cis Somers, in the Hogewoert, at Leyden, a fellow-student, then, of Frederick's.- must remember to enquire if he is acquainted with this young man." * Mary G, it appears, died the same night. Before her departure, she repeated to my friend the singular story she had before told him, without any material variation from the detail she had formerly given. To the last she persisted in believing that her unworthy lover had practised upon her by forbidden arts. She once more described the apartment with great minuteness, and even the person of Francis's alleged companion, who was, she said, about the middle height, hard featured, with a rather remarkable scar upon his left cheek, extending in a transverse direction from below the eye to the nose. Several pages of my reverend friend's manuscript are filled with reflections upon this extraordinary confession, which, joined with its melancholy termination, seems to have produced no common effect upon him. He alludes to more than one subsequent discussion with the surviving sister, and piques himself on having made some progress in convincing her of the folly of her theory respecting the origin and nature of the illness itself. he had himself been severely wounded in the face. From the same authority, I learned that my poor friend was much affected on finding that his arrival had been deferred too long. Every attention was shewn him by the proprietor of the house, a respectable tradesman, and a chamber was prepared for his accommodation; the books, and few effects of his deceased grandson, were delivered over to him, duly inventoried, and, late as it was in the evening when he reached Leyden, he insisted on being conducted to the apartments which Frederick had occupied, there to indulge the first ebullitions of his sorrow, before he retired to his own. Madame Müller, accordingly, led the way to an upper room, which, being situated at the top of the house, had been, from its privacy and distance from the street, selected by Frederick as his study. The Doctor entered, and, taking the lamp from his conductress, motioned to be left alone. His implied wish was, of course, complied with; and nearly two hours had elapsed before his kind-hearted hostess reascended, in the hope of prevailing upon him to return with her, and partake of that refreshment which he had in the first instance peremptorily declined. Her application for admission was unnoticed; she repeated it more than His memoranda on this, and other once, without success; then, becosubjects, are continued till about the ming somewhat alarmed at the conmiddle of September, when a break tinued silence, opened the door, and ensues, occasioned, no doubt, by the perceived her new inmate stretched unwelcome news of his grandson's on the floor, in a fainting fit. Restodangerous state, which induced him ratives were instantly administered, to set out forthwith for Holland. His and prompt medical aid succeeded arrival at Leyden, was, as I have al- at length in restoring him to conready said, too late. Frederick Ssciousness. But his mind had rehad expired, after thirty hours intense suffering, from a wound received in a duel with a brother student. The cause of quarrel was variously related; but, according to his landlord's version, it had originated in some silly dispute about a dream of his antagonist's, who had been the challenger. Such, at least, was the account given to him, as he said, by Frederick's friend and fellow lodger, W, who had acted as second on the occasion, thus acquitting himself of an obligation of the same kind, due to the deceased, whose services he had put in requisition about a year before, on a similar occasion, when ceived a shock, from which, during the few weeks he survived, it never entirely recovered. His thoughts wandered perpetually; and though, from the very slight acquaintance which his hosts held with the English language, the greater part of what fell from him remained unknown, yet enough was understood to induce them to believe that something more than the mere death of his grandson had contributed thus to paralyze his faculties. When his situation was first discovered, a small miniature was found tightly grasped in his right hand. It had been the property of Frederick, and had more than once been seen by the Müllers in his possession. To this the patient made continued reference, and would not suffer it one moment from his sight: it was in his hand when he expired. At my request, it was produced to me. The portrait was that of a young woman, in an English morning dress, whose pleasing and regular features, with their mild and somewhat pensive expression, were not, I thought, altogether unknown to me. Her age was apparently about twenty. A profusion of dark chestnut hair was arranged in the Madonna style, above a brow of unsullied whiteness, a single ringlet depending on the left side. A glossy lock of the same colour, and evidently belonging to the original, appeared beneath a small crystal, inlaid in the back of the picture which was plainly set in gold, and bore in a cypher the letters M.G., with the date 18-. From the inspection of this portrait, I could at the time collect nothing, nor from that of the Doctor himself, which also I found the next morning in Frederick's desk, accompanied by two separate portions of hair. One of them was a lock, short and deeply tinged with grey, and had been taken, I have little doubt, from the head of my old friend himself; the other corresponded in colour and appearance with that at the back of the miniature. It was not till a few days had elapsed, and I had seen the worthy Doctor's remains quietly consigned to the narrow house, that, while arranging his papers previous to my intended return upon the morrow, I encountered the narrative I have already transcribed. The name of the unfortunate young woman connected with it forcibly arrested my attention. I recollected it immediately as one belonging to a parishioner of my own, and at once recognised the original of the female portrait as its owner. I rose not from the perusal of his very singular statement till I had gone through the whole of it. It was late, and the rays of the single lamp by which I was reading, did but very faintly illumine the remoter parts of the room in which I sat. The brilliancy of an unclouded November moon, then some twelve nights old, and shining full into the apartment, did much towards remedying the defect. My thoughts filled with the melancholy details I had read, I rose and walked to the window. The beautiful planet rode high in the firmament, and gave to the snowy roofs of the houses, and the pendant icicles, all the sparkling radiance of clustering gems. The stillness of the scene harmonized well with the state of my feelings. I threw open the casement and looked abroad. Far below me, the waters of the principal canal shone like a mirror in the moonlight. To the left rose the Burght, a huge round tower, of remarkable appearance, pierced with embrasures at its summit; while, a little to the right, and in the distance, the spire and pinnacles of the cathedral of Leyden rose in all their majesty, presenting a coup d'œil of surpassing, though simple beauty. To a spectator of calm, unoccupied mind, the scene would have been delightful. On me it acted with an electric effect. I turned hastily to survey the apartment in which I had been sitting. It was the one designated as the study of the late Frederick SThe sides of the room were covered with dark wainscot; the spacious fireplace opposite to me, with its polished andirons, was surmounted by a large old-fashioned mantelpiece, heavily carved in the Dutch style with fruits and flowers; above it frowned a portrait, in a Vandyke dress, with peaked beard and mustaches; one hand of the figure rested on a table, while the other bore a marshal's staff, surmounted with a silver dove; and either my imagination, already heated by the scene, deceived me, or a smile, as of malicious triumph curled the lip and glared in the cold leaden eye, that seemed fixed upon my own. The heavy, antique, cane-backed chairs, the large oaken table, the bookshelves, the scattered volumes-all, all were there; while, to complete the picture, to my right and left, as, half breathless, I leaned my back against the casement, rose on each side a tall, dark, ebony cabinet, in whose polished sides the single lamp upon the table shone reflected as in a mirror. What am I to think? Can it be that the story I have been reading was written by my poor friend here, and under the influence of delirium? "I AM surprised," said Condorcet to Lafayette, upon seeing him enter the room in the uniform of a private of the National Guard of Paris, of which he had so recently been the commander," I am surprised at seeing you, General, in that dress." -"Not at all," replied Lafayette, "I was tired of obeying, and wished to command, and therefore I laid down my general's commission, and took a musket on my shoulder."-"Gnarus," says Tacitus," bellis civilibus, plus militibus quam ducibus licere." It is curious to observe how, in the most remote ages, popular license produces effects so precisely similar. Of the numerous delusions which have overspread the world in such profusion during the last nine months, there is none so extraordinary and so dangerous as the opinion incessantly inculcated by the revolutionary press, that the noblest virtue in regular soldiers is to prove themselves traitors to their oaths, and that a national guard is the only safe and constitutional force to whom arms can be intrusted. The troops of the line, whose revolt decided the three days in July in favour of the revolutionary party, have been the subject of the most extravagant eulogium from the liberal press throughout Europe; and even in this country, the government journals have not hesitated to condemn, in no measured terms, the Royal Guard, merely because they adhered, amidst a nation's treason, to their honour and their oaths. Hitherto it has been held the first duty of soldiers to adhere with implicit devotion to that fidelity which is the foundation of military duties. Treason to his colours has been considered as foul a blot on the soldier's scutcheon as cowardice in the field. Even in the most republican states, this principle of military subordination has been felt to be the vital principle of national strength. It was during the rigorous days of Roman discipline, that their legions conquered the world; and the decline of the empire began at the time that the Prætorian Guards veered with the mutable populace, and sold the empire for a gratuity to themselves. Albeit placed in power by the insurrection of the people, no men knew better than the French republican leaders that their salvation depended on crushing the military insubordination to which they had owed their elevation. When the Parisian levies began to evince the mutinous spirit in the camp at St Menehould, in Champagne, which they had imbibed during the license of the capital, Dumourier drew them up in the centre of his intrenchments, and shewing them a powerful line of cavalry in front, with their sabres drawn, ready to charge, and a stern array of artillery and cannoneers in rear, with their matches in their hands, soon convinced the most licentious that the boasted independence of the soldier must yield to the dangers of actual warfare.* "The armed force," said * Mem. de Dumourier, III. 172. from all the steeples in Paris by the citizen soldiers, and the image of our Saviour effaced, by their orders, from every church within its bounds! The two principles stand and fall together. The Chevalier, without fear and without reproach, died in obedience to his oath, with his eyes fixed on the Cross; the National Guard lived in triumph, while their comrades bore down the venerated emblem from the towers of Notre Dame. Carnot, is essentially obedient ;" and in all his commands, that great man incessantly inculcated upon his soldiers the absolute necessity of implicit submission to the power which employed them. When the recreant Constable de Bourbon, at the head of a victorious squadron of Spanish cavalry, approached the spot where the rear-guard, under the Chevalier Bayard, was covering the retreat of the French army in the Valley of Aosta, he found him seated, mortally wounded, under a tree, with his eyes fixed on the cross which formed the hilt of his sword. Bourbon began to express pity for his fate. "Pity not me," said the highminded Chevalier," pity those who fight against their king, their country, and their oath." These generous feelings, common alike to republican antiquity and modern chivalry, have disappeared during the fumes of the French Revolution. The soldier who is now honoured, is not he who keeps, but he who violates his oath; the rewards of valour showered, not upon those who defend, but those who overturn the government; the incense of popular applause offered, not at the altar of fidelity, but at that of treason. Honours, rewards, promotion, and adulation, have been lavished on the troops of the line, who overthrew the government of Charles X. in July last, while the Royal Guard, who adhered to the fortune of the falling monarch with exemplary fidelity, have been reduced to beg their bread from the bounty of strangers in a foreign land. A subscription has recently been opened in London for the most destitute of those defenders of royalty; but the government journals have stigmatized, as "highly dangerous," any indication of sympathy with their fidelity or their misfortunes.† If these ancient ideas of honour, however, are to be exploded, they have at least gone out of fashion in good company. The National Guard who took up arms to overthrow the throne, have not been long in destroying the altar. During the revolt of February, 1831, the Cross, the emblem of salvation, was taken down * Carnot's Memoirs. "I can discover no other reason for the uniform progress of the republic," says Cicero," but the constant sense of religion which has actuated its members. In numbers the Spaniards excel us-in military ardour, the Gauls-in hardihood and obstinacy, the Germans; but in veneration to the gods, and fidelity to their oaths, the Roman people exceed any nation that ever existed." We shall see whether the present times are destined to form an exception from these principles; whether treason and infidelity are to tear the fabric in modern, which fidelity and religion constructed in ancient times. The extreme peril of such principles renders the enquiry interesting,-What have been the effects of military treachery in times past? Has it aided the cause of virtue, strengthened the principles of freedom, contributed to the prosperity of mankind? Or has it unhinged the fabric of society, blasted the cause of liberty, blighted the happiness of the people? The first great instance of military treachery occurred in the revolt of the French Guards in June, 1789. That unparalleled event immediately brought on the Revolution. The fatal example rapidly spread to the other troops brought up to overawe the capital, and the King, deprived of the support of his own troops, was soon compelled to submit to the insurgents. It was these soldiers, not the mob of Paris, who stormed the Bastile; all the efforts of the populace were unavailing till those regular troops occupied the adjoining houses, and supported tumultuary enthusiasm by military skill. Extravagant were the eulogiums, + Courier. boundless the gratitude, great the rewards, which were showered down on the Gardes Françaises for this shameful act of treachery. Never were men the subjects of such extraordinary adulation. Wine and women, gambling and intoxication, flattery and bribes, were furnished in abundance. And what was the consequence? The ancient honour of the Guards of France, of those guards who saved the Body Guards at Fontenoy, and inherited a line of centuries of splendour, perished without redemption on that fatal occasion. Tarnished in reputation, disunited in opinion, humbled in character, the regiment fell to pieces from a sense of its own shame; the early leader of the Revolution, its exploits never were heard of through all the career of glory which followed; and the first act of their revolt against their sovereign was the last of their long and renowned existence. Nor were the consequences of this unexampled defection less dangerous to France than to the soldiers who were guilty of it. The insubordination, license, and extravagance of revolt were fatal to military discipline, and brought France to the brink of ruin. The disaffected soldiers, as has been observed in all ages, were intrepid only against their own sovereign. When they were brought to meet the armies of Prussia and Austria, they all took to flight; and on one occasion, by the admission of Dumourier himself, ten thousand regular soldiers fled from one thousand five hundred Prussian hussars. A little more energy and ability in the allied commanders would have then destroyed the revolutionary government. Notwithstanding all the enthusiasm of the people, the weakness of insubordination continued to paralyze all the efforts of the republican armies. France was again invaded, and brought to the brink of ruin in 1793, and the tide was then, for the first time, turned, when the iron rule of the mob began, and the terrific grasp of Carnot and Robespierre extinguished all those principles of military license which had so much been the subject of eulogium at the commencement of the Revolution. Did this abandonment of military duty serve the cause of freedom, or increase the prosperity of France ? Did it establish liberty on a secure basis, or call down the blessings of posterity? It led immediately to all the anguish and suffering of the Revolution-the murder of the Kingthe anarchy of the kingdom-the reign of terror-the despotism of Napoleon. They forgot their loyalty amidst the glitter of prostitution and the fumes of intoxication; their successors were brought back to it by the iron rule of the committee of public safety: they revolted against the beneficent sway of a reforming monarch: they brought on their country a tyranny, which the pencil of Tacitus would hardly be able to pourtray. The revolt of the Spanish troops at the Isle of Leon, in 1819, was the next great example of military defection. What have been its consequences? Has Spain improved in freedom-risen in character-augmented in wealth, since that glorious insurrection? It raised up, for a few years, the phantom of a constitutional throne, ephemeral as the dynasties of the East, pestilent as the breath of contagion. Spain was rapidly subjugated when it rested on such defenders-treason blasted their efforts, and the nation, which had gloriously resisted for six years the formidable legions of Napoleon, sunk under the first attack of an inexperienced army of invaders led by a Bourbon Prince. Since that time, to what a deplorable condition has Spain been reduced! Depressed by domestic tyranny, destitute of foreign influence-the ridicule and scorn of Europe-this once great power has almost been blotted from the book of nations. Portugal, Naples, and Piedmont, all had military Revolutions about the same time. Have they improved the character, bettered the condition, extended the freedom, of these countries? They have, on the contrary, established constitutions, whose failure and absurdity have brought the cause of freedom itself into disrepute. The valiant revolters against the Neapolitan throne, fled at the first sight of the Austrian battalions; and the free institutions of Piedmont and Portugal, without foreign aggression, have all fallen from their own inherent weakness. All these |