utterly weary of criticism; that he had hoped to produce something which some young hearts might welcome; that he had not the energy now to do it alone. John listened full of strange thoughts. He felt some contempt and much pity for this hero, at whose feet he had hoped to sit, and whom he now saw palpitating like a great jelly before his own. There crossed his mind a whimsical fancy that here was that great critic who had devoured all other critics, who had devoured all literature, until the wide field of culture was a desert, and on it one monster with a chronic indigestion. But his face was animated and his eye bright once more, as he laid his hand upon the monster's pulpy shoulder. He felt that he could do something after all. "Look here," he said; "let me take away those papers which I have collected, and form out of them a complete book. Let me take what I like and reject what I like." Here his host heaved under his hand, and John inferred a sigh; but as no objection was made he went on: "It will all be yours, you

I

know-all the matter and value. shall only put it in order and add a few necessary links. Then, if you like it, you shall give it to the world." He paused, and there came a doubtful sniff in answer.

"I tell you," said John, impatiently, "that there are great things in it. We all want them, we young

men.

We shall buzz about you like bees." He gave the great shoulder a slight shove. A large limp hand was pushed out sidewise, and began moving round blindly. The young man grasped it with his nervous fingers. Then at last the man of culture looked up, and there was in his eyes a look of dumb entreaty and trust, as of an old dog who can follow his master no farther.

"We will carry it through," cried John, who felt a strange sensation in his throat.

Thus it came to pass that the disciple sat no more at the feet of his master, but rose to take him on his shoulders and hence came the book, without which, as you judiciously remark, no gentleman's library is complete.

MY DEAR EDITOR,-When I surveyed, as I often did of late, the historical plains around Leipzig, I was impressed by the thought of how strangely different parts of our lives may be associated in our consciousness, though as regards time. they are pushed asunder by years and years of action and passion. Twelve months ago I had not the least idea that I should ever behold the town of Leipzig or its battleplain: nevertheless here I am in Saxony, occupying myself with both of these; and, as I look at them, I remember again and again how I was familiar with the name of Leipzig, and with the idea that a battle was fought there, long before I knew where Leipzig might be, or comprehended what the battle was about. What I did know was, that a bridge was there blown up in such manner as to produce most gorgeous effects of fire and smoke; also, that Napoleon made rather a hurried retreat therefrom,—my information being derived from a coloured illustration bearing the name of George Cruickshank, which exhibited the discomfited Emperor plying whip and spur, and galloping off as if the devil were behind him (a following which he probably would have been more cool about, though as a figure of speech to denote his hurry and alarm the devil's pursuit does very well) riding down everything; while behind him the dreadful bridge was flying into the air, and the miserable thousands whom its destruction cut off from hope of escape stood agonised on the bank. The book which contained this il

lustration, and some thirty or forty more equally attractive to childhood, was a mock-heroic poem by Dr Syntax-though whether Combe was or was not the author of it I cannot tell-giving a popular and humorous account of Napoleon's career (who was generally spoken of therein

as

Nap" or "Boney"), from his earliest days to his landing in Elba. By the time I was in my teens this much-thumbed work was in tatters, the last stage of its history that I remember being hard upon mere oblivion," and very melancholy indeed; yet, before succumbing, it had done marvellous good service in delighting successively a whole brood of inquiring minds, and probably in appeasing an unknown quantity of gathering squalls. I have never heard the work mentioned out of my own family for very many years, and therefore I conclude that my countrymen in general have not thought it so well worthy of regard as the tours of Dr Syntax; but for me, and those who cried in concert with me, though we entertained a reasonable respect for the Doctor, and condescended sometimes to turn over his plates, there was nothing in the world of letters like this history of Napoleon. Years on yearsall the active part of my life-have passed since I delighted in these pictures; and here I am, after exploring by an accidental opportunity the field of Leipzig, with my mind once more occupied by Napoleon, and Cruickshank's rendering of the battle coming to remembrance as if it were yesterday only that

I saw its colours and figures. Although at the date of the poem the temptation was strong to minister to the passions of the British public rather than to regale it with veracious history, yet the poet and the artist seem in this instance not to have been much carried away by their imaginations; and the reason of that is, perhaps, that the plight of Napoleon could hardly be represented as much worse than it was at the commencement of the retreat. He undoubtedly escaped from Leipzig with great difficulty, and almost if not quite alone; and he certainly was not so far advanced in his flight when the bridge blew up but that he heard the explosion. At the moment of the demolition, however, he is said to have been in a windmill at Lindenau, which he had ascended to get a view of the retreat; but that he "skedaddled" with extreme precipitation till he reached the mill there can be no doubt.

To the merely military student, who puts aside political considerations, and desires only to obtain a just idea of how the great battle, and the campaign of which it was the determining, if not the last, act, were lost and won, these plains must necessarily be full of interest; they must have a greater interest still for him who regards the events of 1813 as part of the history of Europe. I inform myself, according to my ability, as to the fighting, and as to its causes and effects; but I own that, while I do so, I am continually enticed away to a contemplation which is neither historical nor warlike, but rather biographical. I am powerfully interested in the personal history of Napoleon as illustrated by this campaign. If ever a man was presented to us as one whom a deity desired to ruin by clouding his understanding, we must see such a man in the Emperor

at this period. The commanding ability which he had displayed in his earlier years was wanting. If it had not deserted him altogether, it had grown so dull that it could only flash forth fitfully, and required a potent stimulus, as in 1814, to make it show itself continuously. The campaign of 1812 had been proved to be a mistake, but it was a mistake much more easily recognised after the events than before. It was a leap in the dark. If it had been successful, its hazardous character would probably have brought only the greater glory to its projector. It failed; and the worst that could be said was, that if great geniuses were always to be restricted to enterprises that were perfectly safe, there would be an end of adventure and of brilliant achievement. The subjugation of Russia proved to be more than the French army could achieve; but, the error of making the attempt once admitted, the conduct of the campaign reflected no discredit on the French leader. But when he waged war for the last time on German soil, the old prudence, forethought, and sagacity of Napoleon seem to have deserted him. He advanced to the Elbe full of schemes of aggression and conquest, which he never relinquished until he was on his way back to the Rhine, although the lesson derivable from the circumstances in which he then stood was that he must secure his empire, or some fraction of it, in any way he could. His best troops were gone,

left in Russia or brought back from thence only for death or the town's end: the new host, which by great exertion he had got together, was for the most part too young for the requirements of war, and, moreover, uninstructed and undisciplined. His enemies were of necessity taking heart from his

misfortunes: the Russians, elated by the advantages they had gained over him, were pouring into western Europe, where the States which he had subjugated were one and all kindling at the thought of deliverance from his yoke; his prestige and his physical power were both seriously damaged. Surely consolidation was what he should have aimed at; and as a means to that end, moderation should, for the time at least, have been his rule. But his desires, his overpowering will, had now become too strong for his discretion; he had no longer an ear for the warnings of prudence, but gave himself up to wild imaginations. Wellington, in Spain, was pressing his troops hard, and might any day deal him a heavy blow there; between him and France lay subject nations whose further submission had become doubtful, and who, he knew, might rise suddenly and separate him from his only refuge in case of disaster; a little time to instruct and season his new troops would have been most invaluable. More than all this, he had, by very rough schooling, taught his opponents how to make war as he did. But he shut his eyes to these considerationswould not regard them when they were presented by his generalstalked only of astonishing his foes as he had done in former days, and of executing vengeance when he himself it was who was daily and hourly liable to find himself at the mercy of others. He was no longer able to overcome himself, and so the chance of his confounding his adversaries was small indeed. Thus the undertaking of this German campaign was a blunder. In the course of it, blunder after blunder, interspersed among flashes of the old ability and promptitude, led to its inevitable failure. All through the campaign up to the catastrophe

of Leipzig, events, not excepting the French victories, taught one only lesson-caution; but they taught in vain.

An Englishman, who in Saxony may interest himself in inquiry concerning the events of 1813, will in some sort realise the condition of Germany during the wars of the French Revolution, and cannot fail to become alive to the favoured position which his own island enjoyed in those days. England was the soul of the resistance that was made to the ambitious projects of the Emperor.

Without her the

nations must, many a time during the contest, have discontinued their efforts; and yet she, though like a fate maintaining and directing the struggle, altogether escaped that horrid acquaintance with its incidents which was burnt into the hearts of the dwellers on its theatre. She sent forth her sons to fight, and she spent her treasures liberally: those were her sacrifices in the long war. But such appear light afflictions indeed, to them who have known what it was to

"Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror." The town of Leipzig was simply ruined by the French occupation in 1813. Dresden suffered the same fate. The cruelties, exactions, and oppressions were most horrible. When we read of the universal joy which was diffused over the towns when the French evacuated or were driven out of them, we are apt to imagine that, once the disagreeable visitors withdrew, things returned to their former condition, and all went merrily again. But the universal joy must be a mere figure of speech, or it must mean the joy of the opposing forces who entered, or of the nations generally whose forces were victorious. for the wretched towns themselves, they never got rid of the French

As

until everything they had had been consumed or destroyed, and famine and pestilence were legacies left behind the visitors. I am told that it is hardly too much to say that not one of those who had arrived at man's estate at the time of the occupation ever lived to recover from the destitution in which they were at that time plunged. Very many families which enjoyed wealth and position in the last century remain to this day little better than paupers; and their destitution is due to the French, who deprived them of everything they had. It must be remembered, too, that the French and Saxons were allies the Saxon monarch stood by Napoleon throughout the campaign, and until towards the very end of the battle of Leipzig the Saxon troops fought on the French side. The treatment which I have been describing was that which Napoleon's friends received at his hands.

It is a drive of two hours at most from Leipzig to Lützen, over a country possessing as few elements of the picturesque as can well be imagined. The great plain extends to points far beyond Lützen. It is diversified by no alternation of hill and dale; scarcely a grove or clump of trees breaks the monotony of the landscape. All is flat and bald. There is sublimity in the immensity of the plain, but beauty is altogether wanting. The villages-scarce in the neighbourhood of Lindenau, but more plentiful around Lützen- -are about as unadorned and ugly as they can be. Railways have not yet found their way as far as Lützen and its adjacent villages; and, except where they have penetrated, it may be assumed that the aspect of things is much what it was in 1813. The soil of the plain seems to be very rich, and is entirely cultivated. No hedge or material demarcation inter

rupts the vapidity of the great flat, or occupies a hand's-breadth that should be the husbandman's. The colours of the crops alone, in this springtime, brighten and vary the scene a little. I suppose no warrior ever thought of giving these places historical renown to compensate their want of beauty; yet warriors have amply done this for them. These plains of Leipzig, of what grand events have they been the theatre -what turning acts in the world's history have they witnessed!

Very near to Lützen, but rather to the north of Napoleon's battlefield, a plain stone, which modern reverence has surmounted by a more showy monument, marks the deathspot of Gustavus Adolphus. If the ground had had no other interest, the last battle-field of the Protestant champion would have been worthy of a pilgrimage; and very glad am I to have surveyed the scene where he closed his career. Shall I, however, make a confession to you, dear Editor? While I paused near the monument, thinking of what is now an old, old story, the character which presented itself most pertinaciously in my memory was not the great Gustavus, nor any being that ever walked this earth, but the creation of a great magician, never perceived by human sense, how beit a distinct figure in many a human mind nevertheless. It was Captain Dugald Dalgetty, of voracious and loquacious fame, that would intrude himself into my thoughts. I found that I had never pictured to myself Gustavus-had not, in truth, an idea what he looked like; while of the sagacious captain I possessed as clear an image as was possible in the mind's eye. Thus, by a very intelligible chain of ideas, I, a pilgrim at the stone of the Swedish hero, was spirited away among the scenes of the Legend of Montrose'; for Gustavus was Dugald's constant theme, his preceptor