claring that in a few days I should be able to travel. Before they elapsed I had recovered my senses-nor can I say whether the sensations I experienced, on hearing that my life was not really in danger, were agreeable, or the reverse. Now, indeed, I know well what they might have been. I shall not dwell longer upon my convalescence. In a fortnight I was declared out of danger; but, at the same time, I was desired to return to my native place for the benefit of my health. For this purpose leave of absence was given me, and along with it I was presented with a troop vacant in the corps. The evening before my departure, St Pierre entered my chamber. "Dumain," he said, "let us forget the conversation which passed between us some time ago. I cannot now make you happy, neither am I happy myself; but let not any circumstance break off our friendship. In you I have the most unbounded confidence. In Julia my confidence is equally great. To convince you of this, I have desired her to pay a visit to an aunt of mine in Bourdeaux: you will therefore see her when you return thither. Tell her that I envy you your wounds, as they have been the means of sending you to her." What could I say in return for conduct so noble? I wrung his hand, but answered not a word. Oh, that he had put less trust in a villain! I was received by my relations with the warmest affections. My battles, my wounds, my honours, my renown, were the sole subjects of conversation in the village. Julia, too, who was now with the Countess of sent to inquire after my health. I waited upon her next day. When I entered the saloon, I was introduced to the countess, who soon retired, leaving us together. I trembled all over to find myself again alone with Julia. " Dumain," said she, "I have long wished for such an opportunity as this of speaking a few words to you. You have acted like a man of honour. There is now an insuperable bar between our loves, but we shall still be friends. Though I may not regard you with any warmer feelings, be assured of my lasting esteem and respect." She held out her hand to me with a countenance little moved, except that a faint blush part ly overspread it. I grasped it warmly, but immediately checked myself. "Yes, Julia," I replied, " we shall indeed be friends, and our friendship shall be refined by the recollection that, had not circumstances intervened, it might have borne a dearer title." Oh, vain delusive thought, that where love has once been, it can ever give place to friendship. No matter. We fancied ourselves friends, and nothing more. We sought each others society with all the eagerness of lovers; and as my connexion with St Pierre was well known, the scandalous world spoke not out against us. Weeks passed on in this delightful state. We were still innocent, yet we were every day more and more convinced of the real state of our sentiments. I had been several months at home, and the period of my leave was fast expiring. The day of my departure was at length fixed-I had but one other week to remain. Would that I had died before that week came! Let me not think of what followed. The thin veil which had hitherto hung over our eyes, the thought of a separation tore from them. We again confessed a passion doubly guilty, and, Oh God! Oh God! my friend was dishonoured. When once guilty of such a crime as I had committed, how does the mind of a man become thoroughly depraved. I now thought of St Pierre with aversion: I even wished, that on my return to the army I might find him no more. With this was joined a terrible apprehension for the consequences of my intrigue, and I left Bourdeaux with the thoughts of a demon rather than of a man. Poor Julia was, like myself, completely wretched. O guilt! thy pleasures are short-lived; thy tortures are eternal. On my return to the regiment, I found St Pierre promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, and loaded with honours. Our regiment was dismounted, and formed part of the force destined for garrisoning Bayonne, which it was every day expected would be invested. It was here I rejoined it. St Pierre met me with open arms. He inquired after Julia with all the fondness of an affectionate husband, but I thought he looked suspicious while he spoke. Yet it might have been no more than the whispers of 1819. Translation of a Manuscript of a French Officer. my own conscience, which gave him that appearance. Certain it is, how ever, that he was much changed. He was pale and thin; and though he still smiled beautifully when he spoke, it was languidly. no I had not been above six weeks in Bayonne, when I received a letter from Julia, giving the most fatal intelligence. My fears were but too She was pregdreadfully realized. nant; I gazed upon the letter in a stupor. She conjured me to save her from infamy and death; she hinted some fearful things, but she proposed plan. For me, my thoughts were too confused to arrange any thing like a plan. I thought of quitting my regiment, and flying with her to some foreign country. God! I even thought of assassinating St Pierre. The former idea, however, was generally prevalent, but I had no time to realize it; for our garrison was driven within the walls, and the English army sat down before the place. Let those who can, imagine what were now my feelings. Cut off from all communication, even by letter, with the woman whom I loved more than soul and body, and whom I had ruined. Ignorant even of her situation, and without the hope of being able to see her again, perhaps for ever; at all events, till it was too late to as sist her. Half mad, I sometimes thought of deserting to the enemy; but what would they have done for me? A deserter would not be trusted with his liberty. Yet I was forced to continue thus for upwards of a month. It was then we learned, for the first time, of the change in the govern ment. "and When the news arrived, St Pierre came to me with a face lighted up with transport. "I shall soon be with Julia again," cried he; then I shall be the happiest man on earth." I turned away my face, for I dared not look at him. I attempted to speak, but the words died upon my lips. I rushed from the apartment. I flew to the southern rampart, with the intention of escaping, if possible, through our own guards, and those of the enemy. It was evening; and just as I had reached the gate, I was met by an aid-de-camp, who told me what immediately caused an alteration in my plan. We were that night to make a sortie. 645 I hastened back to St Pierre, whom At the appointed hour we attacked. began to fall back. We were in the rear of the whole column. St Pierre and I were together in the rear of all, mingling every now and then with the enemy. Yet neither of us was hurt, though I hoped that every bullet was destined for the heart of my friend. My wishes, however, were vain. We reached the gate. St Pierre turned to me. "Now, Dumain," cried he, all is over. No more chances of being separated from Julia." The name rung in my ears-a frenzy seized my brain-my pistol was in my hand-I fired-and St Pierre fell dead at my feet. Stupified with horror, I stood still, The and the gate was shut upon me. enemy surrounded me; they disarmed me without resistance; and I was conducted to their camp, a prisoner and a murderer. Oh what would I not have given for any weapon of destruction, that I might have at once ended my miserable existence. But they had taken mine away, and thus watched me so closely, that I could not lay my hand upon any other. My thoughts dwelt upon no other object but my murdered friend, till at last my intellect gave way, and I became a maniac. How long I continued in this state, I cannot tell; but when I came to myself, I found myself in my father's house. There were several letters for me from Julia, which alone prevented me from putting my original intention of suicide into force. She was in retirement not far from Paris, where her situation could be perfectly concealed; and as her husband's death was known, her seclusion was not wondered at. She had heard of my illness, and only lived till she should know my fate, when, be it what it would, she was resolved to share it. If I lived, she would live for me; if I died, she would follow me to the grave, and sleep beside me there. "Beloved of my soul," I exclaimed, when I had finished the perusal, "I shall live, hateful as life is, for thy sake. Murderer, villain, as I am, with thee I may yet be-oh no, not happy; but I may live." Being now determined to preserve myself for the sake of her who was so soon to make me a father, I grew rapidly better, and was soon able to set off for her retreat. I found her within two months of being a mother. She knew not the circumstances of her husband's death; nay, she heard that I was taken in striving to defend him. My own, my generous, my gallant Dumain," she said, "would have preserved the life even of his rival." Oh there were ten thousand scorpions in those words. Time passed, and the great Napoleon again entered France. Devoted to the service of this master of war, I determined instantly to join his standard; but Julia besought me not to do so till we were united. I agreed to this, and lived in quietness whilst the army was collecting on the frontiers of Flanders. Did I say quietness: O no, the ghost of my murdered friend for ever haunted my imagination, sleeping and waking; nor did I ever know a moment's ease, except when I was listening to the harmony of Julia's conversation. It was now within a very short time of the period of her confinement, when one morning we walked out together into a green field, adjoining the house where she lived. There had been cattle in that field all along, through the middle of which we were accustomed to walk without apprehension. But, unknown to us, a savage bull had lately been put in. When we were about the middle of the field it came towards us, growling, and pawing the earth. Julia was alarmed; nor did I feel very comfortable, as I had not even a stick with which to defend her. At last, after tearing up the grass with its hoofs, and lashing its sides with its tail, it ran at us. I seized Julia's arm, and placed her behind a tree, entreating her, in a hurried manner, to keep that between her and the bull. I myself ran to meet him, and threw my hat in his face. It had the effect of turning him; but when I came back to Julia, I found she had fainted. I bore her to the house, but the fright, and the injury she had received, together brought on a miscarriage; and before medical assistance could be procured she was a corps. The child was still-born, and I was left like a blasted and branchless oak upon a common. I saw in it the hand of an avenging God;-the prize for which I had waded through blood, though the blood of the best of friends and benefactors, was snatched from me, just as I had fancied it within my reach. I gazed upon her lifeless body, still beautiful even in death, with all the calmness of a fixed despair. I took my hat, and quitted the house. Mounting my best horse, I made all haste to the frontier, and arrived this morning in the camp. To-morrow is fixed upon for the day which shall determine the fate of France, and to-morrow shall my eternal fate be fixed. It is now midnight; the night is tempestuous. Here I broke off, for the ghost of St Pierre at that moment appeared to me. He has told me that I shall fall tomorrow; but why did he: I had already so determined it. My blood runs cold! my hair stands on end! O can I be forgiven! No, no; the murderer, the adulterer, has nothing to look for, except Here the manuscript abruptly ends. All that can be said in conclusion is, that the body of the unfortunate writer, covered with gashes, was recognised by one of his old companions next morning. He has gone to his last account; but he has done well in leaving this recital as a warning to others. TWO REVIEWS OF A MILITARY WORK. Minutes and Proceedings at Ambrose's. It is quite impossible to find any where Our last meeting (an unusually full one) consisted of six members, all of whom, it appeared, had read the work in question. On coming to the discussion of its merits, it happened rather singularly, that three of these were inclined to give considerable praise to the performance, while an equal number stated their deliberate conviction, that the work was altogether worthless and absurd. The debate became gradually warm. Mr Odoherty, with his usual fervour, swore he would be damned if the book was not one of the best he had ever read, while Mr Timothy Tickler, less vehement, but more sarcastic, declared it to be fit only for culinary purposes. The votes being thus equal, both parties agreed in appealing to the chair, and the Editor, after depositing his pipe, and wiping his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, delivered himself to the following effect: "My dear Contributors, I am too well aware of the obligations under which I lie to all of you, not to feel the extreme delicacy of the Your duty you have imposed on me. united exertions have already raised the Magazine to a pitch of celebrity far greater than that enjoyed by any similar work in Britain; and I can scarcely sufficiently impress on you how desirable it is that you should continue your friendly, and cordial cooperation in the great cause in which we have all fought-the cause of literature and independence (loud cheering). Hitherto we have gone on and prospered. Constable's Magazine continues floundering in its dulness, although at a certain alarming crisis they gave out its affairs would thenceforth be conducted with more head; the toothless Scotsman nibbles at your fame in all the sulky agonies of impotent malignity; and the Edinburgh Review, accustomed as it is to stand fire, has trembled at the roar of your artillery (tremendous cheering for some minutes). Fortunately, gentlemen, I am not called upon in the present case to give offence to either party by my decision. I have not read the work in question, and am therefore incapable of giving any opinion of its merits. But if I cannot untie the Gordian knot, I can at least cut it; and I beg, therefore, to propose an expedient, which will afford us an easy escape from our present difficulties. You have all read, gentlemen (I speak to the learned), of a celebrated French judge, who uniformly decided his causes by box and dice, or, in other words, who threw a main at hazard, and decided, with the greatest impartiality, for one side or t'other, as the caster lost Thus Crabs inevitably nonor won. suited the plaintiff with the burden of expenses, while a Nick had the same unpropitious effect on the cause of the Letters from Portugal, Spain, and France, during the Memorable Campaigns of 1811, 1812, and 1813; and from Belgium and France in the year 1815; by a British Officer. London, Bell and Bradfute, &c. 1819. VOL. V 4 A defendant. As Mr Ambrose, however, is probably unprovided with dice, I would suggest an easy succedaneum. I propose, gentlemen, to sky a copper, and, according to the anticipated contingency of skull or music, let the present work be submitted to the scalpel of Mr Tickler, or be lauded in the tuneful periods of his signiferent admirer" (much applause.) The expedient suggested by the Editor was immediately adopted; but owing to the extreme awkwardness of Mr Kempferhausen, who officiated on the occasion, the coin fell into Mr Wastle's plate of strawberries and cream, where it was quite impossible to ascertain "the hazard of the toss." It was therefore finally arranged, that the work should be reviewed both by Mr Odoherty and Mr Tickler, that it should be left to the impartial reader to decide what portion of praise or censure is due to the "Letters from Portugal, Spain, and France," by a “British Officer." Mr Odoherty's Opinion. THIS is certainly a very entertaining volume. It consists of a series of letters from the seat of war in Belgium and the Peninsula, and gives us a very clear and interesting account of those memorable occurrences which were daily passing under the observation of their author. The work is written throughout (as familiar letters should always be)* in a tone of graceful negli gence, and is clearly the production of a man possessing an elegant and powerful mind. The genius of the author, it is true, is modulated by the circumstances under which he is placed; yet we have no hesitation in pronouncing it of the first order, and such as, in situations more favourable to its developement, might have produced either Don Juan or Tom Little. As it is, the author has succeeded wonderfully in adorning a barren subject with much interest and beauty. Every scene which he describes is brought home to our hearts and our imaginations, and we participate with an unusual sympathy in all the dangers and difficulties which he encounters. And never, perhaps, was a sadder catalogue of moving accidents by flood and field, of forced marches, bad rations, and "lousy billets," submitted to the public through the medium of the press. The truth is, that these are circumstances which form a very striking part of every campaign, but which no one but he who can exclaim with the poet, "Quæque ipse miserrima vidi," can possibly describe. In this it is that the military author must always have the advantage of the civilian. The latter by his descriptions may succeed in drawing a fine and striking picture, which may captivate the ignorant and inexperienced; but it wants the fidelity of outline, and the minute touch, which are always visible in the delineation of the former. We have read, for instance, Mr Southey's account of the battles in the Peninsula, and Mr Scott's description of Waterloo, which have attracted, we believe, no small portion of the public admiration. But unrivalled as the talents of these authors may be, we may be allowed to doubt, whether, with a trifling alteration of the names and dates, their productions might not be made to pass as equally graphic delineations of Minden, Marathon, or Morningside. These gentlemen deal too much in grand and sweeping descriptions. Their charge with bayonets is always too dreadful; their bullets fly a great deal too thick; and the courage on the one side, and carnage on the other, are viewed with different ends of the microscope. They have no objection to bestow a page on the wound of a general, but they altogether despise to mention the hardships of a subaltern. They may feelingly allude to the severity of a winter in the Pyrenees, but are uniformly silent on the more ignoble miseries of tough ration beef and maggoty biscuit. Little instruction, therefore, can be derived from the military works of a civilian, and we turn from them with an unsatisfied appetite to devour the more homely and true narration of the heroic sufferers themselves. Such being our feelings, we could not but wel * No reflection on the long rumbling sentences of Peter. |