days the easy hours and lazy system of education now in vogue were unknown. Strict discipline—such, indeed, as would now cause a mutiny in a penitentiary—was considered the right and proper treatment in the best regulated schools. Even Dickens has been mild in his description of scholastic comforts.
I confess that I little relished the scanty food, the corporeal punishment, and long dreary hours spent at my first school at Bordeaux.
The system of schooling now in vogue may—and I feel sure, does—bring about quite as good a result as far as education is concerned; but I still think that the discipline and hardship of the old system had its beneficial effects. I have still a strong impression of those old days, when the first bell used to wake us at 6 A.M., winter and summer; ten minutes allowed to dress; marched to a trough of iced water, in winter, for ablutions; then into a cold, dreary schoolroom—each boy provided with a tallow dip to lighten the darkness of his desk—where, with fingers benumbed with cold, he had to dive into “Æsop” or “Cornelius Nepos,” translate Homer and Virgil on an empty stomach, and with heavy eye-lids, until 8 o’clock, when a slice of dry bread and very much christened milk of doubtful origin would be handed over on our way to the playground. Thus fortified we had to wait till 11 for a déjeuner à la fourchette, worse than that I have often seen placed before vagrants in the soup kitchens of Sydney or Melbourne. Such treatment, however, was “quite the thing” fifty years ago. It not only sharpened the appetite—it sharpened the “wits” of young “gentlemen.”
Being one of the youngest and smallest of boys in Mons. Worms’ school, I had to submit to the will of my seniors. The private store of our schoolmaster was in a large room on the upper floor. The skylight of our dormitories enabled us to have access to the roof, and by dint of a clothes line a small boy could readily be lowered through the chimney into this receptacle of jam pots, tinned sardines, and other delicacies.
What my elders (whose education was more advanced) conceived, I had to execute. Being lowered into the store-room to secure “goodies” for my mates seemed quite a heroic achievement. This systematic burglary we carried on for some time, until one fine evening the line snapped. I dropped into the fireplace with a crash which brought in one of the ushers. A trial—when, all attempts to make me disclose the names of my companions having proved fruitless, I was sentenced to expulsion from the school.
This scandalous beginning in the world, and ignominious exit from my first school, though very disgraceful, have not been altogether devoid of good results. I have ever since been fully impressed with several important facts—First, that burglaries in the long run don’t pay; second, that it is safer to get into a room by the door than through the chimney; third, it is always better to lower someone else after “goodies” than to be lowered one’s self; and last, though not least, that it is not safe to trust one’s body to a hemp rope. It may have been the means of keeping me from more mischief—who knows?
I, however, hailed with delight my removal to the College Bourbon in Paris, where, as a day pupil, I could enjoy the comforts of “home” when my day’s college work came to an end.
It was there that I became personally acquainted with many whose names have since become famous in French history, having for several years sat on the same form with A. Dumas (fils), Clavel, Leon Say, Phillipeaux