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In 1808, a learned Italian, noble by birth, in consequence of the movements and executions of Napoleon, found it prudent to shave off his moustache and titles, and change the scene of his future life, as well as change his name. A master of languages and a man of mind, he sought the learned precincts of Leipsic, Germany, where he preserved his incognito, though he was not long in winning the grace, and other considerations due enlarged intellect, from those not lacking that invaluable commodity themselves. Herr Beethoven–the new title of our Italian “mi lord”–conceived the project of convincing the mighty Emperor–the hero of the sword–that so little a javelin as the pen could puncture the sac containing all his great pretensions, and let the vapor out; in short, to show the conqueror, that the pen was mightier than his magic sword. Beethoven purposed writing a pamphlet memorial, involving the bombastic pretensions, the gigantic extravagance and arrogant ambition of Bonaparte. The man of letters well knew the ground upon which he was to tread, the danger of ambushed foes, involving such a brochure, and the caution necessary with which he was to produce his work. But Beethoven felt the necessity of the production; he possessed the power to execute a great benefit to his fellow man, and he determined to wield it and take the chances. Though scarcely giving breath to his project–guarding each page of his writing as vigilantly as though they were each blessed with the enchantment of a Koh-i-Noor –a mysterious agency discovered the fact–Napoleon shook in his royal boots, and swore in good round French, when the following missive reached his royal eye:–

Sire(!)

–A plot is brewing against your peace; the safety of your throne is menaced by a villainous scribe. My informant, who has read the manuscripts, informs me that he has never seen any thing better or more imposing, and ingenious in argument and force, than the fellow’s appeal to all the crowned heads and people of Europe. It is calculated to carry an irresistible conviction of the wrongs they suffer from your imperial majesty to every breast. These manuscripts are fraught with more danger to your Imperial Majesty’s Empire, than all the hostile bayonets in the world combined against you, Sire.

Leipsic, 1808. Baron De—-.

Here was a hot shot dangling over the magazines of the mighty man, and the “little corporal” jumped into his boots, and began to set the wheels of his great “expediency” in motion. A message flew here, and another there; a dispatch to this one, and a royal order to that one. A dozen secretaries, and a score of amanuensises were instantly at work, and the alarmed “Emperor of all the French” fairly beat the reveille upon his diamond-cased snuff box; while, with the rapidity of the clapper of an alarm bell, he issued to each the oral order to which they were to lend enchantment by their rapid quills.

Herr Beethoven was surprised in his very closet! Papers were found scattered all over his little sanctum–the spies had him and his effects, most promptly; but what was the rage and disappointment of the emissaries of the wily monarch, to find neither hair nor hide of the dreaded fiat! Had it gone forth? Was it secreted? Was it written?

They had the man, but his flesh and blood were as valueless as a pebble to a diamond, contrasted with the witchery of the words he had invested a few sheets of simple paper with! They searched his clothes–tore up his bed, broke up his furniture, powdered his few pieces of statuary, but all in vain–the sought for, dreaded, and hated documents, for which his Imperial highness would have secretly given ten–twenty–fifty thousand louis –was not to be found! The rage of the inquisitors was terrific–showing how well they were chosen or paid, to serve in their atrocious capacities. The poor scribe was promised all manner of unpleasant finales, cursed, menaced, and finally coaxed.