them good soldiers, there is every reason to believe made him in every one a personal enemy. In the outset of his command he committed a sort of national blunder, which added nothing to his popularity. Knowing what feats his own countrymen had performed at the point of the bayonet; convinced from experience and observation that there was in a charge of cold steel something more appalling than in a hundred volleys of musketry-he conceived the notion that a regiment trained to depend entirely on the charge would be one of powerful efficiency, and certain to acquire great distinction. He proposed therefore to lay aside the musket in his regiment, and to substitute a pike of superior construction. The directory approved his suggestion, and the experiment was made. The men, however, could not be persuaded to view the innovation in the same light as their English colonel. They were Frenchmen, and decided upon it with French feeling. For light warfare-the brisk fire- quick retreat-and as quick return-the French soldiery have no superiors; but in that cool intrepidity which can make and sustain a charge, they have never been able to compete with the soldiers of many other countries-the Scots, the Muscovites, the Swedes, and even the Hollanders. Colonel Oswald saw, when too late to repair a bad impression, that he had mistaken the national character; he was obliged to throw away his pikes, because his men absolutely refused to be trained to the use of them.

When the war in La Vendée broke out, Colonel Oswald's corps was one of those selected to proceed against the rebels, a distinction which it no doubt

owed to having a foreign commander, who might be supposed to have fewer scruples than a native in acting against natives. In the first encounter, however, which they had with the Vendeans, Oswald's men are generally understood to have taken advantage of the confusion of the fight to rid themselves of this advantage; they are said to have not only despatched the father, but his two sons, youths of a most interesting character, and another English gentleman, whom Oswald had selected as worthy to share his fortunes. It is at all events certain that the four Englishmen fell in the fight; and whether in consequence of their own forward bravery or of the treachery of their French comrades, will probably ever remain a mystery.

Mr. Oswald was about the common stature, but of a very commanding appearance. I have heard that, when in Paris, he affected the Roman costume; wore his collar open, and his hair à la Brutus.

In his poetry, notwithstanding the praise of Burns, I have not been able to discover any singular merit. I have been successful in tracing out a considerable number of his occasional pieces, but they can scarcely be said to have rewarded the search. There is a constant aim in them at something fine, which is in general attended with but indifferent success. His ideas have little novelty; the same images, and even the same expressions, are of frequent recurrence; and on the whole, Oswald must rather be considered as a pleasant versifier than as a genuine poet. The following are two of the best specimens of his talents which I have met with; the last, which is a version from the French, is possessed of very considerable elegance.

Louisa.

Oh, ye groves! stray'd,

where so oft with Louisa I've

Then lovely thy grottos and grateful thy shade :---
Alas! with Louisa no longer I stray,

But lonely I wander, and woeful my lay.
For my love I lament, in the dust lowly laid,
And thy grots are ungrateful and sad is thy shade.
Thy Sirens late warbling their love-labour'd lay,
Now sit sadly mute on the woe-wither'd spray,
Save the Nightingale wailing her widow'd estate,
And the Dove, lonely mourner! bemoaning her mate:
O! ruthless the sportsman that aim'd the fell blow;
Oh fate, cruel fate! thus to lay my love low!

But where, oh ye groves! are the myrtles so gay,
Where blest with my love, oft I pass'd the brief day?
Sad the scene I survey, and no myrtle I see,
But each shade, each dear shade, seems a cypress to

me:

For my love I lament, in the dust lowly laid,

And thy songsters are sad, and funereal thy shade.

The Virgin's Dream.

Gentle Sleep had shut her eye-lids
With his poppy-waving wand,
But her heart still wakeful wanders,
Led by Love's supreme command.

See! on her cheek the rose expanding,
More and more vermillion grows;
While her hand some bold invader

Feebly seemeth to oppose.

Restless on her couch she tosses,

Playful heave her breasts divine,
And now more tranquil grown, she softly
On her pillow sinks supine:

From her lips a gentle murmur,
Scarcely heard, appears t' exhale ;
Such the breath of balmy zephyr
Passing thro' the flowery vale.

Happy fair! whose golden slumbers,

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Fancy steeps in such delight,

But more blest the swain whose image
Dreams so tender can excite.