"Hurl down the Guard, and the field is ours! ... Hurl down the Guard, aha!"
"She always loved violets. These have no scent, ... but hers—oh, they were sweet!"
They spread him beside the Jurist in the moonlight—with a certain effect of symmetry
... the great bag on his back, undiminished, save for two warrants and one private missive
What she was saying was sufficiently remarkable: "Your Majesty mistakes"
"Positively, a bird from the tyrant’s aviary," he cried. "A foreign, French bird!"
His child-wife! ... The watchman was chanting the tale of the first morning hour
_"Is it not," remarks Fiddler Hans the wanderer, somewhere in these pages, "instructive to see how the ruler of Westphalia passes his time while the best manhood of his country is warring for the Empire—burnt in Spain, frozen in Russia?"_
_Few people have cared, it would seem, to study that little chapter of history, the rule of Jerome in Westphalia; yet it is curious enough—as a record of human folly, if for no other reason._
_That incredible Westphalia of Napoleon’s making! Harlequin’s coat contrived out of Hesse, Brunswick, and a score of smaller principalities, hemmed with a shred or two of Prussian province; incongruous rag torn from the map of the old Germanic Empire and flung by the conqueror, between two victories, to his "little brother Jerome"!_
_A strangely pusillanimous character was the amiable Jerome. His annals include, in the days of his youth, flight from his ship, within sight of an English blockading squadron (not through cowardice, be it said: there was pluck enough in the little man, but because of his thirst for the pleasures of land), and, in more mature years, desertion from the Grand Army at a crucial moment, upon the mere impulse of wounded vanity. How so grotesque a potentate was allowed, for seven years, to lord over, to plunder and demoralize, some three millions of sturdy Germans, to discredit the name of Bonaparte and weaken the fabric of the new Empire, remains one of the enigmas of history._
_But, then, the new Emperor must ever be a maker of kings; carve new kingdoms out of old. For his "Beau Sabreur," Murat, there is Naples and the Two Sicilies; for his infant son, nothing less than Rome; for his younger brothers, Holland, Spain, ... Westphalia! What is there to restrain great Cæsar? Hark to his mighty insolence:_