it necessary to cross the Danube, and come to a decisive action with his adversary, the Archduke Charles. To facilitate his purpose, he took possession of the island of Lobau, connecting it with both banks of the river by a couple of bridges. Thirty-five thousand French troops, on reaching the left shore of the Danube, were attacked by eighty thousand Austrians, and two hundred cannon. This was but the prelude. Both armies received reinforcements, and the action was renewed by daybreak on the following morning. By ten o'clock, the Austrians had begun to waver, and the French columns to follow up their advantage, when an aid-de-camp rode up in hot haste, to inform the emperor that the main bridge, connecting the island with Vienna on the right bank, had been swept away by the stream. Neither ammunition nor additional troops could now be expected to come to the rescue. Four hundred pieces of cannon poured their projectiles on the French, literally unable to return one shot! Happily, communication with the left bank was still open, so that retreat, however disastrous, was not utterly impossible. The island was regained after immense loss; and a six weeks' incomprehensible inaction ensued-incomprehensible, at least, in the case of Charles. The archduke evidently deemed he had his enemy, dead or alive; and, dreaming of the possibility of a second Bayleu, coolly awaited the result of distress, and an untenable position. Napoleon, meanwhile, was not idle. The language of cheer, the future promise or present award of the Star of Honour, whatever, in short, could stimulate the soldiers' spirits, was earnestly ministered. The silent hour of the bivouac saw him wandering like a troubled ghost, or listening to the talk of the soldiers, happy and proud to hear its light careless tone proclaim the irrepressible buoyancy of the national character. Orders, besides, were issued to the widely scattered French divisions to join him under the walls of Vienna. That of Eugene, the viceroy of Italy, was included in the number. But Beauharnais' military talents, none of the brightest, could hardly cope with his immediate enemy, the Archduke John. An order was therefore immediately despatched for Macdonald to join him. Such an order speaks volumes. Macdonald, in fact, had been the intimate friend of the banished Moreau, and had, out of retaliation for

such friendship, been purposely stripped of all military command. He had been living in retirement for the last five years on his estate of Courcelles, near Gien, in the central department of the Loiret. It was with the utmost difficulty he could be prevailed upon to obey the summons; the haste and hurry of which was such, that having no time to get a new uniform made, he was fain to carry with him his old republican general's coat! This piece of antiquated raiment was, at first, a subject of much merriment to the youthful officers of the army of Italy. Fashion, however, soon became a secondary consideration, even with these facetious worthies, when they saw themselves, within the space of three months, and after a series of brilliant rencounters, enabled to form their junction within sight of the banks of the Danube. The battle previously fought was Essling, the worthy companion-piece of the bloody Eylau. Preparations were now making for that of Wagram. It was fought on the 6th of July, and was such a scene of horror and bloodshed as might have been expected from a conflict between three hundred thousand men, backed by nine hundred pieces of cannon. Massena and Bernadotte were hard put to it; and the archduke was just on the point of realising his cherished scheme of cutting in between the French and the Danube, and seizing the bridges, when Napoleon drove up against him the artillery of the guard. But even this fiery succour came too late, and Charles was about to accomplish his purpose by a tremendous pressure on the French centre, when the third division (that commanded by Macdonald) came labouring up in a long square of living flame; Macdonald himself, conspicuous in his republican coat, ploughing his way, and coolly breasting the crush of the Austrian cuirasssiers led on by the archduke in person, and supported by a body of flying artillery. poleon saw at a glance that the furrow thus opened by the old republican leader was the road to victory; so, ere it had well closed, he had it once more torn up and widened by the hoofs of Nansouty's heavy horse, and the whole cavalry of the guard. On the archduke's retreat, Napoleon overtook Macdonald, moving on at the head of his column at the same steady pace, gave him a hearty hug, notwithstanding his republican coat, and made him marshal of France on the spot; the

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glorious fellow already wore the insignia of grand officer of the Legion of Honour. We might, were it our cue to pander to the passion for historic bloodshed, lay more than one sanguinary battle-field under descriptive contribution. This we deem sufficient. The institution could scarcely show a bloodier dye than it now did, or sink deeper into the character and constitution of Frenchmen. The reverses of its founder dimmed its lustre for a time, which may have originated the passionate and highly figurative burst—

Wild meteor of immortal birth,

Why rise in heaven, to set on earth?"

but, however well grounded might be the aversion of the Bourbons to the order, they were fain to continue, if not the letter, at least the spirit of the institution; which they contrived to do by putting Macdonald, the soul of honour, at its head, ousting the effigy of the obnoxious Corsican, aud substituting in lieu thereof the most reputable face of their own line, that, namely, of the gallant Gascon, Henry IV. Even thus modified, this heirloom of the empire was not accepted by the Bourbons without more than one qualm of honourable compunction. But virtue, as every one knows, is its own reward; and more than one service, which no amount of specie could have requited, was conveniently, as well as satisfactorily, discharged by a timely distribution of the undebasable coin of Napoleon. The verses with which we open our summary are headed thus in the original, 'From the French,' and have been further alleged to be an English transcript from lines by Chateaubriand. Chateaubriand was passionately hostile to the order, and earnest with Lous XVIII. for its suppression. On entering the French Academy in 1814, he made his appearance with the cross of St Louis; nor did he consent to bear that of the Legion of Honour till 1821, a full year after it shone on the breasts of Nodier, Lamartine, and other literary characters of the day. The 'radiant and adored deceit,' however airy and unreal it may seem in English estimation, has long been, and will probably longer be, one of the few substantialities of French opinion. We therefore think it just that a second

textual quotation should be given from
our military authority, and one directly
in defence of the 'wild meteor of immor-
tal birth;' it will, at all events, supply
us with the French moral of the tale:-
'Ambition, unquestionably, was no small
element in the motives which induced
Bonaparte to institute the Legion of
Honour; but there was also another very
laudable object, and one which has not
been sufficiently attended to. On emerg-
ing from our civil discords, profound divi-
sion existed in the bosom of society. It
was the bounden duty of the head of the
state, be he who he might, to study how
men were to be reconciled; and, above
all, to take measures for securing that
equality of which the nation showed itself
excessively jealous; liberty it held at a
cheaper rate. By means of the Legion
of Honour, Bonaparte created a sort of
link between Frenchmen of the most op-
posite opinions; founding, at the same
time, the only equality which can exist
among men-equality through merit. In
this respect, the Legion of Honour de-
serves to stand among the most promi-
nent facts of modern times.' Were might
always right, or had power the immuta-
bility of principle, our author's aphorism
of equality through merit, decidedly
Chinese though it be, might with some
consistency be subscribed to. But in a
land where society is so frequently repre-
sented by antagonistic principles, the
head of the state must, as a bounden duty,
hoist the colours of the principle in office;
nor can any merit, however eminent, ever
hope to attract his patronising notice, un-
less by the exhibition of such chameleon
qualities as are utterly at variance with
the very essence of honour. Unribboned
and untitled Englishmen are not, perhaps,
the most competent judges in a case of
this peculiar kind. We venture to avow,
nevertheless, that we can discern nothing
either very profound or very fascinating
in this ticketing and labelling of huma-
nity and its deeds. In short, we deem,
in the homely yet haughty strains of
Scotland's poet,

'A king can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith he mauna fa' that!'

We

MR STEELQUILL is a ruined man! thought a few days ago that he was absolutely good for nothing; but it has just struck us that we may put him to one last use, before altogether banishing him from our society and thoughts. In order once more to make him of some slight service to his fellow-men, therefore, we propose to set up Mr Steelquill, in a brief history of his career, and shocking fall, as a striking example of the evil and misery which may result from apparently trifling, and certainly not universally reprobated, deviation from the path of ordinary life. Mr Steelquill was once an articled clerk in the office of Shearem, Fleecy, & Co., the well-known solicitors, and had the bright prospect of being one day himself a prosperous member of the legal profession. Successful as studious, honourable and gentlemanly as well-born and educated, he bid fair soon to master the mysteries of Blackstone & Co., and eventually to rise to eminence in his profession. The woolsack was before him; his hopes of attaining that Mont Blanc of the legal Alps were somewhat faint, but still, the woolsack was before him.

At this period of his history, Mr Steelquill's personal appearance presented nothing remarkable. A smooth, glossy hat surmounted a fringe of nicely-combed hair; his juvenile promises of whiskers, rather than whiskers themselves, were small, but well kept; his countenance wore the open, joyous aspect of one who ceased study when he left his desk, and could walk to and fro without troubling himself with much thought. He dressed in plain, but well-made clothes, always scrupulously brushed; and his boots, in their unsullied brightness, looked as though he had had them cleaned at the nearest corner. In fine, from top to toe, Mr Steelquill presented the appearance of a quiet, steady, young gentleman, of good position and better prospects. That is Mr Steelquill of old-as he was some six years ago. A sad change is apparent. His position now is that of-well, to use his own term, though it is perhaps rather too dignified-an author. In fact, Mr Steelquill is a periodical scribbler. He does that indescribable sort of work, called 'writing for the magazines.' No

body seems to know what he writes, n when, nor where; nor does he himself seem to be much in advance of his age in possessing information on this myste rious subject.

It is evident that his circumstances are not very good, though, fortunately for him, he is the recipient of an annuity, to which the income he derives from his pen is merely supplementary. He looks fully twelve years older than when we first introduced him; and his face habitually wears an anxious, care-furrowed expression; ever and anon intensifying into a look of horribly fierce determination. At such moments, it must charitably be concluded that he is labouring under a fit of inspiration. A thoughta great idea-a grand conception-has arisen in his mind; or a startling denouement, or ingenious plot, has suggested itself to his fancy; or, perhaps, something so alarmingly funny has presented itself to his imagination, that it is only by contorting his features into an aspect of extreme gravity that he is able to prevent an unseemly explosion of mirth. walks along, lost in sublime speculations and glowing aspirations. His search is after originality. He regards commonplace objects, scenes, persons, and occurrences, with a view to an original treatment of them in 'Someone's Journal.' He affects humour and wit, and is ever on the watch for subjects on which to exercise his gifts; so that, while the fates of nations and continents tremble in the political scale, he thinks of their most momentous questions as scenes for a burlesque, or jokes for an extravaganza; and a war or a revolution provides him with matter for a comic song.

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Then, as to his attire, it varies. Occasionally it is incongruous, and also presents that appearance consequent on overlong wear, which has been happily termed seediness.' At other times he is, so far as the texture of his garments goes, well dressed; but still his dress is characterised by a peculiar showiness, almost gaudiness, of colour, and a singularity of make.

His hair he wears exceedingly long, as the customary and universally recognised sign of genius; and brushes, and combs, and strokes it back from his forehead,

until little is left visible from the front save its roots; and it looks as though it had had a very narrow escape of being completely eradicated. He wears, too, what would be a moustache, if nature and he were but of the same way of thinking on the moustache question. As it is, he encourages the diffident capillary shoots, displays those of more luxuriant growth, and, in short, makes as close an approximation to that hirsute appendage as circumstances admit of. His gait assumes rather a slouching, lounging character, except when he is impelled by one of those fits of inspiration by which he is visited, and then he strides along at a smart pace, until the violence of his emotions has subsided.

A fearful alteration has, indeed, taken place in poor Steelquill. He is but the wreck of his former self; and, from a peaceable, respectable citizen, is reduced to the poor, objectless, aimless, restless creature we see him now. And yet, we must not imagine him a miserable man. Providence has kindly rendered him insensible to his misfortunes, and he is even so enamoured of his sad state, that he has rejected several overtures of his friends to reinstate him in his former position. Yes, strange to say, he prefers literary poverty to professional affluence, and would rather write what he mistakes for an epigram, than make out a bill of costs. Here then, is a case pregnant with warning to the young and ambitious, to avoid the pernicious ways of literature as they would the plague. The love of it entrances, entices, and, at last, irresistibly fascinates; but the pursuit of it makes a Samuel Steelquill of a man in the end. How the transition in Mr Steelquill's case took place, we design to relate.

Mr Steelquill, senior, was a very respectable retail dealer in West Indian produce; in fact, a grocer. Well-to-do and contented he was; and, intending to qualify his only child for a profession, he gave him an excellent education, and had the satisfaction of seeing him, for some time, advance steadily and rapidly towards an established position. But Mr S. Steelquill, as we have seen, departed from the path of prosperity and fortune, and eventually wandered very widely astray.

Of course he did not plunge at once into the wilds of literature. He stepped aside, and culled a flower or a leaf, and then sprung hastily back into the beaten

track of professional propriety. In all cases of thus forsaking the right course, vagabondising for a time, and at length marching off in a totally different path, there must be a commencement. Some spot might be pointed out as the site of the first deviation-some point where the fresh course branched off at a most acute angle-some puddle of a Rubicon which bounded the forbidden ground; but, in after days, it is not easy, nor always possible, to indicate this startingpoint. In Mr Steelquill's case, it is believed that the perpetration of an anonymous parody was the first act of delinquency, and that this was followed by several explosions of squibs, a jeu d'esprit, and some foundling jokes, the parentage of which, however, it is but just to him to state, he has never confessed to. These attempts all proving abortive, owing to the stupidity of publishers-who, with a strange blindness to their own interests, refused their insertion in their various periodicals, 'unless paid for as advertisements' we feel at liberty to pass them by without further notice, and proceed to his first acknowledged production— 'The Philosopher's Stone.' We shall spare our readers the pain of skipping this quaint effusion, by refraining from reprinting it, and merely state, that it appeared in an ill-known monthly periodical, authenticated by the initial signature 'S. S.,' and accompanied by a semiapologetic explanation by the editor, that it was evidently the performance of a very inexperienced writer, and, viewed as such, was not wholly destitute of merit.

When Mr Steelquill procured the magazine in which 'The Philosopher's Stone' appeared, and read in the list of contents the title of his little piece, he experienced a sensation of agreeable bewilderment, known only to persons in his position; but, when he read the verses themselves, and saw the 'S. S.' appended thereto, his delight and astonishment were quite unbounded. Of course he cut the particular leaves between which the precious gem lay concealed, while he walked towards his office, and perused it in such a trepidation of pleasure, that, in his insensibility to external impressions, with his eyes fixed on the page, he walked over a little child, through a flock of sheep, and into the wrong office, besides all but running his open pen-knife into the eye of a boy, who, not being aware of his abstraction of mind, walked dange

rously near him. To this state of mind, a lofty assumption of indifference to sublunary things in general, magazines in particular, and, especially, to his own trifling contribution, succeeded, as re-action ensued; so that, in the evening, he presented the periodical to his father, and pointed out his own handiwork, or headiwork, with a calmness truly surprising, particularly when viewed as merely the mask of intense emotion.

Had not Mr Steelquill, senior, been an imbecile old grocer, instead of praising his son's impotent attempt, he would have expressed surprise at any young man writing, and any editor publishing, such trash. As it was, he read it as he would have read an invoice; and, seeing that each line began with a capital letter, he inferred that it was poetry, while the fact that it was divided into verses, led him to the conclusion that it was a song; and, feeling very proud at seeing his son's production in print, he pronounced it capital-excellent-and so forth; frequently exclaiming, 'Well, I never !' but, provokingly leaving the sentence in that unfinished and ungrammatical form, he rendered it impossible for any person to understand to what he denied being, doing, or suffering. His injudicious expression of approval produced two results: 1st, Mr S. Steelquill immediately laid before him a large collection of similar pieces, in manuscript; and, 2d, Mr S. Steelquill be gan seriously to contemplate freeing his genius from the confinement of legal studies, and allowing it to soar, in majestic freedom, towards-towards-wherever genius does soar.

Shortly this determination was carried into execution, and Mr Steelquill resolutely refused to proceed with his profession, and declared himself resolved henceforth to devote himself to literary pursuits. The fact of this course being strikingly at variance with the advice he had offered, and the sentiments he inculcated in his own philosophical poem, did not at all affect his resolution, as he claimed the freedom from general rules usually accorded to genius. He received, indeed, a slight check in his career, on having, as soon as he thought to make merchandise of his ware, almost every paper he forwarded to publishers returned to him. In vain did he pass from tale to sketch, and thence to essay; in vain did he, with the versatility of genius,

turn from prose to verse-blank and rhymed; in vain did he write lengthy pieces, and equally in vain did he cut down his articles into mere scrapseditors were insensible alike to their own interests, and to his extraordinary merit. In vain did he seek fresh editors; alas! they were all alike insensible. True, they all 'regretted'—but still they did 'regret'-' that the paper, Memoirs of a Monkey, or an Account of an Ape,' was unsuitable for insertion in The M.S. might be had on application at the publisher's.' Occasionally, indeed, some unfortunate editor, worried beyond even an editor's patience by his pertinacious applications, did not vouchsafe him quite as polite a reply; and his favour was ruthlessly and thanklessly declined. As a general rule, his papers would not become contributions.

Disgusted by the want of taste and discernment he discovered among editors, Mr Steelquill made up his mind to leave them to their fate, and to turn his attention to the stage. Though feeling himself fully equal to a tragedy in five, or a comedy in three acts, he nevertheless very modestly decided on making his debut as a writer for the stage as the author of a farce in one act.

He plodded at his plot until he fancied it unexceptionable, and polished his jokes till, in his own estimation, they were as brilliant as Bude lights; and then, perusing it once more, with a half-repressed self-complacent smirk writhing over his features, he put it in his pocket, and went forth in quest of a manager, intending, as it was a first attempt, and he had a name to make, to offer it gratuitously.

Fortunately, he was able to procure a letter of introduction from an influential friend to a celebrated manager, remarkable, however, for not manifesting in a most extraordinary degree, that suaviter in modo, which so frequently renders even opposition to one's wishes tolerable. Armed with this note, he sought the manager, presented his farce, and was requested to call again in a month or

SO.

This short age having elapsed, he again waited on the man who, to his apprehension, held his fate in his hand. The manager had satisfied himself by a glance that the piece was infinitely below par, and totally unfit for representation on any stage; but to afford an author such satisfaction, he experimentally knew was impossible. So, thinking it best