CHAPTER XVII.

Left to myself in the earlier part of the day, I wandered, wistful and

lonely, through the vast wilderness of London. By degrees I

familiarised myself with that populous solitude. I ceased to pine for

the green fields. That active energy all around, at first saddening,

became soon exhilarating, and at last contagious. To an industrious

mind nothing is so catching as industry! I began to grow weary of my

golden holiday of unlaborious childhood, to sigh for toil, to look

around me for a career. The University, which I had before anticipated

with pleasure, seemed now to fade into a dull monastic prospect: after

having trod the streets of London, to wander through cloisters was to

go back in life. Day by day, my mind grew sensibly within me; it came

out from the rosy twilight of boyhood--it felt the doom of Cain, under

the broad sun of man.

Uncle Jack soon became absorbed in his new speculation for the good of

the human race, and, except at meals, (whereat, to do him justice, he

was punctual enough, though he did not keep us in ignorance of the

sacrifices he made, and the invitations he refused, for our sake,) we

seldom saw him. The Captain, too, generally vanished after breakfast;

seldom dined with us; and it was often late before he returned. He had

the latch-key of the house, and let himself in when he pleased.

Sometimes (for his chamber was next to mine) his step on the stairs

awoke me; and sometimes I heard him pace his room with perturbed

strides, or fancied that I caught a low groan. He became every day

more care-worn in appearance, and every day the hair seemed more gray.

Yet he talked to us all easily and cheerfully; and I thought that I

was the only one in the house who perceived the gnawing pangs over

which the stout old Spartan drew the decorous cloak.

Pity, blended with admiration, made me curious to learn how these

absent days, that brought nights so disturbed, were consumed. I felt

that if I could master his secret, I might win the right both to

comfort and to aid.

I resolved at length, after many conscientious scruples, to endeavour

to satisfy a curiosity, excused by its motives.

Accordingly, one morning, after watching him from the house, I stole

in his track, and followed him at a distance.

And this was the outline of his day. He set off at first with a firm

stride, despite his lameness--his gaunt figure erect, the soldierly

chest well thrown out from the threadbare but speckless coat. First,

he took his way towards the purlieus of Leicester Square; several

times, to and fro, did he pace the isthmus that leads from Piccadilly

into that reservoir of foreigners, and the lanes and courts that start

thence towards St Martin's. After an hour or two so passed, the step

became more slow; and often the sleek napless hat was lifted up, and

the brow wiped. At length he bent his way towards the two great

theatres, paused before the play-bills, as if deliberating seriously

on the chances of entertainment they severally proffered, wandered

slowly through the small streets that surround those temples of the

muse, and finally emerged into the Strand. There he rested himself for

an hour at a small cook-shop; and, as I passed the window, and glanced

within, I could see him seated before the simple dinner, which he

scarcely touched, and poring over the advertisement columns of the

_Times_. The _Times_ finished, and a few morsels distastefully

swallowed, the Captain put down his shilling in silence, received his

pence in exchange, and I had just time to slip aside as he reappeared

at the threshold. He looked round as he lingered, but I took care he

should not detect me; and then struck off towards the more fashionable

quarters of the town. It was now the afternoon, and, though not yet

the season, the streets swarmed with life. As he came into Waterloo

Place, a slight figure buttoned up across the breast, like his own,

cantered by on a handsome bay horse--every eye was on that figure.

Uncle Roland stopped short, and lifted his hand to his hat; the rider

touched his own with his fore-finger, and cantered on,--Uncle Roland

turned round and gazed.

"Who," I asked, of a shop-boy just before me, who was also staring

with all his eyes--"who is that gentleman on horseback?"

"Why, the Duke, to be sure," said the boy, contemptuously.

"The Duke?"

"Wellington--stu-pid!"

"Thank you," said I meekly. Uncle Roland had moved on into Regent

Street, but with a brisker step: the sight of the old chief had done

the old soldier good. Here again he paced to and fro; till I, watching

him from the other side the way, was ready to drop with fatigue, stout

walker though I was. But the Captain's day was not half done. He took

out his watch, put it to his ear, and then, replacing it, passed into

Bond Street, and thence into Hyde Park. There, evidently wearied out,

he leant against the rails, near the bronze statue, in an attitude

that spoke despondency. I seated myself on the grass near the statue

and gazed at him: the park was empty compared with the streets, but

still there were some equestrian idlers and many foot-loungers. My

uncle's eye turned wistfully on each: once or twice, some gentleman of

a military aspect (which I had already learned to detect) stopped,

looked at him, approached and spoke; but the Captain seemed as if

ashamed of such greetings. He answered shortly, and turned again.

The day waned--evening came on--the Captain again looked at his

watch--shook his head, and made his way to a bench, where he sat

perfectly motionless; his hat over his brows, his arms folded; till

uprose the moon. I had tasted nothing since breakfast; I was famished,

but I still kept my post like an old Roman sentinel.

At length the Captain rose, and re-entered Piccadilly; but how

different his mien and bearing! languid, stooping, his chest sunk--his

head inclined--his limbs dragging one after the other, his lameness

painfully perceptible. What a contrast in the broken invalid at night,

from the stalwart veteran of the morning!

How I longed to spring forward to offer my arm! but I did not dare.

The Captain stopped near a cab-stand. He put his hand in his

pocket--he drew out his purse--he passed his fingers over the

net-work; the purse slipped again into the pocket, and as if with a

heroic effort, my uncle drew up his head, and walked on sturdily.

'Where next?' thought I. 'Surely home! No, he is pitiless.'

The Captain stopped not till he arrived at one of the small theatres

in the Strand; then he read the bill, and asked if half-price was

begun. "Just begun," was the answer, and the Captain entered. I also

took a ticket and followed. Passing by the open doors of a refreshment

room, I fortified myself with some biscuits and soda water. And in

another minute, for the first time in my life I beheld a play. But the

play did not fascinate me. It was the middle of some jocular

after-piece, roars of laughter resounded round me. I could detect

nothing to laugh at, and sending my keen eyes into every corner, I

perceived at last, in the uppermost tier, one face as saturnine as my

own. _Eureka!_ It was the Captain's! 'Why should he go to a play if he

enjoys it so little?' thought I: 'better have spent a shilling on a

cab, poor old fellow!'

But soon came smart-looking men, and still smarter-looking ladies,

around the solitary corner of the poor Captain. He grew fidgety--he

rose--he vanished. I left my place, and stood without the box to watch

for him. Down stairs he stumped--I recoiled into the shade; and after

standing a moment or two, as in doubt, he entered boldly the

refreshment room, or saloon.

Now, since I had left that saloon, it had become crowded, and I

slipped in unobserved. Strange was it, grotesque, yet pathetic, to

mark the old soldier in the midst of that gay swarm. He towered above

all like a Homeric hero, a head taller than the tallest; and his

appearance was so remarkable, that it invited the instant attention of

the fair. I, in my simplicity, thought it was the natural tenderness

of that amiable and penetrating sex, ever quick to detect trouble, and

anxious to relieve it, that induced three ladies, in silk attire--one

having a hat and plume, the other two with a profusion of ringlets--to

leave a little knot of gentlemen with whom they were conversing, and

to plant themselves before my uncle. I advanced through the press to

hear what passed.

"You are looking for some one, I'm sure," quoth one familiarly,

tapping his arm with her fan.

The Captain started. "Ma'am, you are not wrong," said he.

"Can I do as well?" said one of those compassionate angels, with

heavenly sweetness.

"You are very kind, I thank you: no, no, Ma'am," said the Captain,

with his best bow.

"Do take a glass of negus," said another, as her friend gave way to

her. "You seem tired, and so am I. Here, this way;" and she took hold

of his arm to lead him to the table. The Captain shook his head

mournfully; and then, as if become suddenly aware of the nature of the

attention so lavished on him, he looked down upon these fair Armidas

with a look of such mild reproach--such sweet compassion--not shaking

off the hand in his chivalrous devotion to the sex, which extended

even to all its outcasts--that each bold eye fell abashed. The hand

was timidly and involuntarily withdrawn from the arm, and my uncle

passed his way.

He threaded the crowd, passed out at the farther door, and I, guessing

his intention, was in waiting for his steps in the street.

"Now home at last, thank heaven!" thought I. Mistaken still! My uncle

went first towards that popular haunt, which I have since discovered

is called "the Shades;" but he soon re-emerged, and finally he knocked

at the door of a private house, in one of the streets out of St

James's. It was opened jealously, and closed as he entered, leaving me

without. What could this house be? As I stood and watched, some other

men approached,--again the low single knock,--again the jealous

opening, and the stealthy entrance.

A policeman passed and repassed me. "Don't be tempted, young man,"

said he, looking hard at me: "take my advice, and go home."

"What is that house, then?" said I, with a sort of shudder at this

ominous warning.

"Oh, you know."

"Not I. I am new to London."

"It is a hell," said the policeman--satisfied, by my frank manner,

that I spoke the truth.

"God bless me,--a what! I could not have heard you rightly?"

"A hell; a gambling-house!"

"Oh!" and I moved on. Could Captain Roland, the rigid, the thrifty,

the penurious, be a gambler? The light broke on me at once; the

unhappy father sought his son! I leant against the post, and tried

hard not to sob.

By-and-by, I heard the door open: the Captain came out and took the

way homeward. I ran on before, and got in first, to the inexpressible

relief both of father and mother, who had not seen me since breakfast,

and who were in equal consternation at my absence. I submitted to be

scolded with a good grace. "I had been sight-seeing, and lost my way;"

begged for some supper, and slunk to bed; and five minutes afterwards

the Captain's jaded step came wearily up the stairs.

MODERN TOURISM.[15]

[15] _Eastern Life, Past and Present._ By HARRIET MARTINEAU.

The merits of the railroad and the steam-boat have been prodigiously

vaunted, and we have no desire to depreciate the advantages of either.

No doubt they carry us from town to town with greater rapidity than

our fathers ever dreamt of; and instead of the "High-flyer coach,

averaging ten miles an hour," whirl us over fifty. No doubt they are

convenient for the viator who desires to reach America in a fortnight,

or for the Queen's messenger who must be in Paris within the next

twelve hours. No doubt they are first-rate inventions for an

elopement, a fugitive debtor, or a banished king. But, they have

afflicted our generation with one desperate evil; they have covered

Europe with Tourists, all pen in hand, all determined not to let a

henroost remain undescribed, all portfolioed, all handbooked, all

"getting up a Journal," and all pouring their busy nothings on the

"reading public," without compassion or conscience, at the beginning

of the "season."

That the ignorant should write ignorantly, that professional

sight-hunters should go sight-hunting to the ends of the earth, that

minds born for nothing but scribbling should scribble to their last

drop of ink or blood, can neither surprise nor irritate; but that they

should publish, is the crime.

If we are told that this is but a harmless impertinence after all, we

reply--No, it does general mischief; it spoils all rational travel; it

disgusts all intelligent curiosity; it repels the student, the

philosopher, and the manly investigator, from subjects which have been

thus trampled into mire by the hoofs of a whole tribe of travelling

bipeds, who might rejoice to exchange brains with the animals which

they ride.

No sooner does the year shake off its robe of snow, and the sun begin

to glimmer again, than the whole tribe are in motion; no matter where,

all places are alike to their pens--the North Pole or the Antarctic.

One of them thinks America an unexhausted subject, and we find her

instantly on board the good ship Columbia, flying in the teeth of wind

and tide, to caricature New York. Another puts on her wings for that

unknown spot called Vienna; sends in her card to nobles and ministers;

caricatures them too; talks of faces which she had never seen,

describes fêtes to which she would never have been admitted, and

quotes conversations which she never heard. Another takes a sweep of

the French coast, and showers us with worn-out romance and modern

vapidity, till we are sick of the art of printing, and long for the

return of that happy period when the chief occupations of the fair sex

were cookery and samplers. To all this, however, there _are_

exceptions; some of the sex, modest, well-informed, and capable of

informing others, indulge the world, from time to time, with works

which "it would not willingly let die." But our _horror_ is the

professional tourist; the woman who runs abroad to forage for

publication; reimports her baggage, bursting with a periodical

gathering of nonsense; and with a freight of folly, at once empty as

air and heavy as lead, discharges the whole at the heads of a

suffering people.

Miss Martineau, however, deserves to stand in another category. She is

a lively writer; if she seldom enlightens the reader of her pages, she

seldom sends him to sleep; she prattles amusingly; and by the help of

Wilkinson and Lane for the antique, and her own ear-trumpet and

spectacles for the modern, she makes out of an Egyptian ramble a very

readable book. And this book is by no means a superfluity; for,

excepting Palestine, there is no country on earth which possesses so

strong an interest for the Biblical student; or will, within a few

years, possess so strong an interest for the whole political world.

France, Russia, and Italy, are probably at this moment alike

speculating on the changes which threaten Egypt. The death of Mehemet

Ali cannot be far off. Ibrahim is sickly. The succession of eastern

dynasties is the reverse of regular; and if by any chance war were

lighted up at one end of the Mediterranean, it would be sure to burst

out at the other. Egypt would be the prize of battle. To England the

possession would be of little value; she has colonies enough, and she

certainly will not be guilty of the crime of usurpation; but it will

be of first-rate importance to her that Egypt shall not fall into the

hands of a hostile power; for she cannot suffer her road to India to

be barred up. Her natural policy would be to see it restored to the

Ottoman. But how long will the Ottoman himself last? A Russian fleet

at the mouth of the Bosphorus, with a Russian army encamped on the

plains of Adrianople, would settle the occupancy in a week. In the

mean time, France keeps up a powerful army in Algeria; and the

question is, which would be first in the race for Alexandria? We

observe that Ibrahim is building fortifications, and concentrating his

strength on the sea-side; and the sagacity of this gallant son of a

gallant father must often look to the sands of the Libyan desert, and

listen for the sounds of the trumpet from the shores of Cyreniaca.

Miss Martineau is lady-president of the gossip school; and it is one

of the especial characters of that school, to think that every trivial

occurrence of their lives merits the attention of mankind. She thus

informs us of the first _idea_ of her journey.

"In the autumn of 1846, I left home for, as I supposed, a few weeks,

to visit some of my family and friends. At Liverpool, I was invited by

my friends, Mr and Mrs Richard V. Yates, to accompany them in their

proposed travels in the East. At Malta, we fell in with Mr Joseph C.

Ewart, who presently joined our party, and remained with us till we

reached Malta on our return. There is nothing that I do not owe to my

companions for their unceasing care. They permitted me to read to them

my Egyptian Journal. There was not time for the others." All this is

in the purest style of gossipry. Her first views of Africa belong to

the same style. On a "lurid evening in November," she saw a something,

which, however, was _not_ the African shore, but an island. At last,

however she saw a headland, a sandy shore, a tower; but even this was

_not_ Egypt. So she steamed on, until certain signs gave the

presumption that Alexandria lay in the distance. She "expected" to

have arrived at noon, but was detained until twilight! All those

things might have happened to her if she had been sitting in a bathing

machine any where between Brighton and Dover,--the Martello supplying

the place of the Arab tower, to considerable advantage. She then

followed the route of the million, the Cairan canal, Cairo, and the

Nile, up to the Cataracts.

She has a picturesque pen, and describes well; her art being to strike

off the first impression on her mind, with the first impression on her

eye. One of her fellow-travellers had asked her whether she would wish

to have the first glimpse of the Pyramids; she made her way through

the passengers to the bows of the boat, and there indulged herself

with her triumph over the "careless talkers."

"In a minute, I saw them, emerging from behind a sandhill. They were

very small, for we were still twenty-five miles from Cairo. But there

could be no doubt about them for a moment, so sharp and clear were the

light and shadow on the two sides which we saw. I had been assured

that I should be disappointed in the first sight of the Pyramids. And

I had maintained that I could not be disappointed, as of all the

wonders of the world this is the most literal, and to a dweller among

mountains, like myself, the least imposing. I now found both my

informant and myself mistaken. So far from being disappointed, I was

filled with surprise and awe; and so far from having anticipated what

I saw, I felt as if I had never before looked on any thing so new, as

those clear, vivid masses, with their sharp blue shadows, standing

firm and alone in their expanse of sand. In a few minutes they

appeared to grow wonderfully larger, and they looked lustrous and most

imposing in the evening light. This impression of the Pyramids was

never fully renewed. I admired them every evening from my window at

Cairo, and I took the surest means of convincing myself of their

vastness, by going to the top of the largest; but this first view of

them was the most moving, and I cannot think of it now without

emotion."

It is remarkable that, after some thousand years of ancient inquiry,

and at least a century of keen and even of toilsome research, by

modern scholarship, the world knows little more of the Pyramids than

it knew, when the priesthood kept all the secrets of Egypt. By whom

they were built, for what, or when, have given birth to volumes of

researches; but to those questions no answers have been given worth

the paper they cost in answering. Whether they were built by Israelite

slaves or by Asiatic invaders, for sacrifice or for sepulture, or for

both, or for the glory of individual kings, or for the memory of

dynasties, or for treasure-houses, or for astronomical purposes, or

for the mere employment of the multitude--workhouses having probably

found their origin in Egypt--or for the rough ostentation of royal

power: all are points undetermined since the travels of Herodotus. But

that they must have cost stupendous toil, there is full evidence--the

great Pyramid covering thirteen acres; exhibiting a mass of stone

equal to _six_ Plymouth break-waters, and rising to a height of 479

feet, or 15 feet higher than St Peter's spire, and 119 higher than St

Paul's.

But this style of monstrous building perplexes as much by its general

diffusion, as by the magnitude of its several instances. We find it

not only in Egypt, where the Pyramids spread for _seventy_ miles along

the western shore of the Nile, and once evidently clustered like Arab

tents, but in Upper Egypt and Nubia: they are to be found also in

Mesopotamia. The Birs Nimrod, (the temple of Belus,) and the Mujelibè,

near Babylon, were evidently built on the pyramidal plan, if not

actual pyramids. They have been found in India. They have been found

even on the other side of the Atlantic; and the largest in the world

is the pyramid of Cholula, in Mexico, covering an area of more than

forty-seven acres, or above _three_ times the base of the greatest

Egyptian pyramid. All the pyramids, in both Asia, Africa, and America,

have the sides facing the cardinal points, excepting those of

Nubia,--an exception probably arising from the rudeness of the people.

In many of those pyramids, remnants of the dead, and bones of the

lower animals, have been found; but both may have been placed there

for purposes of superstition. The resistance of the pyramidal form to

the effects of climate has been surmised as the origin of the choice;

but the equatorial countries of the East know little of the weather

which, among us, destroys public constructions. It is at least

possible, that a form so little adapted to dwelling, or to any of the

common uses of life, or even to the direct purposes of sepulture, may

have been chosen, from its resemblance to the shape of flame kindled

on a large scale. The Egyptians chiefly buried their dead in

catacombs. The pyramid was undoubtedly borrowed from the East; and,

like the obelisk--also an Eastern memorial, whose general uselessness

still perplexes inquiry--may have been an emblem of that worship of

fire, which ascends to so remote an antiquity, was the worship of the

early East, and was, we are strongly inclined to believe, the general

worship of the apostate antediluvian world.

There is no country on earth which more curiously substantiates the

saying of the wisest of kings, that "there, is nothing new under the

sun," than Egypt. Every art of European life, and even of European

luxury, finds its delineation among the tombs; every incident of

society, whether serious or trifling, has its record on those

subterranean walls; we find every occupation, every enjoyment, every

national festivity, and every sport, from the nursery up to the

assemblage of the wrestler, the runner, and the dancer, in short, the

whole course of public and private existence, three thousand years

ago, is revealed and revived for the intelligence and admiration of

the nineteenth century of the Christian era. Why those miscellanies of

life should be in tombs, where they must have been shut up from the

living eye--why such labour of delineation, why such incongruity of

subject to the place, why such cost lavished on designs in the grave,

are all problems, which must remain beyond human answer, but which

render Egypt the most interesting of all dead nations to the living

world. Are those wonders, those intimations of greater wonders, those

achievements of the arts, fully explored? Certainly not. We quite

agree with Miss Martineau, that the most fortunate boon for Europe

would be some mighty van or ventilator, which will blow away all the

sands of Egypt. What a scene would then be opened!

"One statue and sarcophagus, brought from Memphis, was buried 130 feet

below the surface. Who knows but that the greater part of old Memphis,

and of other glorious cities, lies almost unharmed beneath the sand?

Who can say what armies of sphinxes might start up on the banks of the

river, or come forth from the hill-sides of the interior, when the

cloud of sand had been wafted away? The ruins which we now go to study

might then occupy only eminences, while below might be miles of

colonnade, temples intact, and gods and goddesses safe in their

sanctuaries!"

If this is the language of enthusiasm, there can be no question that

barbarism and time have covered a large portion of the old glories of

Egypt from the eye of man; and that, while what remains for the view

of the traveller is mutilated and worn away, the much finer portion

may be reserved for the triumph of the investigator spade in hand.

One of the best features of the book is the dexterity with which those

tomb-pictures are interpreted by Miss Martineau's narrative. Every one

knows, that the majority of those pictures, though often brilliantly

coloured, exhibit nothing but isolated or ill-placed figures, of the

rudest outline, and the most ungainly attitudes. They have a meaning;

yet to ascertain that meaning, and combine their action, demands

considerable imaginative skill. We have a clever instance of this art

in the description of one of the tombs.

The writer sees, in one compartment, the master of a family. He is

evidently opulent--a man of large possessions--a landlord; he has his

people round him--ploughing, sowing, harrowing, reaping, thrashing,

winnowing.

But the landlord is also a sportsman; he has round him game, geese,

and fish. He is also a man of luxury; he has a barge on the river, and

a pavilion built upon it. He is also a man of hospitality; there is a

banquet, with the master and his wife in a great chair; every lady has

a flower in her hand; a monkey is tied to the host's chair; and there

are musicians with a harp and the double pipe. But there is also a

final scene; the host dies, the banquets are no more, his _mummy_ is

in the consecrated boat, which is to carry him over the river of

death, and which deposits him in the land unknown.

All this is ingenious and probable, and if Miss Martineau had confined

herself to the picturesque, had sported her fancies in Egypt alone,

and never ventured beyond the Red Sea, we might close the book, giving

it all the praise due to an original and lively narrative. But when

she plays the theologian, we must stop, as we wish that she had done.

On leaving Egypt, her party turn their faces towards the Wilderness;

and here the pen of the rash writer rambles away into lucubrations,

neither consistent with the facts of history, nor suitable to the

feelings of the scene. She begins by manufacturing a romance for

Moses. She first tells us that he was "of the priestly _caste_," a

matter rendered utterly improbable by the declaration of Scripture,

that "by _faith_, when he was come to years, he refused to be called

the son of Pharaoh's daughter, choosing rather to suffer affliction

with the people of God." She then proceeds to tell us a great many

things, of which Moses has told us nothing: for example, that in the

desert, which she regards as a place peculiarly "fruitful of

meditation," (we doubt whether it produces much of this fruit among

the Bedouins,) Moses and "_Mahomet after him_" (valuable

companionship!) learned from the Past how to prophesy of the future.

"There," says Miss Martineau, "as Moses sat under the shrubby palm,

and its moist rock, did the Past come at the call of his instructed

memory, and tell him how those mighty Egyptians had been slaves, as

his Hebrew brethren now were," &c., and came to the conclusion (by no

means an unnatural one in any case of slavery,) "that the Hebrews must

be _removed_ and educated, before they could be established." We then

arrive at the confidential part of the story.

"In following up this course of speculation, he was led to perceive a

_mighty truth_, which appears to have been known to no man before

him,--the truth that all ideas are the common heritage of all men. (!)...

As the images crossed him in his solitude, of the religious feasts

of the Egyptians, the gross brute-worship into which they had sunk,

&c., he conceived the brave purpose, the noblest enterprise, I

believe, on record, of admitting every one of Jehovah's people to the

fullest possible knowledge of them."

Of all these meditations not an iota is mentioned in the Scriptures.

The story, however, goes on: Moses decided that the people must be

removed. It does not tell us _how_. But it was done. Three millions of

slaves were torn from the grasp of a king, at the head of an army of

six hundred chariots and horsemen. But the grand difficulty arose--if

they must be educated, where was to be the national school? who to be

their tutors? Moses _meditated_ again, and the difficulty vanished. He

had known the Arabs of the Wilderness long. Miss Martineau tells us

that he knew their honour, their virtues, their "_comparative_ piety!"

&c., &c.; and he determined to make them the teachers of his

Egyptianised people. In this fortunate expedient, she forgot, and

probably did not know, that those sons of desert simplicity,

hospitality, piety, and so forth, were the Amalekites, one of the most

ferocious tribes of earth, the savage borderers of Sinai; who no

sooner saw the advance of the Israelites than, instead of teaching

them the "virtues," they made a desperate _foray_ on them, and would

have butchered the whole population if they had not been beaten by a

miracle.

We are also entirely left in the dark, in this theory, as to the means

by which the nation were subsisted for forty years in the Wilderness,

where the thousandth part of their number could never since have

subsisted for as many days; how they swept before their undisciplined

crowd the armies of Palestine, stormed their fortresses, and took

possession of their land; how they acquired the most perfect system of

legislation in the ancient world; how they formed a religion

unrivalled in purity, truth, and sanctity; how they conceived a

ceremonial which was almost wholly a prophecy, the revelation of a

mightier than Moses to come, the pledge of a more comprehensive

religion, and the dawn of that triumph of truth over falsehood, which

was to be the hope, the consolation, and ultimately the glory of

mankind.

Need we remind the Christian, that the Scriptures account for all

those mighty things by the power and the mercy of the God of Israel

alone; that Moses was simply an instrument in the hand of Providence;

that so far from meditating in the desert, plans of Jewish liberation,

he was even a reluctant instrument. Every part of his character and

condition repelled the very idea of his acting from himself. He was

eighty years old; he had been forty years without seeing the face of

his countrymen; his bold spirit had been so much changed by time, as

to render him the "meekest" of men; and even when the miracle of the

Divine presence was before him, he pleaded his unfitness for the task,

and at length yielded only to the repeated command of Jehovah.

Willingly acquitting the writer of these volumes of all evil

intention, we regret that she should have touched on Palestine at all.

Whatever weakness there may be in her lucubrations on Moses, it is

fully matched by her lucubrations on what she calls "Bibliolatry." But

we shall not follow her rambles through subjects on which no mind

ought to look but with a sense of the narrowness of human faculties,

and with an humble and necessary solicitation for that loftier

enlightenment which is given only to the humble heart. The knowledge

of Scripture is to be attained only by the sincere search after truth,

by natural homage in the presence of Infinite Wisdom, and by the

intelligent exertion of mind, and the faithful gratitude, which alike

rejoice in obeying the revealed will of Heaven.

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND TWELVE.

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

In the spring of the year 1815, a youth of sixteen, Lewis Rellstab by

name, whom death had recently deprived of his father, left the Berlin

academy, where he was pursuing, with much success, the study of music,

to enter the Prussian army as a volunteer. Napoleon's return from Elba

had just called Germany to arms; and the rising generation, emulous of

their elder brethren, whose scars and decorations recalled the

glorious campaign of 1813, flocked to the Prussian banner. But young

Rellstab's moral courage and patriotic zeal exceeded his physical

capabilities. Recruiting officers shook their heads at his delicate

frame, and inspecting surgeons refused to pass him as able-bodied.

Rejected, he still persevered, entered a military school, and in due

time became officer of artillery. Leaving the service in 1821, he

fixed himself at Berlin, and applied diligently to literary pursuits.

He was already known as the author of songs of fair average merit,

some of which are popular in Germany to the present day; but now he

took up literature as a profession, stimulated to industry by loss of

fortune in an unlucky speculation. Of great perseverance and active

mind, he essayed his talents in various departments of the

belles-lettres, in journalism, polemics, and criticism. As a musical

critic, he ranks amongst the best. One of his early works, a satirical

tale entitled, "Henrietta, or the Beautiful Singer," was disapproved

by the authorities, and procured him several months' imprisonment in

the fortress of Spandau. At a later period, his systematic and

incessant opposition to Spontini the composer, from whose appointment

as director of the Berlin opera he foretold the ruin of the German

school of music, procured him other six weeks of similar punishment.

He has managed several newspapers in succession, and, in the intervals

of his editorial labours, has produced a number of tales and novels,

three sketchy volumes entitled "Paris and Algiers," and a tragedy

called "Eugene Aram." Simultaneously with these various occupations,

he has found time to form some excellent singers for the German stage,

and to advocate, with unwearying and successful zeal, the adoption of

railroads in Germany. With such accumulated avocations, it is not

surprising if his writings sometimes exhibit that lengthiness and

verbal superfluity, the usual consequence of hurried composition and

imperfect revision. Some of his best-conceived and most original tales

lose power from prolixity: his good materials, too, often lack

arrangement, and are encumbered with inferior matter. Still, he is one

of the few living German novelists whose works rise high above the

present dull, stagnant level of the light literature of his country.

It is not now our intention minutely to analyse Mr Rellstab's general

literary abilities, or to criticise the twenty compendious volumes

forming the latest edition of his complete works. We propose confining

ourselves to one novel, which we consider his masterpiece, as it also

is his longest and most important work, and the one most popular in

Germany. Notwithstanding the faults we have glanced at, we hold "1812"

the best novel of its class that for a long time has appeared in the

German language. Its historical and military chapters would, by their

fidelity and spirit, give it high rank in whatever tongue it had been

written. And the blemishes observable in its more imaginative and

romantic portions are chargeable less upon the author than upon the

foibles of the school and country to which he belongs.

It is a strong argument, were any needed, in favour of the superiority

of the English literature of the day over that of Germany, that twenty

English novels are translated into German for every German one that

appears in English. To say nothing of high class books which are

dished up in the Deutsch with incredible rapidity, (of Mr Warren's

last work, three translations appeared within a few days after it was

possible the original could have reached Germany,) all our more

prolific and popular English novelists receive the honours of

Germanisation. Not a catalogue of a German library or bookseller but

exhibits the names of Messrs Marryat, Dickens, James, Ainsworth,

Lever, &c., occupying the high places--exalted at the tops of columns,

in all the glory of Roman capitals; and truly not without reason, when

compared with most of the gentry that succeed and precede them. Their

works appear in every possible form,--detached, in "complete

editions," in "choice collections of foreign literature," even in

monthly parts, when so published in England. Authors who have written

less, or anonymously, or who are less known, must often be content to

forego the immortalisation of a Leipsic catalogue, although their

books will not the less be found there, sometimes with the bare

notification that they are from English sources; at others,

unceremoniously appropriated by the translator as results of his own

unaided genius. Equal liberties are taken with the romantic literature

of France and Sweden. Very different is the state of things in

England. A translation from the German, unless it be of a short tale

in a periodical, is a thing almost unknown--certainly of rare

occurrence. Miss Bremer's poultry-yard romances, and Christian

Andersen's novels, reached us through a German medium, but are

originally Scandinavian. The only other recent translations of novels,

in amount and volume worth the naming, are those from the French of

Sue, Dumas, and Co., amusing gentlemen enough; but the circulation of

whose works had, perhaps, just as well been confined to those capable

of reading them in the original. The German literature of the last

twenty years has yielded little to the English translator, or rather

has been little made use of; for, without entertaining a very exalted

opinion of its value and merit, it were absurd to suppose that some

good things might not be selected from the hundreds of novels, tales,

and romances, that each successive year brings forth in a country

where any man who can hold a pen, and is acquainted with orthography,

deems himself qualified for an author, and where an astonishingly

large proportion of the population act upon this conviction. Mr

Rellstab's "1812" is one of the few ears of wheat worthy of extraction

from the wilderness of tares and stubble. Its great length, which

might, however, have been advantageously curtailed, has, perhaps,

proved an obstacle to its translation. Moreover, it is but partially

known, even amongst the very limited number of English persons

(chiefly ladies) addicted to German reading. Of one thing we are

convinced,--that a book of equal merit appearing in England is certain

of prompt and reiterated reproduction in Germany; not only in the

language of that country, but in those piratical reprints which give

in an eighteen-penny duodecimo the contents of three half-guinea

post-octavos.

It is quite natural that Mr Rellstab, whose youthful predilections

were so strongly military, who himself wore the uniform during his

first six years of manhood, and who was contemporary, at the age when

impressions are strongest, of the gigantic wars waged by Napoleon in

Spain, Germany, and Russia, should recall with peculiar pleasure, at a

later period of his life, the martial deeds with which in his boyhood

all men's mouths were filled; that he should select them as a subject

for his pen, dwell willingly upon their details, and bestow the utmost

pains upon their illustration. His original plan of an historical

romance was far more comprehensive than the one to which he finally

adhered. He proposed employing as a stage for his actors all the

European countries then the theatre of war. This bold plan gave great

scope for contrast, allowing him to exhibit his personages, chiefly

military men, engaged alternately with the Cossack and the

Guerilla--alternately broiling under the sun of Castile, and frozen in

Muscovy's snows. But the project was more easily formed than executed;

and Mr Rellstab soon found (to use his own words) that he had taken

Hercules' club for a plaything. The mass was too ponderous to wield;

to interweave the entire military history of so busy a period with the

plot of a romance, entailed an army of characters and a series of

complications difficult to manage; and that might have ended by

wearying the reader. Convinced that his design was too ambitious, he

reduced it; limiting himself to the Russian campaign--itself no trifle

to grapple with. This plan he successfully carried out. He had hoped

to do so, he says, in three volumes, but was compelled to extend his

limits, and fill four. The necessity is not obvious. In our opinion,

"1812" would gain by compression (especially of the first half) within

the limits originally proposed. Although some well-drawn and

well-sustained characters are early introduced, and although the

reader obtains, in the very first chapter, a mystery to ruminate,

whilst of incident there is certainly an abundance, the real

fascination of the book resides in the account of the advance to

Moscow, of the conflagration of the city, and the subsequent retreat.

The great power and truthfulness with which these events are depicted,

convey the impression that the writer was an eyewitness of the scenes

he so well describes. As this was not the case, we cannot doubt that

Mr Rellstab obtained much information from some who made that terrible

campaign. He acknowledges his great obligation to Count Segur's

remarkable history.

As regards Mr Rellstab's plot, its ingenuity is undeniable, and, in

fact, excessive. More ingenious than probable, the coincidences are

too numerous and striking; the artist's hand is too visible. The

characters are too obliging in their exits and entrances; ever

vanishing and reappearing just at the right moment, and meeting each

other in the most unexpected and extraordinary manner. It is difficult

to lose sight of the wires; the movements of the puppets are

manifestly strained for the exhibitor's convenience. One never feels

sure who is the hero of the book; the young German most prominent in

its earlier portion, and who is intended for the principal character,

is a tame youth, and cuts quite a secondary figure in the latter

volumes. His friend Bernard, a joyous artist, whom circumstances

convert into a private soldier, and his commander the Polish Colonel

Rasinski, a worthy comrade of the heroic Poniatowsky, are much more

lifelike and interesting. The mysteries of the tale, and the

difficulties which of course beset the paths of the various pairs of

lovers, are pretty well cleared up and dispelled at the end of the

third volume. The fourth, which includes the worst portion of the

retreat, is perhaps the most interesting; partly for the very reason

that we have got rid of the private entanglements of the principal

personages, who are seen grouped together, and, including a lady,

struggling against the frightful hardships and dangers of that

unparalleled military disaster. It will give an idea of the tangled

nature of Mr Rellstab's plot and under-plots (all finally unravelled

with considerable cleverness) to state, that in the foremost row stand

five gentlemen and three ladies; that each of the ladies is beloved,

at one period or other of the story, by at least two of the gentlemen,

who, on the other hand, are all five bosom friends, and, in this

capacity, make the most magnanimous sacrifices of love to friendship.

Manifestly, the only way of getting out of such a fix, is to kill

freely, which Mr Rellstab accordingly does, the retreat from Moscow

affording him fine opportunities, whereof he unsparingly avails

himself. The closing chapter shows us the very numerous _dramatis

personæ_ reduced to two happy couples, dwelling, turtle-dove fashion,

in a garden near Dresden, and to an elderly Polish lady, on the wing

for America. Having thus told the end--a matter of very slight

importance to the interest of the book--we will take a glance at the

commencement.

The opening scene introduces us to a young German, who, after twelve

months passed in Italy at the conclusion of his academical studies, is

on his way back to his native land. The entrance of Napoleon's armies

is once more converting Northern Germany into a vast camp, and Ludwig

Rosen is hurrying homewards to the protection of his sister and

widowed mother, then living in retirement at Dresden. Upon his journey

to Italy, a year previously, he had encountered in the valley of Aosta

a party of travellers, to one of whom, a young and very lovely woman,

he restored a bracelet she had dropped upon the highway. Although this

led to no acquaintance or intercourse beyond the exchange of a few

sentences, the beauty of the foreigner (for such she certainly was,

although of what country it was hard to decide,) had left a very

strong impression upon the young man's memory and imagination. During

his residence in Italy he sought her every where, but in vain. He

could not trace her route; ignorant of her name, he knew not for whom

to inquire. Once more upon the threshold of Italy, about to quit the

romantic land where her image had so often filled his daydreams, he

pauses at the outskirts of Duomo d' Ossola, the last Italian town, to

take a fond and final look at the paradise he is on the point of

leaving. Travelling on foot, his motions depend but on his own

caprice, and he leaves the high-road to ascend an adjacent hillock,

commanding a fine view. The blast of a post-horn and crack of whips

break in upon his meditations, and an open travelling carriage rolls

rapidly along the causeway. In one of two women who occupy it, Rosen

thinks he recognises his incognita, but before he can reach the road,

the vehicle is in the town. It is evening, and Rosen, persuaded the

travellers will halt for the night at Duomo d' Ossola, hurries after

them to the open square where the guardhouse and the principal inn are

situated. The carriage stands at the door of the latter, but fresh

horses are being harnessed, and the youth's hopes of passing the night

under the same roof with the lady of his thoughts, and of improving

his very slight acquaintance with her, begin to vanish in vapour. An

unexpected incident again gives them consistence:--

"A large circle of idlers had collected round the travellers. An

officer, issuing from the guardhouse, a paper in his hand, made his

way through the crowd and approached the carriage-door: on his

appearance the young lady got out, and took a few steps to meet him.

The officer bowed and addressed her with great courtesy; but his

manner, and the deprecating shrug of his shoulders, indicated

inability to comply with some wish she had expressed. Ludwig drew

nearer; but as the lady--of whose identity with her he sought he grew

each moment more convinced--had her face turned from him, he made the

circuit of the crowd to obtain a sight of her countenance. Heavens, it

was herself! Her features were paler and more anxious than at their

last meeting, and a tear trembled in her beauteous blue eye. Yielding

to an irresistible impulse, Ludwig approached her, resolved, at risk

of offence, to greet the lovely being whose apparition had gladdened

his entrance into the glorious land he now was quitting, and to remind

her of the moment of their first meeting and too speedy separation. He

was encouraged to this step by beholding her unaccompanied, save by an

old servant seated upon the box, and by an elderly woman, to all

appearance an attendant, or humble companion. He hastily stepped

forward out of the crowd, which had fallen a little back. As he did

so, the lady's glance met his, and so sudden and joyful a glow

over-spread her features, that he could not for an instant doubt her

recognition of him. He was about to salute and address her, when, with

startling haste, she exclaimed in French, 'Here is my brother!' and

hurried to meet him. Before Ludwig, astounded at what he took for an

extraordinary mistake, had time to utter a word, she continued in

Italian, and in a loud tone, so that all around might hear and

understand, 'Thank God, brother, you are come at last!' Then, in a

rapid whisper, and in German, 'I am lost,' she said, 'if you deny me.'

With prompt decision, she turned to the officer, took the paper from

his hand and presented it to Ludwig. 'This gentleman would not admit

the regularity of our passport because you were not present,' said

she, reverting to the French language. 'See what trouble you give us,

dear brother, by your romantic partiality for byways! You are Count

Wallersheim,' she whispered in German.

"Startled and confounded as Ludwig was by this strange adventure, he

retained sufficient presence of mind to understand that it was in his

power to render important service to the beautiful woman who stood

anxious and tearful before him. Readily taking his cue, his reply was

prompt. 'Be not uneasy, dear sister,' he said, 'I will explain to the

gentleman.' He turned to the Frenchman, and in order to gain time and

some insight into the circumstances of the case, 'I must beg you,

sir,' he said 'to repeat your objections to our passport. Ladies have

little experience in such matters.' 'I have now,' replied the officer

'not the slightest objection to make. You are set down in the passport

as the companion of the countess your sister and yet you were not with

her. The passport was, consequently, not in order. The countess

certainly told me you had left her only for a short time, to ramble on

foot, and that you would rejoin her beyond the town; but at frontier

places, like Duomo d' Ossola, our orders are so strict that I should

have been compelled to detain the young lady till you made your

appearance. Rest assured, however, count, that I should, have held it

my duty to have had you sought upon the road to Sempione, to inform

you of the obstacle to your sister's progress. I strongly advise you

to remain with the countess so long as you are in this district, or

you will inevitably encounter delay and annoyance. Once over the Swiss

frontier, you are out of our jurisdiction, and travelling is easier.'

"Ludwig stood mute with astonishment, whilst the old servant got off

the box,--took from him, without observation, the light travelling

pouch that hung on his shoulder,--laid it in the carriage, and asked

him if he would be pleased to get in. Scarce conscious of what he

said, he gave the officer his hand, and uttered a few polite words.

The servant put down the carriage steps,--the gallant Frenchman

assisted the lady, who had muffled herself in her veil, to ascend

them,--bowed low, and repeated his wishes for their pleasant journey.

Ludwig, almost without knowing what he was about, took his place by

the side of the enigmatical fair one, whose duenna had discreetly

transferred herself to the opposite seat, and the carriage rattled

through the streets."

Once out of town, the mysterious stranger greets Ludwig as her

deliverer; and, before they cross the frontier, she has confided to

him as much as she proposes at that time to reveal of her exceptional

position. This does not, however, amount to a disclosure of her

family, name, or even of her country. She bids him call her

Bianca,--but with that he must rest content; and he is unable to

conjecture, from the slight accent with which she speaks German, or

from the language, to him unknown, in which she converses with her

companions, to what nation she belongs. She intimates that her destiny

is connected with the political events of the period,--that more than

her own life is in peril,--and accepts his enthusiastic offer to

sustain his assumed character, and to escort her, as her brother, to

Germany. Her companions are her _gouvernante_ and an old trusty

servant, and she would travel in safety were they the sole sharers of

her secret. But, unfortunately, a fourth person possesses it, who

accompanied her as far as Milan, under the name of Count

Wallersheim,--endeavoured to abuse the fraternal intimacy to which he

was admitted, and was indignantly repulsed. Bianca took an opportunity

to leave him behind, and is well assured that out of revenge he turned

traitor. The pursuers must already be upon her track,--each moment an

order for her arrest may overtake her. And she does not conceal from

Ludwig that, by accompanying her, he runs a heavy risk. This the

enamoured youth despises,--insists on acting as her champion and

defender, and keeps his seat in her carriage. That night they

encounter various perils on the Simplon; and, finally, are locked up

by an avalanche in a mountain gallery, whence they are not extricated

till morning. In the course of the night's adventures, Ludwig obtains

ground to suspect the existence of nearer ties between his two female

companions than those of mistress and servant. The excitement and

anxiety of the time, however, prevent his dwelling upon this

suspicion: the carriage is patched up, and the party reach Brieg, in

the Valais, where they are compelled to pause whilst their vehicle is

put in better repair. Whilst Bianca reposes, Ludwig strolls out of the

town. At about a mile from it, on his return, he is overtaken by a

horseman at full gallop, followed, at an interval of a few hundred

yards, by a second cavalier, and by a carriage at a pace nearly as

rapid. This headlong speed strikes Ludwig as remarkable. Before he has

time to reflect on its possible cause, he is addressed, in French, by

the first horseman.

"'Do you belong to Brieg, sir?'

"'No,' replied Ludwig. 'I am a traveller, and have just rambled out of

the town.'

"'Can you tell us if a carriage and four, with two ladies and a

gentleman, and a servant on the box, has arrived there?'

"Ludwig was on the point of answering No, when the post-chaise came up

and stopped. It contained a civilian and a French officer. The former

leaned out of the window, and repeated the horseman's question. This

gave Ludwig, who could not doubt the inquiries had reference to

Bianca, time to devise a safe answer. He remembered that the

post-house was at the commencement of the town, and that persons in

haste would be likely to change horses there without going to the inn

at all. This decided his reply.

"'Certainly,' said he quickly, 'such a carriage arrived some hours ago

with a broken axle, I believe, which was mended here. But about a

quarter of an hour back, just as I left the town, the strangers

resumed their journey.'

"'The devil!' exclaimed the man in the carriage: 'which road did they

take?'

"'The only one they could take, by Sion to Geneva,' replied Ludwig.

'You see it yonder, following the bank of the Rhone.'

"'Can we not cut across?' inquired the traveller hastily.

"'To be sure,' said the postilion, answering for Ludwig; 'just below

this we can turn sharp to the left; and if your Excellencies are not

afraid to ford the Rhone, even though the water should come into the

carriage a little, we avoid the town altogether, and save a good

half-hour. If your Excellencies allow me to take that road, never fear

but I will overtake the travellers. They must now just be passing

through yonder wood, otherwise we should see their carriage on the

highway.'

"'Is the cross-road dangerous?'

"'Not a bit. Only a little rough. In an hour at most we will catch

them, if your Excellencies will bear me harmless for passing the post

station.'

"'That will I,' replied the officer in the carriage; 'and what is

more, you shall have the twenty gold napoleons I promised you if you

caught the fugitives before they reached Brieg. Now on, and at speed.'

"The carriage dashed forward, the horsemen galloping on either side."

The above short extracts contain what may be termed the root of the

story, whence arise and branch forth a host of subsequent adventures.

The misdirection given by Ludwig to Bianca's pursuers, exercises,

especially, an extraordinary influence on his subsequent fortunes. In

the first instance, however, it gives the lady time to escape on foot

from the inn. Her two attendants, who are in fact her father and

mother, Russian nobles in disguise, join her at a place appointed

without the town, and Ludwig is to do the same, but misses his way,

and is unable to find the fugitives. Already deeply in love with the

interesting stranger, he is in despair at thus losing her; the more so

as he is still ignorant of her name, and his chances of tracing her

are even smaller than a year previously. After long but fruitless

search, he pursues his journey northwards in company with three Polish

officers, Rasinski, Jaromir, and Boleslaw, with whom he becomes

acquainted at an inn, and is soon very intimate. The Poles are on

their way to Dresden, to join Napoleon, then daily expected there, to

open the Russian campaign. The new friends travel for some time in

company. At Heidelberg an acquaintance puts a newspaper into Ludwig's

hand, and calls his attention to a singular advertisement. It is a

letter from Bianca to her unknown deliverer, couched in terms

intelligible to him alone, thanking him, expressing regret at their

sudden departure, and a wish that they may again meet, but giving no

clue by which to find her. More deeply in love than ever, he proceeds

to Dresden, where his invalid mother, and his beautiful sister Marie,

an enthusiast for German nationality and freedom, welcome the wanderer

with delight. There he also meets his friend Bernard, just returned

from a tour in England and northern Europe. On a pleasure excursion

with a party of ladies and Polish officers, Ludwig is seen and

recognised by the man whom he had misdirected in the Valais. This is a

Frenchman, named Beaucaire, formerly secretary to Bianca's father, now

the confidant and tool of Baron de St Luces, one of Napoleon's most

trusted agents,--half diplomatist, half policeman, with a dash of the

spy. Beaucaire has Ludwig arrested; Bernard and one of the Poles

rescue him by the strong hand from the gensdarmes, who are taking him

to prison. But although at liberty he is still in the greatest peril.

The police seek him every where. It appears that Bianca's father is a

most important secret agent of Russia; that when flying from Italy he

had with him papers of the greatest weight and value, and that death

is the doom of Ludwig for aiding his escape. Bernard, who has become

implicated by the vigorous assistance he rendered his friend, is

liable to the same severe punishment. They apply to Colonel Rasinski

for advice and succour. The best he is able to do for them is to

enlist them in his regiment of Polish lancers, and pack them off to

the depot at Warsaw. Under assumed names, and in the ranks of an army

of six hundred thousand men, disguised also in the coarse garb of

private dragoons, detection appears all but impossible. To console

them as much as may be for this separation from friends and country,

to share in a campaign with which they as Germans cannot sympathise,

and to the cheerful endurance of whose hardships they are stimulated

neither by patriotism nor ambition, Rasinski attaches the two friends

to his person as orderlies; and throughout their whole period of

service they associate, when off duty, on terms of perfect equality

and intimacy, with him and the captains Jaromir and Boleslaw. The

incident of the enlistment is rather forced. There is no apparent

reason why Rasinski should detain his friends in his regiment after

its uniform had served the purpose of escape from Dresden. Once

smuggled out of the city, it was most natural to let them resume their

civilian character, and seek concealment in a foreign country, if

necessary, till the danger was over, and till they and their offences

had been forgotten in the stirring events and perpetual changes of the

times. This of course would not have answered Mr Rellstab's purpose;

but he should have given more cogent reasons for the continuance in

the service of two men, one of whom declares that he holds the gallows

or the galleys as agreeable alternatives as the life of a private

sentinel.

The merest outline, the most skeleton-like sketch of the plots and

under-plots of "1812" would fill a long article, and prove, upon the

whole, dry and of small interest. Nor is it, we have already said, by

any means our opinion that the plot is the best part of Mr Rellstab's

romance. By giving its details, we should be doing less to exhibit his

talent, and to interest our readers, than by proceeding at once to the

extraction and translation of one or two of its many remarkable scenes

and passages.

During the advance of the French army into Russia, when the French

Emperor, eager to engage the enemy, had the mortification of seeing

them constantly recede on his approach, steadily avoiding an action,

Polish Jews were frequently employed as spies, and sent forward to

watch and report the movements of a foe whose plan of campaign even

Napoleon's genius was unable to penetrate. The invasion of Russia, and

anticipated triumph of the French host, were hailed with delight by

the great mass of the Polish nation, who considered their liberation

from the Muscovite yoke, and the re-establishment of Polish

nationality, to be quite certain when once Napoleon took the field on

their behalf. But these feelings of patriotic exultation were not

partaken by the Jews of Poland, at least not to an extent that

rendered them proof against the allurements of Russian gold. As usual,

the guileless Israelites were at the service of the best bidder.

Russian rubles and French crowns were equally welcome to their

insatiable souls and fathomless pockets.

After crossing the Dnieper, Count Rasinski, whose knowledge of the

people, language, and country, caused him to be frequently consulted

by the Emperor, sent forward a Lithuanian Jew to ascertain if the

enemy were concentrating their forces, and likely to make a stand.

"Towards three in the morning, and in profound darkness, the spy

reappeared in the bivouac. Bernard had just awakened and stirred up

the fire, when the strange figure of the Israelite, stealing

noiselessly along, (wariness and caution had become his second

nature,) entered the circle of light cast by the flames. Like a

prowling and mischievous sorcerer, he suddenly stood before Bernard,

who started at this strange and unexpected apparition. A black robe,

confined at the waist by a leathern girdle, draped his meagre person;

a red and pointed beard descended low upon his breast; his pale,

wizened countenance peered forth from out a mass of tangled hair; his

gray eyes had a cunning and malicious twinkle. A constrained smile

distorted his lips, as he accosted Bernard in Jewish dialect.

"'Young gentleman! Tell me quick where my lord colonel sleeps. I am in

haste to speak with him, young gentleman!'

"'The fellow looks like the devil changed into a fox,' muttered

Bernard to himself. 'So they have not hanged you, eh, Isaac?'

"'Father Abraham! what is that for a question, young gentleman? D'ye

think old Isaac would have lived so long, had he not known to keep his

neck out of a coil of hemp? But take me to my lord colonel: it's in

great haste!'

"'Come, son of Abraham,' said Bernard, parodying the Jewish mode of

speaking; 'set thy shoe-soles upon the tracks of my feet, so shalt

thou come to the presence of him whose gold thou covetest. Forward!'

And, winding his way through the groups of weary soldiers who lay

sleeping round the watch-fires, he guided the old spy to the spot

where Rasinski, wrapped in his cloak, reposed upon a little straw. The

colonel's watchful ear warned him of the approach of strange

footsteps; he was roused in an instant, and looked keenly into the

surrounding darkness.

"'Ha, friend Isaac!' he cried; 'well, what news? Are they of weight?'

"The Jew nodded mysteriously, and drew the count aside. Bernard would

have returned to his fire, but Rasinski signed to him to remain. The

count spoke long and low with his Hebrew emissary, and listened with

the strongest interest, as it seemed, to the report of the latter. The

spy's countenance each moment assumed a more important expression, and

was lighted up, even at shorter intervals, by his false and repulsive

smile, as he saw that Rasinski appeared satisfied with the

intelligence he brought.

"'Accursed Judas!' quoth Bernard to himself. 'I could not put faith in

that villanous physiognomy, though the fox's snout of it were to guide

me into paradise. And yet Rasinski is a judge of men; that there is no

denying.'

"Isaac had made his report; he stood submissively before Rasinski, and

awaited his orders with the deepest humility. The colonel produced his

purse; the Jew's visage was lighted up with joy; lust of gold gleamed

in his eyes. But when he clutched in his extended palm a handful of

gold pieces, he broke out into fulsome expressions of delight and

gratitude.

"'God of Abraham!' he cried, endeavouring to seize and kiss Rasinski's

hand, 'bless my dear benefactor, who saves me from perishing in these

days of war and misery! Hunger would rend the poor Jew's entrails,

till he howled like the starving wolf in winter, did not you, noble

sir, deign generously to relieve him.'

"By word and gesture Rasinski commanded silence. The Jew turned to

depart, pulling out at the same time a small leathern bag, wherein to

stow his gold. With this empty bag he unintentionally drew out a

purse, whose strings had got entangled with those of the bag, and

which fell heavily to the ground. Visibly alarmed, Isaac stooped to

pick it up, but Bernard, who had observed his countenance by the

fire-light, conceived a sudden suspicion, and sprang forward with a

like intention. The grass being high, and the light not falling on

that spot, both men felt about for a few moments in vain. At last

Bernard seized the prize.

"'Give it here, my dear young gentlemans,' cried Isaac eagerly; 'it is

my small and hard-earned savings. Now-a-days nothing is safe, except

what one carries with one. Give it me, I entreat!'

"The anxious tone and hasty gestures, with which he spoke these words,

not only strengthened Bernard's suspicions, but also attracted the

attention of Rasinski.

"'Humph! heavy,' said Bernard, significantly; 'very heavy. Nothing

less than gold there, I expect.'

"Rasinski approached.

"'Heaven bless you!' cried Isaac, 'a little silver and copper, nothing

more. Perhaps an old ducat or two amongst it.' And he hastily extended

his arm to seize his property. Bernard drew back his hand, held the

purse to the fire-light and loudly exclaimed--'Silver? copper? What I

see through the meshes is gold, and that of the brightest!'

"'Show it here!' said Rasinski, stepping quickly forward. Bernard,

laughing, handed him the purse; the Jew dared not object, but he

trembled visibly, and expostulated in a humble and cringing tone.

'Most generous sir!' he said; 'it is the trifle I have rescued from

the exactions and calamities of war. You will not rob a helpless old

man of his little all.'

"'Rob!' repeated Rasinski, disdainfully. 'Am I a marauder? But you

will not make me believe,' he continued, in an accent of menace, 'that

this gold has been long in your possession. Think you I do not know

what a Jew of your sort can save in Lithuania? A likely tale, indeed,

that whilst passing as a spy, from one camp to the other, you carry

this treasure on your person! Ten foot under ground in the thickest

forest, you still would not think it safe. And why deny it to be gold?

Where are the silver and copper amongst these fire-new ducats?

Confess, Jew--whence have you this gold?'

"Isaac trembled in every limb.

"'What would you of me, most gracious lord count?' stammered he. 'How

should old Isaac possess other gold than what he has saved during his

sixty years of life? Where should he bury it? Where has he land to dig

and delve at his pleasure? And if I wished to conceal that I have

saved a few ducats, sure it is no crime in times like these?'

"'Miserable subterfuges!' replied Rasinski. 'Here, take your gold--I

desire it not. But mark my words! molten I will have it poured down

thy lying throat, if thou hast deceived me in this matter! These

ducats look like the guerdon of weightier information than you have

brought me. If you have betrayed aught to the enemy, if our present

plan miscarries, tremble, for your treachery shall meet a fearful

reward!'

"The Jew stood with tottering knees and pale as death; suddenly he

prostrated himself at Rasinski's feet, his face distorted by an agony

of terror.

"'Pardon! mercy!' he exclaimed.

"'Justice!' sternly replied Rasinski. 'Let his person be searched for

papers.'

"An officer and two soldiers seized the Jew, dragged him to the next

fire, and bade him strip from head to foot. In a few moments it was

done. Gown and hose, shoes and stockings, were examined, without any

thing being found. Even a cut through the shoe-soles brought nothing

to light. Meanwhile Isaac stood shivering in his shirt, following with

anxious glances each movement of the soldiers. As each portion of his

dress passed muster and was thrown aside, his countenance cleared and

brightened.

"'As sure as Jehovah dwells above us!' he exclaimed, 'I am an innocent

old man. Give me back my money and my clothes, and let me home to my

hut!'

"'There, put on your rags!' cried a corporal, throwing him his

breeches. Isaac caught them, but at the same moment the soldier threw

him his gown in the same unceremonious way. It fell over the Jew's

face, enveloping him in its folds. Seeing this, the mischievous

corporal seized one end of the loose garment, and pulled it backwards

and forwards over the head of Isaac, who staggered to and fro, blinded

and confused, but still struggling violently and crying out for mercy.

Rasinski was on the point of checking this horse-play, when the Jew

stumbled and fell, thus disentangling himself from the gown, which

remained in his tormentor's hands. But to the utter dismay of the

Israelite, and simultaneously with his robe, a wig was dragged from

his head, leaving him completely bald. At first nobody attached

importance to the circumstance, and the soldiers laughed at this

climax of the Jew's misfortunes, when Bernard's quick eye detected

upon the ground a scrap of paper, which had been concealed between

scalp and wig. He clutched at it; but was forestalled by Isaac, who,

in all haste, caught it up and threw it into the blazing watch-fire,

where it instantly disappeared in a flake of tinder. This suspicious

incident gave rise to a new investigation. The Jew denied every thing:

he swore by the God of his fathers he knew of no letter, and had

thrown nothing into the fire, but had merely picked up his

handkerchief. Upon examining his head, however, it appeared that the

hair had been recently shaved off, and that Isaac had no real occasion

for a wig. Here again the wary Jew was ready with his justification.

"'God of mercy!' he cried, 'what I have done for your service proves

my perdition. When, driven by need and hunger, I undertook your

dangerous commission, I bethought me how I could best be useful to

you. Could I tell what duties you would require of me? Had I not even

heard that they consisted in carrying letters and papers, skilfully

concealed? Therefore did I break the law by laying a razor on my head!

And now I am punished for my sin. But is it for you Christians to

condemn me, because I have transgressed to do your pleasure?'

"Spurred by the fear of death, Isaac continued in this strain with

irrepressible volubility; and there was no denying that his excuses

and reasons were plausible enough. Nevertheless, Rasinski found strong

grounds for suspicion. He ordered the Jew to be kept in custody, and

that, when the regiment went out, he should follow on a spare horse.

"'If I see by the enemy's movements,' said he to the Jew as he was led

away, 'that he has notice of our project, you are ripe for the

gallows, and shall not escape it. If there is no evidence of your

treason, you shall be free to get yourself hung elsewhere, for beyond

Liady you will be useless, seeing that the Russians do not tolerate

your blood-sucking race in their land; the only good trait I am

acquainted with in their character. Away with you--let him be well

guarded."'

During a scamper after the Cossacks upon the following day, Isaac

makes his escape, to reappear at the close of the retreat under very

startling and horrible circumstances. At last Napoleon, who, ever

since he crossed the Niemen, had expected battle, and who was furious

at the retrograde tactics of the Russians, met at Smolensko the first

serious resistance of his cautious and astute foe. Hitherto every

thing had been of evil presage: nature seemed combined with man to

check his progress, and discourage his ambition. His first arrival on

the banks of the Niemen was marked by a fall from his horse; a

terrible storm welcomed him upon the Russian territory; in crossing

the first Russian river, the Wilna, a squadron of Polish horse, sent

to find a ford, were swept away by the current. Bridges were cut,

roads deserted, even the defiles protecting Wilna unguarded, but not

an enemy was visible, save now and then a few wild Cossacks,

stragglers from the Russian rear-guard. On the other hand, the French

suffered from hunger and fatigue; provisions were scarce, the men

discouraged; discipline grew lax, villages were plundered and burned;

tales circulated in the ranks of the army, of young soldiers, new to

privations, and disheartened by a long perspective of suffering, who

turned aside upon the road and blew out their brains with their

muskets. Already baggage-waggons and munition-carts, open and empty,

strewed the plain, as in rear of a discomfited and retreating army;

thousands of horses had died from feeding on green corn. All these

misfortunes, before a blow had been struck, almost before a shot had

been fired! Such disastrous inactivity was more destructive than the

fiercest opposition; and no wonder Napoleon longed to meet one of

those stubborn stands which he well knew the Russian troops would

make, so soon as their leaders permitted them. The first of any

importance was made at Smolensko. In the previous doubts and delays

there is evidently fine scope for a historical romance-writer,--and Mr

Rellstab busies himself with the events of the campaign, neglecting

for a while the progress of his novel. We then obtain a peep into

Russia, and are introduced to the castle of Count Dolgorow, Bianca's

father. Preparations are making for the young Countess's marriage with

Prince Ochalskoi, a marriage repugnant to her feelings, (for she still

cherished a tender recollection of Ludwig,) but into which she is in a

manner coerced by her parents. On her wedding day she receives a

letter, left by her nurse in care of her confessor, not to be

delivered to her till after marriage, by which she learns that she is

not the Dolgorow's daughter; that her mother was a German lady, who

died a few days after her birth, and that her adoption by the Count

had, for motive, that an inheritance depended on his wife having

children, which, after many years' marriage, were still denied him.

Bianca, with whom a sense of filial duty had powerfully weighed when

consenting to become the wife of a man she disliked, is in despair at

finding how unnecessarily she has sacrificed herself. But the ceremony

is over, and she has no alternative but resignation to her lot. That

same evening, however, the castle, which is in the vicinity of

Smolensko, is surprised by Rasinski, who, under cover of the darkness,

has forded the Dnieper with his horsemen. On the threshold of the

bridal chamber, Ochalskoi is startled by pistol-shots. The alarm-bell

rings, the confusion is terrific. The principal tenants of the castle

escape into the adjacent forest, but, in covering the retreat,

Ochalskoi is mortally wounded. From Smolensko, Russian troops hurry

out to repel the Poles, and Rasinski recrosses the river with his

regiment, in whose ranks rides Ludwig, little suspecting how near he

has been to the mistress of his heart. Having thus obligingly killed

off the husband, before he had _de facto_ become entitled to the name,

Mr Rellstab evidently intends ultimately rewarding the sufferings of

Bianca, and the constancy of her German lover. There is still a slight

difficulty in the way of this desirable consummation. Bernard,

Ludwig's faithful friend, has also a hankering after the lady, whom he

has seen in a London theatre, and surreptitiously sketched. He

sacrifices himself to friendship, and is rewarded by the discovery

that Bianca is his sister. Whereupon he finds out that he is in love

with Marie, Ludwig's sister, and she, who has been wooed by Rasinski,

and whose sole objection to the gallant Pole is the fact of his

fighting in the French ranks, favours the suit of Bernard, whose

temporary service under the tricolor was the consequence of his

affection for her brother, and who atones his brief alliance with

Frenchmen by taking a gallant part against them in the subsequent

campaigns of 1813-15. Here, however, we are again anticipating--jumping

from the middle of the second to the end of the fourth volume. We will

presently retrace our steps for an extract or two. Just after the

fight at Smolensko, which the Russians abandoned in the night, and the

French took possession of on the 18th August, Ludwig receives a letter

informing him of his mother's death, and is plunged into the deepest

distress. We mention this incident, which, although its immediate

cause is connected with the plot of the book, is, upon the whole,

unimportant, merely because it gives us an opportunity of referring to

a practice common amongst foreign writers, especially amongst German

ones, and which occurs in "1812" more frequently than we should have

expected to have found it in the production of a writer usually so

manly as Mr Rellstab. We allude to the exorbitant allowance of hugging

and kissing that goes on between the male characters of the romance.

We have no objection to any decent amount of osculation, so long as

the parties are of different sexes; we can even pardon the rather too

warmly-coloured scenes in the bride's apartment near Smolensko, and in

the boudoir or _clapier_--or whatever we are to call it--of

Mademoiselle Françoise Alisette, the French singing woman. (Mr

Rellstab, by the way, is particularly given to having his billing and

cooing done where 'cannons are roaring and bullets are flying,' amidst

death-wounds and conflagration.) But we cannot abide, or read with

common patience, even though we know it to be mere fiction,--for

surely no men wearing boots, breeches, a soldier's coat, and sword on

hip, ever descended to such Sporus-like familiarities,--an account of

soldiers kissing and slabbering each other like a set of sentimental

school-girls parting for the holidays. Bernard the painter, a very

worthy fellow, and efficient man-at-arms, and withal a bit of a cynic,

departs from his natural character, and falls at once a hundred per

cent in our estimation, when we read of his imprinting "a soft

brother's kiss upon Ludwig's lips." Having done this, however, he

announces his resolution to avoid for the future softness of all

kinds, and to stand "like a veteran pilot, cold and calm amidst the

storm of fate." Nevertheless, when Ludwig learns his mother's decease,

we find the artist relapsing into the nasty weakness, clasping his

friend in his arms, and pressing "a long kiss upon his lips." The same

sort of maudlin is of frequent recurrence throughout the book.

Formerly very prevalent upon the Continent, the practice of embracing

amongst men is sensibly on the decline, or rather it has become

modified, for the most part, into a sort of meaningless hug,

compounded of a clasp round the body, and a grin over the shoulder.

There is no harm in this, if it amuse the actors, or is in any way

gratifying to their feelings. The last time we saw the ceremony gone

through, by a couple of bearded big-paunched Frenchmen, we thought

they looked rather conscious of the absurdity of the exhibition, and

more than half ashamed of it. Any thing beyond this, any thing like

contact of chins, lips, cheeks, or mustaches, is nauseous, and

degrades any male animal of the genus _homo_, superior in moral

dignity to a French man-milliner, or a German student drunk with beer.

Let not, however, our rightful disgust be misinterpreted. There are

kisses that are hallowed in history. Such was the kiss of Hardy upon

the cheek of Nelson.

The affair of Smolensko, bloody though it was, was a trifling skirmish

compared with the terrible battle of the Borodino, excellently well

described by Mr Rellstab. This was a profitless battle--nay, a

disastrous one--to the victors, whose numerical loss rather exceeded

that of the vanquished; and the Russians, little ruffled by their

defeat, might almost have renewed the strife the following day, had it

so pleased them. Another such victory would have been the ruin of the

French. But it did not accord with Russian tactics to give them

another chance. The invaders' doom awaited them there, where they

anticipated safety and repose--in the ancient city of the Czars,

imperial Moscow. The insignificant spoils of the action that had cost

them so much blood, made it evident to the French host that the

triumph was but nominal. What were a few hundred prisoners, and

four-and-twenty guns, after such a tremendous day's slaughter? "It is

the sun of Austerlitz!" Napoleon, with his accustomed clap-trap, had

said upon the morning of the fight. Like that of Austerlitz, the sun

set upon a victory; but how different in its results! "Let your

descendants," said Napoleon, in one of his unrivalled and

spirit-stirring proclamations, "make it their chief boast that their

ancestors fought in that great battle before the walls of Moscow!" How

few who shared in that day's perils and glories ever returned to their

native land, to boast the exploits or bewail the mishaps of the most

unfortunate campaign the world's military history can show! The action

of the Borodino, claimed as a victory by the French, although in

reality a drawn battle, inspired Napoleon's host with no feelings of

exultation. The losses were too tremendous--the advantages too

problematical. Still, the fight--or rather the voluntary retreat of

the Russians during the following night--opened the road to Moscow,

and this gave fresh spirits to the army: not that they rejoiced and

triumphed at occupying the second capital of Russia, but because they

well knew that Moscow was a further stage upon the only road by which

they would be permitted to return to France, Germany, Italy,

Switzerland--to all the eight or ten countries, in short, of whose

inhabitants the armed multitude was made up. Moscow was to be their

winter-quarters, their place of refuge, rest, and solace, after great

hardships and sufferings. They of course expected they would have to

fight for the city, but in this they did less than justice to Russian

hospitality. They found the dwelling swept, the fires laid, and all

ready for lighting. Mr Rellstab powerfully describes the aspect of the

deserted city, when entered by Murat at the head of his cavalry.

"The streets through which they passed made a strange impression:

alive with the clang of war, they yet were deadly still, for the

houses on either hand stood like silent tombs, whence no sound or sign

of life proceeded. Not a single chimney smoked. The cupolas of the

cathedral glittered in shining gold, encircled with wreaths of green;

the pillars of palaces towered in lofty magnificence. But the glories

of this noble architecture resembled the dismal finery of a corpse

laid out in state for a last melancholy exhibition, so mute, so rigid

was all it enclosed. This mixture of the wanton splendour of life with

the profound stillness and solitude of death was so painful, that it

oppressed the hearts of those rough warriors, who as yet, however,

were far from suspecting the terrible truth.

"For two hours the troops had perambulated this stony desert, in whose

labyrinthine mazes they became ever more deeply involved. Their

progress was of the slowest, for the King of Naples, still refusing to

believe what each moment rendered more apparent, was in constant

expectation of a surprise, and could not banish the idea that the foe

cunningly inveigled him into this confused and treacherous network of

streets and lanes, in order the better suddenly to assail him. He

therefore sent strong detachments into every side street, to seek the

enemy supposed to lurk there. None was detected. A dreadful stillness

reigned in the huge city, where erst the din of traffic deafened every

ear. There was heard but the dull, hollow hoof-tramp of the horses,

and the jar of the weapons, dismally reverberated from the tall, dead

walls; so that, when the column halted, complete silence spread like a

shroud over the awe-stricken host. For the soldier was infected with

the gloom of the scene, so that, although entering the hostile

capital, no cry of victory or shout of joy escaped him; but grave and

silent, scrutinising with astonished eye the surrounding edifices, in

vain quest of a trace of life, he entered the metropolis of the old

Czars.

"Now the walls and pinnacles of the Kremlin rose in dark majesty above

the intruders' heads. For the first time a refreshing sound was

heard--a confused jumble of human voices and warlike stir. It was a

party of the inhabitants, collected in a dark swarm round a train of

carts conveying provisions and wounded men, who had not been soon

enough got out of the city. A few Cossacks, left behind to escort

them, spurred their active little horses and quickly disappeared in

the maze of streets, uninjured by the bullets sent after them.

Suddenly from the Kremlin, at whose doors the French had now arrived,

issued a horrible uproar of howling voices. Rasinski, at the noise of

the firing, had galloped to the head of the column, followed by

Bernard, to ascertain its cause; and even his manly heart, long

accustomed to sounds and perils of every description, beat quicker at

the ghastly tumult. His eye followed the direction given by his ear,

and he beheld, upon the Kremlin's walls, a group of hideous figures,

both men and women, furiously gesticulating, and evidently resolved to

defend the entrance to the holy fortress. The women's tangled and

dishevelled hair, the wild bristling beards of the men, the distorted

features and frantic gestures of all, their horrible cries, and rags,

and filth, and barbarous weapons, composed a picture frightful beyond

expression. 'What!' cried Rasinski, with a start, 'has hell sent

against us its most hideous demons?'--'Are they men or spectres?'

inquired the shuddering Bernard. Again the grisly band set up their

wild and horrid shriek, and shots were fired from the wall into the

compact mass of soldiers. The King of Naples waved a white

handkerchief in sign of truce, and called to Rasinski to tell the

people in their own language that no harm should be done to them if

they abandoned their useless and desperate opposition. Rasinski rode

forward; but scarcely had he uttered the first word of peace, when his

voice was drowned in a horrid yell, whilst the women furiously beat

their breasts and tore their hair. Once more Rasinski called to them

to yield. Thereupon a woman of colossal stature, whose loosened hair

fell wildly on her shoulders, sprang upon a turret of the wall. 'Dog!'

she cried, 'with my teeth will I rend thee, like a hungry wolf her

prey! Robber! thou shalt be torn like the hunter who despoils the

she-bear of her cubs! Curse upon ye, murderers of our sons and

husbands! Curse upon ye, spoilers of our cities! A triple curse upon

the godless crew, who defile our holy altars, and scoff the Almighty

with a devil's tongue! Woe shall be your portion, worse your

sufferings than those of the damned in the sulphur-pit! Curses,

eternal curses upon ye all!'

"Rasinski shuddered. This menacing figure, although fearful to behold,

excited not loathing. Wide robes of black and gray shrouded the person

of the Pythoness; a blood-red cloth, half cap, half turban, was twined

around her head. Her grizzled hair fluttered in the wind, her

glittering eye rolled wildly in its orbit, whilst her open mouth

poured forth curses, and her upraised hands appealed to heaven to

fulfil them.

"Summoning all his strength, Rasinski once more shouted, in his

lion-like voice--

"'Madmen! do you reject mercy?'

"Another wild howl, accompanied with threatening gestures, drowned his

words. By a sign he warned the King that all was in vain, and Murat

gave orders to burst open the door. The artillery was already

unlimbered, and three shots, whose thunder resounded fearfully in the

empty city, crashed through the barrier, which broke and shivered at

the shock. As it opened, a dense throng of the mad Russians streamed

out, and dashed headlong into the French ranks. The invaders would

fain have spared them, for they were too few to prompt a powerful foe

to needless bloodshed; but the fanatical patriotism of the

unfortunates made mercy impossible. Like ferocious beasts, they threw

themselves upon their foes, thinking only of destroying all they

could. One raging madman, armed with a tree-branch, fashioned into a

huge club, struck down two Frenchmen, and with a few agile leaps was

close to the King of Naples--as usual foremost in danger--when

Rasinski sprang forward and cut at him with his sabre. But the blow

fell flat; with the fury of a goaded hound, the wounded man sprang

upon the Count, dragged him with giant strength from his saddle,

hurled him to the ground, and threw himself upon him. In a moment

Bernard was off his horse, and, grappling the lunatic, who strove to

throttle Rasinski, pulled him violently backwards. A French officer

sprang to his assistance. With the greatest difficulty they unlocked

the fierce grasp in which the Russian held Rasinski; and when this was

done the wretch gnashed his teeth, and strove to use them on his

prostrate opponent. But Rasinski had now an arm at liberty, and when

his furious foe advanced his head to bite, he struck him with his

clenched fist so severe a blow in the mouth, that a thick dark stream

of blood gushed over his breast and face. Nevertheless, the barbarian

yielded not, but made head against the three men with all the

prodigious strength of his muscular body, until the bullet from the

pistol of a dragoon, who coolly put the muzzle to his breast and shot

him through the heart, laid him lifeless on the ground."

Convinced at last that the city is theirs without opposition, the

French take up their quarters. Rasinski establishes himself with his

friends in a spacious palace, full of corridors, staircases, and long

suites of rooms, reminding us in some degree of one of Mrs Radcliffe's

castles. Here some well-managed scenes occur. Voices and footsteps are

heard, and Ludwig has a dream "that is not all a dream," in which

Bianca appears to him, warning of danger, and bidding him fly. As

token of her real presence, she leaves him a bracelet--the same by

picking up which he first made her acquaintance--and a letter, a

mysterious sort of missive, like that by which the gunpowder plot was

discovered, in which she hints at danger underground. Rasinski, who

has been disturbed by a dark figure passing through his room, at which

he fires a pistol without effect, institutes a search through the

palace. In the cellars they are met by a smell of sulphur, and

presently the building shakes with the explosion of a mine. They hurry

up to their apartments, and find them full of smoke. Just then the

stillness of the night is broken by shouts of fire, and by sounds of

drums and trumpets. Moscow is in flames.

And now begins, with the commencement of Mr Rellstab's third volume,

the prodigious retreat from Moscow to Paris. It occupies six books out

of the sixteen into which "1812" is divided; and however the interest

of the other ten may occasionally be found drawn out and flagging, it

must be admitted that these six are of intense and enthralling

interest. From a rising ground near Moscow, Rasinski and his friends

obtained a bird's-eye view of the retreating multitude, just as,

encumbered with spoil, exasperated by unwonted reverse and

disappointment, their blood, impoverished by previous privations, now

inflamed to fever by brief but furious excesses in the palaces and

wine-cellars of the Russian nobles, they started upon their weary

march.

"In three broad streams the enormous mass of men and baggage poured

across the fields, issuing forth in inexhaustible numbers from the

ruins of Moscow, whilst the head of the column disappeared in the blue

and misty distance. And besides this main body, the plain to the right

and left was covered with scattered horsemen and pedestrians.

"'What is to become of it all?' said Rasinski, gazing down on the

throng. 'How is an army to move with such baggage? Fortunately the

first charge of Cossacks will rid us of at least half the encumbrance.

What blind greediness has presided at the collection of the spoil! How

many have laden themselves with useless burdens, under which they are

destined to sink!'

"'I shall be much surprised,' said Jaromir, 'if the Emperor does not

have the entire plunder burned so soon as we get into the open

country.'

"'Not he,' replied Rasinski. 'He will not deprive the soldier, who has

plodded wearily over two-thirds of Europe, of the recompense of

oft-promised booty. But my word for it, before this day is over, the

fellows will of themselves begin to throw their ballast overboard. See

yonder, those two men, they look like officer's servants. Have they

not gone and harnessed themselves to a hand-cart, and now draw their

load wearily after them! Not six hours will their strength endure; but

blinded by avarice, they forget the eight hundred leagues that lie

between this and Paris. And yonder lines of heavy-laden carts, how

long will their axles hold? And if one breaks, whence is it to be

replaced? It is as much as the artillery can do to supply their

deficiencies. The Emperor looks ill-pleased at all this encumbrance,

but he leaves it to time to teach them the impossibility of their

undertaking. There is a waggon down! do you see? one who will leave at

half-a-league from Moscow all that he had probably reckoned upon

conveying to Paris.'

"The cart which Rasinski saw upset was overloaded with plunder; an

axle had broken, and it lay in the middle of the road, stopping the

passage. There was an instant check in the whole column. From the rear

came angry cries of 'Forward!' for all felt that the utmost exertion

was necessary to make way through the throng and bustle. The very

density of the crowd impeded movement, so that an accident diminishing

the number of carts was a matter of self-gratulation to the others. As

the broken vehicle could not immediately move on, and there was no

room to turn it aside, the driver of one of the following carts called

out to clear it away at any rate. 'Throw the lumber out of the road!

every one for himself here! we cannot wait half the day for one man.

Lend a hand, comrades; unharness the horses, and pitch the rubbish

into the fields'. Instantly, twenty, thirty, fifty arms were extended

to obey the suggestion. In vain the owner of the cart stormed and

swore, and strove to defend his property. In two minutes he was

surrounded on all sides; and not only was the cart pillaged of all it

contained, but the horses were unharnessed, the wheels taken off, and

the body of the vehicle broken up and thrown aside; so that the road

was once more clear. The howling fury of the plundered man was drowned

in the scornful laughter of the bystanders; no one troubled his head

about the matter, or dreamed of affording assistance to the despoiled

individual, who might consider himself fortunate that his horses were

left him.

"'If this happens on the first day's march, at the gates of Moscow,'

observed Rasinski, 'what is to be expected when an enemy threatens

these heavy-laden masses? Yonder marauder has saved nothing but his

pair of lean horses. The others may think themselves lucky if they

save as much from the first feint-attack of half a hundred Cossacks!

The fellow now howling and cursing is the luckiest of them all; for he

is the first relieved from his useless drudgery. This very day he will

have abundant opportunity to laugh and scoff in his turn, perhaps at

his spoilers themselves. And before a week is over, he will bless his

stars that he has been saved the profitless toil. The difference is

merely that he loses to-day what others will lose to-morrow and the

day after: of all these thousands not one will ultimately profit by

his booty.'

"The prognostications of the experienced soldier were speedily

verified. The track of the French army was marked first by abandoned

spoils, then by the bodies of the spoilers. Napoleon's soldiers were

little accustomed to retreats, and seemed to imagine that, now they

had condescended to commence one, the enemy would show his surprise

and respect by abstaining from molesting them. Such at least is the

only plausible way of explaining the infatuation that loaded with the

most cumbersome plunder the multitude of men who, on the 16th

September 1812, turned their backs upon the blazing turrets of Moscow.

Nothing was too clumsy or heavy to be carried off; but ultimately

nothing was found portable enough to be carried through the fatigues

and dangers of the winter march. Baggage and superfluous

munition-carts were soon left behind, and the horses taken for the

artillery; for which purpose, before reaching Smolensko, every second

man in the cavalry was deprived of his charger. Although winter had

not yet set in, there were frosts every night, and the slippery roads

trebled the fatigues of the attenuated and ill-shod horses. After a

short time, every means of transport, not monopolised by the guns, was

required by the sick, wounded, and weary; and nobody thought of

possessing more baggage than he could carry with him. And even the

trophies selected in Moscow by Napoleon's order, to throw dust in the

eyes of the Parisians,--splendid bronze ornaments from the palaces,

outlandish cannon, (the spoils of Russia in her eastern wars,) and the

cross of St Ivan, wrenched from the tower of the Kremlin,--were sunk

in a lake by the roadside. Soon snow was the sole pillow, and

horse-flesh the best nourishment, of the broken and dispirited army.

"At Smolensko, Ludwig and Bernard, when seeking in the storehouses of

the depot a supply of shoes for the regiment, suddenly find themselves

face to face with their old enemies, Beaucaire and the Baron de St

Luces, who have them arrested as spies of Russia. Prevented from

communicating with Rasinski, who is suddenly ordered off and compelled

to march without them, they undergo a sort of mock examination in the

gray of the morning, and are led out of the town to be shot. The place

appointed for their execution is a snow-covered hillock, a few hundred

yards from the walls, and close to the extremity of a thick pine wood.

They are escorted by thirty men, and an escape appears impossible.

Nevertheless Bernard, hopeful and energetic, despairs not of

accomplishing it, and communicates his intentions to Ludwig.

"Seizing a favourable moment, Bernard suddenly knocked down the two

foremost soldiers, sprang from amongst his guards, and shouting to

Ludwig to follow, bounded like a roebuck towards the forest. He had

cleared the way for Ludwig, who, prepared for the signal, availed

himself of the opening, and sped across the snowy field. The soldiers

stood astounded. 'Fire!' cried the officer; and a few obeyed the

order, but already several were in full pursuit of the fugitives,

preventing the others from firing, lest they should shoot their

comrades. Seeing this, all threw down their muskets and joined in the

chase. Ludwig sought to keep near Bernard, in order not to sever his

fate from that of his trusty friend. But the number of their pursuers

soon forced them to take different directions. The hunted and the

hunters were alike impeded by the snow, which had been blown off the

steep side of the hillock, but lay in thick masses on the table-land,

and at every step the feet sank deep. Already Ludwig saw the dusky

foliage of the pines close before him, already he deemed himself to

have escaped his unjust doom, when suddenly he sunk up to the hips,

and, by his next movement, up to the breast in the snow, which had

drifted into a fissure in the earth. In vain he strained every muscle

to extricate himself. In a few seconds his pursuers reached him,

grappled him unmercifully, and pulled him out of the hole by his arms

and hair.

"Ill treated by the soldiers, driven forward by blows from fists and

musket butts, Ludwig was dragged, rather than he walked, to the place

appointed for his death. Even the scornful gaze with which Beaucaire

received him was insufficient to give him strength to enjoy in the

last moments of his life an inward triumph over that contemptible

wretch. But he looked anxiously around for Bernard, to see whether he

again was the companion of his melancholy lot. He saw him not; he

evidently was not yet captured. The hope that his friend had finally

effected his escape, comforted Ludwig, although he felt that death,

now he was alone to meet it, was harder to endure than when he was

sustained by the companionship of the gallant Bernard.

"He was now again at the post, to which two soldiers secured him with

musket-slings, his arms behind his back, as though they feared fresh

resistance. The sergeant stepped up to him, a handkerchief in his

hand.

"'I will bandage your eyes, comrade,' said he, compassionately; 'it is

better so.'

"In the first instance Ludwig would have scorned the bandage, but now

he let his kind-hearted fellow-soldier have his way. Suddenly it

occurred to him that he might make the sergeant the bearer of his last

earthly wishes.

"'Comrade,' said he, as the man secured the cloth over his eyes, 'you

will not refuse me a last friendly service. So soon as you are able,

go to Colonel Rasinski, who commands our regiment; tell him how I

died, and beg him to console my sister. And if you outlive this war,

and go to her in Warsaw or Dresden, and tell her that'--

"He was interrupted by several musket-shots close at hand.

"'Are those for me, already?' cried Ludwig,--for the sergeant had let

go the handkerchief, now secured round his head, and had stepped

aside. For sole reply Ludwig heard him exclaim--'The devil! what is

that?' and spring forward. At the same time arose a confused outcry

and bustle, and again shots were fired just in the neighbourhood, one

bullet whistling close to Ludwig's head. He heard horses in full

gallop, whilst a mixture of words of command, shouts, clash of steel

and reports of fire-arms resounded on all sides. 'Forward!' cried the

voice of the sergeant. 'Close your ranks! fire!'

"A platoon fire from some twenty muskets rang in Ludwig's ear; he

imagined the muzzles were pointed at him, and an involuntary tremor,

made his whole frame quiver. But he was still alive and uninjured. The

complete darkness in which he found himself, the bonds that prevented

his moving, the excitement and tension of his nerves, caused a host of

strange wild ideas to flit across his brain. Hearing upon the left the

stamp of hoofs and shouts of charging horsemen, he thought for a

moment that Rasinski and his men had come to deliver him. Then,

however, he heard the howling war-cry of the Russians. A 'hurrah' rent

the air. The contending masses rushed past him; the smoke of powder

whirled in his face; cries, groans, and clatter of weapons were all

around him. He was in the midst of the fight; in vain he strove to

break his bonds, that he might tear the bandage from his eyes; he

continued in profound obscurity. 'Is it a frightful dream?' he at last

gasped out, turning his face to heaven. 'Will none awake me, and end

this horrible suffering?'

"But no hand touched him, and little by little the tumult receded, and

was lost in the distance.

"Thus passed a few minutes of agonising suspense; Ludwig writhed in

his fetters; a secret voice whispered to him, that could he burst them

he yet might be saved, but they resisted his utmost efforts. Then he

again heard loud voices, which gradually approached accompanied by

hurried footsteps. On a sudden a rough hand tore the cloth from his

eyes.

"Thunderstruck, he gazed around. Three men with long beards, whom he

at once recognised as Russian peasants, stood before him, staring at

him with a mixture of scorn and wonder. On the ground lay several

muskets and the bodies of two French soldiers. Ludwig saw himself in

the power of his enemies, whom a strange chance had converted into his

deliverers."

Beaucaire and St Luces were also in the hands of the Russians, in

whose unfriendly care we for the present leave both them and Ludwig,

to recur, at a future day, to this interesting romance.

THE BLUE DRAGOON;[16]

A STORY OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE, FROM THE CRIMINAL RECORDS OF

HOLLAND.

[16] The following singular story of circumstantial evidence is

compressed from a collection of criminal trials, published at

Amsterdam under the title "Oorkonden uit de Gedenkschriften van het

Strafregt, en uit die der menschlyke Mishappen; te Amsterdam. By J. C.

Van Kersleren, 1820." Notwithstanding the somewhat romantic complexion

of the incidents, it has been included as genuine in the recent German

collection, _Der Neue Pitaval_. 7 Band.

In the town of M----, in Holland, there lived, towards the close of

the last century, an elderly widow, Madame Andrecht. She inhabited a

house of her own, in company with her maid-servant, who was nearly of

the same age. She was in prosperous circumstances; but, being in

delicate health and paralysed on one side, she had few visitors, and

seldom went abroad except to church or to visit the poor. Her chief

recreation consisted in paying a visit in spring to her son, who was

settled as a surgeon in a village a few miles off. On these occasions,

fearing a return of a paralytic attack, she was invariably accompanied

by her maid, and, during these visits, her own house was left locked

up, but uninhabited and unwatched.

On the 30th June 17--, the widow returning to M---- from one of these

little excursions, found her house had been broken open in her

absence, and that several valuable articles, with all her jewels and

trinkets, had disappeared. Information was immediately given to the

authorities, and a strict investigation of the circumstances took

place without delay.

The old lady had been three weeks absent, and the thieves of course

had had ample leisure for their attempt. They had evidently gained

access through a window in the back part of the house communicating

with the garden, one of the panes of which had been removed and the

bolts of the window forced back, so as to admit of its being pulled

up. The bolts of the back-door leading into the garden had also been

withdrawn, as if the robbers had withdrawn their plunder in that

direction. The other doors and windows were uninjured; and several of

the rooms appeared to have been unopened. The furniture, generally,

was untouched; but the kitchen utensils were left in confusion, as if

the robbers had intended removing them, but had been interrupted or

pursued.