But where was this fearful ma.n.u.script--this dreaded scribbling of the G.o.d-forsaken, poor, forlorn author? The emissaries of his serene highness had the blood, bones, and body of the wretched scribe, but where was that they feared more than all the warlike forces of a million of the best equipped forces of Europe--the paltry paper pellets of a scholar's brain--the _memorial_ to the crowned heads, and people of the several shivering monarchies of continental Europe?

A few brief hours--not two days--before the _pseudo_ Herr Beethoven was honored by the special considerations and attentions of the Emperor of all the French--the conqueror of a third, at least, of the civilized world--he had conceived suspicions of a man to whom in the _most profound confidence_ he had revealed a slight whisper of his projects--impressed with the foreshadowing that a mysterious _something_ dangerous was about to menace him, he made way with the ma.n.u.scripts, to which his soul clung as too dear and precious to be destroyed--he gave them to the charge of a tried friend--and before the _Cytherian Cohort_ were upon the threshold of the author, his _memorial_ was snugly ensconced in the obscure and remote secretary of a gentleman and a man of letters, in the renowned city of Prague. The alarm and friend's appearance seemed most opportune--for an hour after the visitation of the one, the other was at hand--the doc.u.ments transferred and on their way to their place of refuge.

But difficult was the stepping-stone to Napoleon's greatness--the more the mystery of the ma.n.u.scripts augmented--the more enthusiastic became his research--the more formidable appeared the necessity of grasping them; and the determination, at all hazards, to clutch them, before they served their purpose!

"Bring me the ma.n.u.scripts"--was the _fiat_ of the Emperor: "I care not _how_ you obtain them--get them, _bring them here_; and mark you, let neither money, danger nor fatigue, oppose my will. Hence--bring the ma.n.u.scripts!"

Again Leipsic was invested by the _Cytherian Cohort_ of the modern Alexander; the rival of Hannibal, the great little commandant of the most warlike nation of the earth. The Baron ----, who was master of ceremonies in this great enterprise, now arrested the secret agent who had given the information of the existence of the _memorial_. This wretch had received five hundred crowns for his espionage and treachery. His fee was to be quadrupled if his atrocious information proved correct; so dear is the mere foreshadowing of ill news to vaunting ambition and quaking imposters. Bengert, the German spy, was sure of the genuineness of his information--he was much astonished that the Baron had not seized the _memorial_, as well as the body of the hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.

"I have it," he exclaimed, a few days before his arrest. "I saw a friend visit Beethoven; I know they both entertained the same sentiments in regard to the Emperor--_that man has the ma.n.u.scripts_."

Where was that man? It was finding the needle in the hay stack--_the_ pebble in the brook. Again the Emperor urged, and the _Cytherian Cohort_ plied their cunning and perseverance. That _friend_ of the poor author was found--he was tilling his garden, surrounded by his flower pots and children, on the outskirts of Prague, Bohemia. It was in vain he questioned his captors. He dropped his gardening implements--blessed his children--kissed them, and was hurried off, he knew not whither or wherefore! Shaubert was this man's name; he was forty, a widower--a scholar, a poet--liberally endowed by wealth, and loved the women!

It was Baron ----'s province to find out the weak points of each victim.

"If he has a _particular_ regard for _poetry_, he does love the fine arts," quoth the Baron, "and women are the queens of _fine arts_. I'll have him!"

In the secret prison of Shaubert he found an old man, confined for--he could not learn what. Every day, the yet youthful and most fascinating, voluptuous and beautiful daughter of the old man, visited his cell, which was adjoining that of Shaubert's. As she did so, it was not long before she found occasion to linger at the door of the widower, the poet--and sigh so piteously as to draw from the victim, at first a holy poem, and at length an amative love lay. Like fire into tow did this effusion of the poet's quill inflame the breast and arouse the pa.s.sions of the lovely Bertha; and in an obscure hour, after pouring forth the soul's burden of most vehement love, the angel in woman's form(!), with implements as perfect as the very jailor's, opened all the bolts and bars, and led the captive forth to liberty! She would have the poet who had entranced her, fly and leave her to her fate! But _poetry_ scorned such dastardy--it was but to brave the uncertainty of fate to stay, and torture to go--Bertha must fly with him. She had a father--could she leave him in bondage? No! She had rescued her lover--she braved more--released her parent in the next hour, by the same mysterious means, and giving herself up to the tempest of love, she shared in the flight of the poet. In a remote section of chivalric Bohemia, they found an asylum. But Bertha was as yet but the deliverer from bondage, if not death, of her soul's idol; he, with all the warmth and grat.i.tude of a dozen poets, worshipped at her feet and besought her to bless him evermore by sharing his fate and fortune. There was a something imposing, a something that brought the pearly tear to the heroic girl's eye and made that lovely bosom undulate with most sad emotion. The poet pressed her to his heart--fell at her feet, and begged that if his life--property--children--be the sacrifice--but let him know the secret at once--he was her friend--defender--lover--slave. Another sigh, and the spell was broken.

"Why--ah! why were you a state prisoner--a _secret_ prisoner in the ----?"

"Loved angel," answered the poet, "I scarce can tell; indeed I have not the merest _hint_, in my own mind, to tell me for what I was arrested and thrown into prison!"

"Ah! sir," sighed the lovely Bertha, "I can never then wed the man I love--I cannot brave the dangers of an unknown fate--at some moment least expected, to be torn from his arms--lost to him forever!"

"We can fly, dearest," suggested the poet, "we can fly to other and more secure lands. In the sunshine of your sweet smile, my dear Bertha, obscurity--poverty would be nothing."

"No," said the girl, "I cannot leave my father--the land of my birth--home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret."

"Ah! what mean you?"

"In a foolish hour," continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, "you impaled your generous self to save a friend--the friend fled--you were arrested--"

"Good G.o.d!" exclaimed the poet, "Herr Beethoven----"

"Gave you possession of----" she continued.

"No! no! no!" interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe "yes," even to the ear of his fair preserver.

"Sir," calmly continued the girl, "I have risked my own life and liberty to preserve yours, I have----"

"I--I know it all, dear--dearest angel, but----"

"Those ma.n.u.scripts," she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze upon the poor victim.

"Ha! ma.n.u.scripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be----"

"It is known--I know it--I learned it from your captors; but for my _love_," said the girl, "mad--guilty love--your life would have been forfeited--your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in quest of those ma.n.u.scripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be happy--Bertha's love must die with her--Bertha be ever miserable!"

"I-a--I will--but no! no! I have no ma.n.u.scripts! It is false--false!"

exclaimed the almost distracted poet.

"Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?"

"Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for G.o.d's sake! Rise; let me at your feet swear, in answer--_No!_"

"Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, d.a.m.ned viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of your misery; O! bless me--bless your Bertha; give me those accursed ma.n.u.scripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"

This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room, sighed, tore his _mouchoir_, oscillated between honor and temptation--the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchanting _spy_, opened the secret drawers of the poet's secretary, and amid carefully-packed literary rubbish, the dreaded _memorial_ was found--clutched with the eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor author's ma.n.u.scripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid with each scathing word of the _memorial_, he hurriedly issued his orders--gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy a _countess_, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and misery to his children.

"Fly!" the monarch shouted, "search every one suspected of a hand in this; let them be dealt with instantly--trouble me not with detail, but give me sure returns. Stop not, until this viper is exterminated; egg and tooth; fang and scale; see it done and claim my bounty--_fly!_"

That _snake_ was scotched and killed--the few brief pages of an obscure author that drove sleep, appet.i.te and peace from the mighty Emperor, for days and nights--made busy work for his thousands of emissaries--scattered his gold in weighty streams--was read, cursed and destroyed, and all suspected as having the slightest voice or opinion in the secret _memorial_, met a secret fate--death or prolonged wretchedness.

Herr Beethoven, the poor author, alone escaped; being overlooked in the hot pursuit of his production, and by the blunder of those having charge of himself and hundreds of other state prisoners--guilty or _suspected_ opponents to the vaulting ambition and power of him that at last ended his own eventful career as a helpless prisoner upon an ocean isle--was liberated and lost no time in making his way beyond the reach of monarchs, tyranny and bondage. Beethoven came to America and settled in Philadelphia, where, in the humble capacity of an e-razer of beards and pruner of human mops, he eked out a reasonable existence for the residue of his earthly existence; few, perhaps, dreaming in their profoundest philosophy, that the little, eccentric-attired, grotesque-looking barber, who tweaked their plebeian noses and combed their caputs, once rejoiced in grand heraldic escutcheons upon his carriage panels as a veritable Count, and still later made the throne tremble beneath the feet of a second Alexander!

But G.o.d is great, and the ways of our every-day life, full of change and mystery.

The Bigger Fool, the Better Luck.

The American "Ole Bull," young Howard, one of the most scientific crucifiers of the _violin_ we ever heard, gave us a call t'other day, and not only discoursed heavenly music upon his instrument, but gave us the "nub" of a few jokes worth dishing up in our peculiar style. Howard spent last winter in a tour over the State of _Maine_ and Canada. During this _cool_ excursion, he got way up among the _wood_-choppers and _log_-men of the Aroostook and Pen.o.bscot country. These wood-chopping and log-rolling gentry, according to all accounts, must be a jolly, free-and-easy, hard-toiling and hardy race. The "folks" up about there live in very primitive style; their camps and houses are very useful, but not much addicted to the "ornamental." Howard had a very long, tedious and perilous _tramp_, on foot, during a part of his peregrinations, and coming at last upon the settlement of the log-men, he laid up several days, to recuperate. In the largest log building of the several in the neighborhood, Howard lodged; the weather was intensely cold--house crowded, and wood and game plenty. After a hard day's toil, in snow and water, these log-men felt very much inclined, to sleep. A huge fire was usually left upon the hearth, after the "tea things" were put away, Howard gave them a _choon_ or two, and then the woodmen lumbered up a rude set of steps--into a capacious loft overhead, and there, amid the old quilts, robes, skins and straw, enjoyed their sound and refreshing sleep--with a slight drawback.

Among these men of the woods, was a hard old nut, called and known among them as--_Old Tantabolus!_ He was a wiry and hardy old rooster; though his frosty poll spoke of the many, many years he had "been around," his body was yet firm and his perceptions yet clear. The old man was a grand spinner of yarns; he had been all around creation, and various other places not set down in the maps. He had been a soldier and sailor: been blown up and shot down: had had all the various ills flesh was heir to: suffered from shipwreck and indigestion: witnessed the frowns and smiles of fortune--especially the _frowns_; in short, according to old man Tantabolus's own account of himself, he had seen more ups and downs, and made more narrow and wonderful escapes, than Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver both together--with Baron Trenck into the bargain!

For the first season, the old man and his narrations, being fresh and novel, he was quite a _lion_ among the woodmen, but now that the novelty had worn off, and they'd got used to his long yarns, they voted him "an old bore!" The old fellow smoked a tremendous pipe, with tobacco strong enough to give a Spaniard the "yaller fever." He would eat his supper, light his pipe--sit down by the fire, and spin yarns, as long as a listener remained, and longer. In short, Old Tantabolus would _spin_ them all to bed, and then make their heads spin, with the clouds of _baccy_ smoke with which he'd fill the _ranche_.

Going to bed, at length, on a bunk in a corner, the old chap would wheeze and snore for an hour or two, and then turning out again, between daybreak and midnight, Old Tantabolus would pile on a cord or two of fresh wood--raise a roaring fire--make the _ranche_ hot enough to roast an ox, then treat all hands to another _stifling_ with his old _calumet_, and n.i.g.g.e.r-head tobacco! Then would commence a--

"A-booh! oo-_oo!_" by one of the lodgers, overhead.

"Boo-oo-_ooh!_ Old Tantabolus's got that--booh-oo-oo-_oo_,--pipe of his'n again,--boo-oo-oo!" chimed another.

"A-a-a-_chee!_ oo-oo-augh-h-h-_ch-chee!_ Cuss that--a-_chee_--pipe.

Tantabolus, you old hoss-marine, put out that--a-_chee!_--darn'd old pipe!" bawled another.

"A'_nand_?" was the old fellow's usual reply.

"A-boo-ooh-_ooh!_" hoa.r.s.e and loud as a boatswain's call, in a gale of wind, would be issued from the throat of an old "logger," as the fumigacious odor interfered with his respiratory arrangements, and then would follow a miscellaneous--

"A-_chee_-o! Ah-_chee!_ boo-ooh-oo-_ooh!_" tapering off with divers curses and threats, upon Old Tantabolus and his villanous habits of arousing "the whole community" in "the dead watches and middle of the night," with heat and smoke, no flesh and blood but his own could apparently endure.

At length, a private _caucus_ was held, and a diabolical plan set, to put a summary end to the grievous nuisances engendered by Old Tantabolus--"_let's blow him up!_"

And this they agreed to do in _this_ wise. Before "retiring to rest," as we say in civilized _parlance_, the lodging community were in the habit of laying in a surplus of firewood, alongside of the capacious fire-place, in order--should a very common occurrence _occur_,--i. e., a fall of snow six to ten feet deep, and kiver things all up, the insiders might have wherewith to make themselves comfortable, until they could work out and provide more. But Old Tantabolus was in the wasteful practice of turning out and burning up all this extra fuel; so the caucus agreed to bore an inch and a quarter hole into a solid stick--pack it with powder--lay it among the wood, and when Old Tantabolus _riz_ to fire up, he'd be blowed out of the building, and disappear--_in a blue blaze!_ Well, poor old man, Tantabolus, quite unconscious of the dire explosion awaiting him, told his yarns, next evening, with greater _gusto_ than usual, and one after another of his listeners finally dropped off to _roost_, in the loft above, leaving the old man to go it alone--finish his pipe, stagnate the air and go to his bunk, which, as was his wont to do--he did. Stillness reigned supreme; though Old Tantabolus took his usual snooze in very apparent confidence, many of his no less weary companions above--watched for the approaching _tableaux!_ And they were gratified, to their heart's content, for the tableaux _came!_