brought news of Bonaparte's being killed (some
said, positively, broiled and eaten) by the
Cossacks, of the restoration of the Bourbons, and of
the taking of Paris by the allies. He had
just landed on the beach; and this much he
allowed to transpire, that he bore most
important despatches—- more important, indeed,
than had been received in this country for
twenty years.

Mr. Wright, the landlord of the Ship, was then
called into the room of the mysterious stranger,
round whose door a crowd of admiring persons
were whispering, their faces full of wonder and
curiosity. The officer removing his German
cap with the pale gold band round it, required
paper, pens, and ink directly, in order to write
to the port-admiral. He wrote in the coffee-
room, now full of the roused inmates of the
hotel, while the chaise and four was getting
ready.

Presently, Admiral Foley got the glorious
news, spread it in a fresh circle, and forwarded
it at once to Mr. Croker, at the Admiralty, it
being too hazy to telegraph. In the mean
time, off dashed the officer in the grey coat to
Canterbury, and from there to Sittingbourne,
feeing every postilion with a napoleon. From
the Rose, at Sittingbourne, to the Crown, at
Rochester, on rolled the fiery wheels for the
Granby, at Dartford. As they went, they sowed,
as it were, wonder and delight; for was not
Bonaparte dead at last, and the great war over
with a thunder-stroke?

The postilions were first ordered to drive to
the Mansion House, to tell the Lord Mayor;
but when in Cheapside, it suddenly occurred
to the mysterious officer—- De Bourg, as he
called himself—- that the ministers would be
offended if he did not see them first. So
he turned the horses to Downing-street; but
eventually paid off the chaise, and got out and
walked, to get there quicker.

Two other couriers, with the same important
news, had, singularly enough, arrived at Northfleet
on the Monday morning in a six-oared
cutter. They instantly ordered a post-chaise
for London. These gentlemen assumed an air
of historical importance, and they wore white
Bourbon cockades in their large cocked-hats,
to show that they brought startling news.
They had, it appeared, been in an open boat in
the Channel all night, and were haggard and
fagued. This was about eight o'clock, and they
ordered an instant post-chaise for Westminster.
When they got to Shooter's-hill, the postboy
on the leader was told not to distress the horses
up the hill, but to rattle on well afterwards.
The gates were three shillings. One of the gentlemen,
reckless with excitement, gave the boys
twelve shillings each for driving. The horses, for
the last few stages, had been embowered in
laurel-boughs. The route was to be over London-
bridge, down Lombard-street, over Blackfriars-
bridge, and down the New-cut. When in sight
of the Marsh-gate, the postilions were ordered
to stop. The two gentlemen then got out,
tied up their military cocked-hats in pocket-
handkerchiefs, put on round ones, and walked
away. This was about eleven, and the mysterious
strangers appeared no more above the
horizon. But soon up went the funds, as
quick as the mercury when you put a lighted
candle near the bulb. Up, up, up! there was
no stopping them; they went soaring like
balloons.

That very day the mysterious officer drove to
Lord Cochrane's in a hackney-coach; but Lord
Cochrane had gone to the City—- to a manufactory,
to watch the progress of a new sort of
naval signal-lamp he had just patented. The
flag-captain was all but ready to start for his
ship, and his valet was at that moment busy
selecting his master's clothes from the wardrobe.
A short time afterwards, a servant brought
a note to Lord Cochrane, at the manufactory,
so illegibly written, either from excitement or
from haste, that the name of the writer could
not be deciphered. It came, the man said,
from a military officer who had called, and who
was waiting Lord Cochrane's return. Lord
Cochrane, fearing it might be a messenger from
the Peninsula, with tidings of his younger
brother, who was serving there under Wellington,
and was dangerously ill, hurried home, and, to
his surprise, found the writer of the note was
De Berenger. He appeared uneasy and agitated,
shabby and hopeless. Poverty had taken from
him much of the self-respect of a gentleman.
He was no longer the embarrassed officer pressing
a claim. He was now a mendicant, crying
for bread. He stated that he was environed by
serious embarrassments, and that his last hope
would fail if he were not permitted to accompany
Lord Cochrane. He had kept his lodgings so
as to be ready to join the ship at once, if he
were successful in this final appeal. Cochrane
felt much distressed to behold a gentleman, of
whose military talents he had so high an
opinion, in so pitiable a position. He told him
he would do anything he could to assist him,
but that he could not possibly take him on
board the Tonnant. De Berenger again and
again passionately renewed his request. When
he found that it was hopeless, he professed to
be almost mad with despair; for he said he had
called on Lord Cochrane, making sure his
services would be accepted, and that he should be
allowed to join the Tonnant at once. Lord Cochrane
repeated to him that if any of De Berenger's
own friends succeeded in influencing the
Admiralty in his favour, and if he procured their
sanction in time to join the Tonnant at Portsmouth (it
sailed from Chatham), he would take him on board.
De Berenger pretended to clutch at this last
chance, but stated that he could not call on Lord
Yarmouth in his military uniform, or appear in
public so dressed; for he was a prisoner in the
Rules of the King's Bench, and might be recognised
if clad so conspicuously. He said he
must use a great liberty, and begged Cochrane
to lend him a civilian's hat. He had a
great-coat over his uniform. Cochrane gave
him the hat, and he wrapped up his own in a
towel. Cochrane saw that his uniform could