arrived. The map was laid upon the table, and we had a kind of debate
on the course which the Frenchman would take. That evening completed
my opinion of him as a general. He took the clearest view among all
our conjectures, as the event proved, so far as the enemy's movements
were concerned; though I still retain my own idea of an original
error in the choice of our field of battle. Before the twilight fell,
we mounted our horses, and rode to the spot where Clairfait had
already made up his mind to meet the French. It was certainly a
capital position for defence - a range of heights not too high for
guns, surmounted by a central plateau; the very position for a
battery and a brigade; but the very worst that could be taken against
the new enemy whom we had to oppose."

"Yet, what could an army of French recruits be expected to do against
a disciplined force so strongly posted?" was my question.

"My answer to that point," said Varnhorst, "must be a quotation from
my old master of tactics. If the purpose of a general is simply to
defend himself, let him keep his troops on heights; if his purpose is
simply to make an artillery fight, let him keep behind his guns; but
if it is his purpose to beat the enemy, he must leave himself able to
follow them - and this he can do only on a plain. In the end, after
beating the enemy in a dozen attempts to carry our batteries, but
without the power of striking a blow in retaliation, we saw them
carried all at once, and were totally driven from the field."

"So much for bravery and discipline against bravery and enthusiasm,"
said I. "Yet the enemy's loss must have been tremendous. Every
assault must have torn their columns to pieces." Even this attempt at
reconciling him to his ill fortune failed.

"Yes," was the cool reply; "but they could afford it, which was more
than we could do. Remember the maxim, my young friend, when you shall
come to be a general, that the only security for gaining battles is,
to have good troops, and a good many of them. - The French recruits
fought like recruits, without knowing whether the enemy were before
or behind them; but they fought, and when they were beaten they
fought again. While we were fixed on our heights, they were formed
into column once more, and marched gallantly up to the mouth of our
guns. Then, we had but 18,000 men to the Frenchman's 60,000. Such
odds are too great. Whether our great king would have fought at all
with such odds against him, may be a question; but there can be none,
whether he would have fixed himself where he could not manoeuvre. The
Frenchman attacked us on flanks and centre, just when and where he
pleased; there stood we, mowing down his masses from our fourteen
redoubts, and waiting to be attacked again. To do him justice, he
fought stoutly; and to do us justice, we fought sturdily. But still
we were losing men; the affair looked unpromising from the first half
hour; and I pronounced that, if Dumourier had but perseverance
enough, he must carry the field."

I made some passing remark on the singular hazard of bringing untried
troops against the proverbial discipline of a German army, and the
probability that the age of the wild armies of peasantry in Europe
would be renewed, by the evidence of its success.

"Right," said Varnhorst. "The thing that struck me most was, the new
character of the whole engagement. It was Republicanism in the field;
a bold riot, a mob battle. Nor will it be the last of its kind. Our
whole line was once attacked by the French demi-brigades, coming to
the charge, with a general chorus of the _Marseillaise_ hymn. The
effect was magnificent, as we heard it pealing over the field through
all the roar of cannon and musketry. The attack was defeated. It was
renewed, under a chorus in honour of their general, and 'Vive
Dumourier' was chanted by 50,000 voices, as they advanced against our
batteries. This charge broke in upon our position, and took five of
our fourteen redoubts. Even Clairfait now acknowledged that all was
lost; two-thirds of our men were _hors de combat_, and orders were
given for a retreat. My turn now came to act, and I moved forward
with my small brigade of cavalry - but I was not more lucky than the
rest."

I pressed to hear the particulars, but his mind was still overwhelmed
with a sense of military calamity, always the most reluctant topic to
a brave and honest soldier; and he simply said - "the whole was a
_mêlée_. Our rear was threatened in force by a column which had
stormed the heights under a young _brave_, whom I had observed,
during the day, exposing himself gallantly to all the risks of the
field. To stop the progress of the enemy on this point was essential;
for the safety of the whole army was compromised. We charged them,
checked them, but found the brigade involved in a force of ten times
our number; fought our way out again with heavy loss; and after all,
a shot, which brought my charger to the ground, left me wounded and
bruised in the hands of the French. I was taken up insensible, was
carried to the tent of the young commander of the column, whom I
found to be a Duc de Chartres, the son of the late Duke of Orleans.
His kindness to his prisoner was equal to his gallantry in the field.
Few and hurried as our interviews were, while his army remained in
its position he gave me the idea of a mind of great promise, and
destined for great things, unless the chances of war should stop his
career. But, though a Republican soldier, to my surprise he was no
Republican. His enquiries into the state of popular opinion in
Europe, showed at once his sagacity, and the turn which his thoughts,
young as he was, were already taking. - But the diadem is trampled
under foot in France for ever; and with cannon-shot in his front
every day of his life, and the guillotine in his rear, who can answer
for the history of any man for twenty-four hours together?"

My time in Paris had now come to a close. All my enquiries for the
fate of Lafontaine had been fruitless; and I dreaded the still more
anxious enquiries to which I should be subjected on my arrival; but I
had at least the intelligence to give, that I had not left him in the
fangs of the jailers of St Lazare. I took leave of my bold and
open-hearted Prussian friend with a regret, which I had scarcely
expected to feel for one with whom I had been thrown into contact
simply by the rough chances of campaigning; but I had the
gratification of procuring for him, through the mysterious interest
of Elnathan, an order for his transmission to Berlin in the first
exchange of prisoners. This promise seemed to compensate all the
services which he had rendered to me. "I shall see the Rhine again,"
said he, "which is much more than I ever expected since the day of
our misfortune. "I shall see the Rhine again! - and thanks to you for
it." He pressed my hand with honest gratitude.

The carriage which was to convey me to Calais was now at the door.
Still, one thought as uppermost in his mind; it was, that I should
give due credit to the bravery of the Austrian general and his army.
"If I have spoken of the engagement at all," said he, "it was merely
to put you in possession of the facts. You return to England; you
will of course hear the battle which lost the Netherlands discussed
in various versions. The opinion of England decides the opinion of
Europe. Tell, then, your countrymen, in vindication of Clairfait and
his troops, that after holding his ground for nine hours against
three times his force, he retreated with the steadiness of a movement
on parade, without leaving behind him a single gun, colour, or
prisoner. Tell them, too, that he was defeated only through the
marvellous negligence of a government which left him to fight battles
without brigades, defend fortresses without guns, and protect
insurgent provinces with a fugitive army."

My answer was - "You may rely upon my fighting your battles over the
London dinner-tables, as perseveringly, if not as much against odds,
as you fought it in the field. But the fortune of war is proverbial,
and I hope yet to pour out a libation to you as Generalissimo
Varnsdorf, the restorer of the Austrian laurels."

"Well, Marston, may you be a true prophet! But read that letter from
Guiscard; our long-headed friend not merely crops our German laurels,
but threatens to root up the tree." He handed me a letter from the
Prussian philosopher: it was a curious _catalogue raisonné_ of the
_im_probabilities of success in the general war of Europe against the
Republic; concluding with the words, so characteristic of his solemn
and reflective views of man and the affairs of man -

"War is the original propensity of human nature, and civilization is
the great promoter of war. The more civilized all nations become, the
more they fight. The most civilized continent of the world has spent
the fourth of its modern existence in war. Every man of common sense,
of course, abhors its waste of life, of treasure, and of time. Still
the propensity is so strong, that it continues the most prodigal
sacrifice of them all. I think that we are entering on a period, when
war, more than ever, will be the business of nations. I should not be
surprised if the mania of turning nations into beggars, and the
population into the dust of the field, should last for half a
century; until the whole existing generation are in their graves, and
a new generation shall take their places, astonished at the fondness
of their fathers for bankruptcy and bloodshed." After some sharp
censures of the unpurposed conduct of the German cabinets, he
finished by saying - "If the French continue to fight as they have
just fought, Jemappes will be the beginning of a new era. In the
history of the world, every great change of human supremacy has been
the result of a change in the principles of war; and the nation which
has been the first to adopt that change, has led the triumph for its
time. France has now found out a new element in war - the force of
multitude, the charge of the masses; and she will conquer, until the
kings of Europe follow her example, and call their nations to the
field. Till then she will be invincible, but then her conquests will
vanish; and the world, exhausted by carnage, will be quiet for a
while. But the wolfish spirit of human nature will again hunger for
prey; some new system of havoc will be discovered by some great
genius, who ought to be cursed to the lowest depths of human memory;
but who will be exalted to the most rapturous heights of human
praise. Then again, when one half of the earth is turned into a field
of battle, and the other into a cemetery, mankind will cry out for
peace; and again, when refreshed, will rush into still more ruinous
war: - thus all things run in a circle. But France has found out the
secret for this age, and - _vae victis!_ - the pestilence will be tame
to the triumph of her frenzy, her rapine, and her revenge."

"Exactly what I should have expected from Guiscard," was my remark;
"he is always making bold attempts to tear up the surface of the
time, and look into what is growing below."

"Well, well," replied my honest fellow soldier, "I never perplex my
brain with those things. I dare say your philosophers may be right;
at least once in a hundred years. But take my word for it, that
musket and bayonet will be useful matters still; and that discipline
and my old master Frederick, will be as good as Dumourier and
desperation, when we shall have brigade for brigade."

The postillions cracked their whips, the little Norman horses tore
their way over the rough pavement; the sovereign people scattered off
on every side, to save their lives and limbs; and the plan of St
Denis, rich with golden corn, and tracked by lines of stately trees,
opened far and wide before me. From the first ascent I gave a
_parting_ glance at Paris - it was mingled of rejoicing and regret.
What hours of interest, of novelty, and of terror, had I not passed
within the circuit of those walls! Yet, how the eye cheats
reality! - that city of imprisonment and frantic liberty, of royal
sorrow and of popular exultation, now looked a vast circle of calm
and stately beauty. How delusive is distance in every thing! Across
that plain, luxuriant with harvest, surrounded with those soft hills,
and glittering in the purple of this glorious evening, it looked a
paradise. I knew it - a pendemonium!

I speeded on - every thing was animated and animating in my journey.
It was the finest season of the year; the roads were good; the
prospects - as I swept down valley and rushed round hill, with the
insolent speed of a government _employé_, leaving all meaner
vehicles, travellers, and the whole workday world behind - seemed to
be to redeem the character of French landscape. But how much of its
colouring was my own! Was _I_ not _free?_ was I not _returning to
England?_ was I not approaching scenes, and forms, and the realities
of those recollections, which, even in the field of battle, and at
the foot of the scaffold, had alternately cheered and pained,
delighted and distressed me? - yet which, even with all their
anxieties, were dearer than the most gilded hopes of ambition. Was I
not about to meet the gay smile and poignant vivacity of Mariamne?
was I not about to wander in the shades of my paternal castle? to see
those relatives who were to shape so large a share of my future
happiness; to meet in public life the eminent public men, with whose
renown the courts and even the camps of Europe were already ringing:
and last, proudest, and most profound feeling of all - was I not to
venture near the shrine on which I had placed my idol; to offer her
the solemn and distant homage of the heart; perhaps to hear of her
from day to day; perhaps to see her noble beauty; perhaps even to
_hear_ that voice, of which the simplest accents sank to my
soul. - But I must not attempt to describe sensations which are in
their nature indescribable; which dispose the spirit of man to
silence; and which, in their true intensity, suffer but one faculty
to exist, absorbing all the rest in deep sleep and delicious reverie.

I drove with the haste of a courier to London; and after having
deposited my despatches with one of the under-secretaries of the
Foreign office, I flew to Mordecai's den in the city. London appeared
to me more crowded than ever; the streets longer, and buildings
dingier; and the whole, seen after the smokeless and light-coloured
towns of the Continent, looked an enormous manufactory, where men
wore themselves out in perpetual blackness and bustle, to make their
bread, and die. But my heart beat quickly as I reached the door of
that dingiest of all its dwellings, where the lord of hundreds of
thousands of pounds burrowed himself on the eyes of mankind.

I knocked, but was long unanswered; at last a meagre clerk, evidently
of the "fallen people," and who seemed dug up from the depths of the
dungeon, gave me the intelligence that "his master and family had
left England." The answer was like an icebolt through my frame. This
was the moment to which I had looked forward with, I shall not say
what emotions. I could scarcely define them; but they had a share of
every strong, every faithful, and every touching remembrance of my
nature. My disappointment was a pang. My head grey dizzy, I reeled;
and asked leave to enter the gloomy door, and rest for a moment. But
this the guardian of the den was too cautious to allow, and I should
have probably fainted in the street, but for the appearance of an
ancient Rebecca, the wife of the clerk, who, feeling the compassion
which belongs to the sex in all instances, and exerting the authority
which is so generally claimed by the better-halves of men, pushed her
husband back, and led the way into the old cobwebbed parlour where I
had so often been. A glass of water, the sole hospitality of the
house, revived me; and after some enquiries alike fruitless with the
past, I was about to take my leave, when the clerk, in his removal of
some papers, not to be trusted within reach of a stranger, dropped a
letter from the bundle, on which was my name. From the variety of
addresses it had evidently travelled far, and had been returned from
half the post-offices of the Continent. It was two months' old, but
its news was to me most interesting. It was from Mordecai; and after
alluding to some pecuniary transactions with his foreign brethren,
always the first topic, he hurried on in his usual abrupt
strain: - "Mariamne has insisted on my leaving England for a while.
This is perplexing; as the war must produce a new loan, and London
is, after all, the only place where those affairs can be transacted
without trouble. - My child is well, and yet she looks pallid from
time to time, and sheds tears when she thinks herself unobserved. All
this may pass away, but it makes me uneasy; and, as she has evidently
made up her mind to travel, I have only to give way - for, with all
her caprices, she is my child, my only child, and my beloved child!

"I have heard a good deal of your proceedings from my correspondent
and kinsman in Paris. You have acquitted yourself well, and it shall
not be unknown in the quarter where it may be of most service to
you. - I have been stopped by Mariamne's singing in the next room, and
her voice has almost unmanned me; she is melancholy of late, and her
only music now is taken from those ancestral hymns which our nation
regard as the songs of the Captivity. Her tones at this moment are
singularly touching, and I have been forced to lay down my pen, for
she has melted me to tears. Yet her colour has not altogether faded
lately, and I think sometimes that her eyes look brighter than ever!
Heaven help me, if I should lose her. I should then be alone in the
world.

"You may rely on my intelligence - a war is _inevitable_. You may also
rely on my conjecture - that it will be the most desperate war which
Europe has yet seen. One that will break up _foundations_, as well as
break down superstructures; not a war of politics but of principles;
not a war for conquest but for ruin. All the treasuries of Europe
will be bankrupt within a twelvemonth of its commencement; unless
England shall become their banker. This will be the harvest of the
men of money. - It is unfortunate that your money is all lodged for
your commission; otherwise, in the course of a few operations, you
might make cent per cent, which I propose to do. _Apropos_ of
commissions. I had nearly omitted, in my own family anxieties, to
mention the object for which I began my letter. I have _failed_ in
arranging the affair of your commission! This was not for want of
zeal. But the prospect of a war has deranged and inflamed every
thing. The young nobility have actually besieged the Horse-guards.
All the weight of the aristocracy has pressed upon the minister, and
minor influence has been driven from the field. The spirit is too
gallant a one to be blamed; - and yet - are there not a hundred other
pursuits, in which an intelligent and active mind, like your own,
might follow on the way to fortune? You have seen enough of
campaigning to know, that it is not all a flourish of trumpets. Has
the world but one gate, and that the Horse-guards? If my personal
judgment were to be asked, I should feel no regret for a
disappointment which may have come only to turn your knowledge and
ability to purposes not less suitable to an ambitious spirit, nor
less likely to produce a powerful impression on the world - the only
thing, after all, worth living for! You may laugh at this language
from a man of my country and my trade. But even _I_ have my ambition;
and you may yet discover it to be not less bold than if I carried the
lamp of Gideon, or wielded the sword of the Maccabee. - I must stop
again; my poor restless child is coming into the room at this moment,
complaining of the chill, in one of the finest days of summer. She
says that this villa has grown sunless, airless, and comfortless.
Finding that I am writing to you, she sends her best wishes; and bids
me ask, what is the fashionable colour for mantles in Paris, and also
what is become of that 'wandering creature,' Lafontaine, if you
should happen to recollect such a personage."

"P.S. - My daughter insists on our setting out from Brighton
to-morrow, and crossing the Channel the day after. She has a whim for
revisiting Switzerland; and in the mean time begs that if, during our
absence, _you_ should have a whim for sea air and solitude, you may
make of the villa any use you please. - Yours sincerely,

"J.V. MORDECAI."


After reading this strange and broken letter, I was almost glad that
I had not seen Mariamne. Lafontaine was in her heart still, in spite
of absence. At this I did not wonder, for the heart of woman, when
once struck, is almost incapable of change: but the suspense was
killing her; and I had no doubt that her loss would sink even her
strong-headed parent to the grave. Yet, what tidings had I to give?
Whether her young soldier was shot in the attempt to escape from St
Lazare, or thrown into some of those hideous dungeons, where so many
thousands were dying in misery from day to day, was entirely beyond
my power to tell. It was better that she should be roving over the
bright hills, and breathing the fresh breezes of Switzerland, than
listening to my hopeless conjectures at home; trying to reconcile
herself to all the chances which passion is so painfully ingenious in
creating, and dying, like a flower in all its beauty, on the spot
where it had grown.

But the letter contained nothing of the _one_ name, for which my
first glance had looked over every line with breathless anxiety.
There was not a syllable of Clotilde! The father's cares had absorbed
all other thoughts; and the letter was to me a blank in that
knowledge for which I panted, as the hart pants for the fountains.
Still, I was not dead to the calls of friendship; and that night's
mail carried a long epistle to Mordecai, detailing my escapes, and
the services of his kindred in France; and for Mariamne's ear, all
that I could conceive cheering in my hopes of that "wandering
creature, Lafontaine."

But I was forced to think of sterner subjects. I had arrived in
England at a time of the most extraordinary public excitement. Every
man felt that some great trial of England and of Europe was at hand;
but none could distinctly define either its nature or its cause.
France, which had then begun to pour out her furious declamations
against this country, was, of course, generally looked to as the
quarter from which the storm was to come; but the higher minds
evidently contemplated hazards nearer home. Affiliated societies,
corresponding clubs, and all the revolutionary apparatus, from whose
crush and clamour I had so lately emerged, met the ear and the eye on
all occasions; and the fiery ferocity of French rebellion was nearly
rivalled by the grave insolence of English "Rights of Man." But I am
not about to write the history of a time of national fever. The
republicanism, which Cicero and Plutarch instil into us all at our
schools, had been extinguished in me by the squalid realities of
France. I had seen the dissecting-room, and was cured of my love for
the science. My spirit, too, required rest. I could have exclaimed
with all the sincerity, and with all the weariness too, of the
poet: -

Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more!"

But, perhaps fortunately for my understanding, if not for my life, I
was not suffered to take refuge in the wilderness. London was around
me; rich and beggared, splendid and sullen, idle and busy London. I
was floating on those waves of human being, in which the struggler
must make for the shore, or sink. I was in the centre of that huge
whispering gallery, where every sound of earth was echoed and
re-echoed with new power; and where it was impossible to dream. My
days were now spent in communication with the offices of government,
and a large portion of my nights in carrying on those
correspondences, which, though seldom known in the routine of Downing
Street, form the essential part of its intercourse with the
continental cabinets. But a period of suspense still remained.
Parliament had been already summoned for the 13th of December. Up to
nearly the last moment, the cabinet had been kept in uncertainty as
to the actual intents of France. There had been declamation in
abundance in the French legislature and the journals; but with this