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my friend the Baron, to spend a few of those days with my brother, a captain in a Light Infantry regiment, which was then encamped near the head-quarters of Lord Wellington. In fact I had grown anxious to taste the sweets of war. I commenced my journey about mid-day, thinking eight miles would be as easily accomplished as in England, and hoping to arrive at the camp in good time for a five-o'clock dinner. Soon after I had got into the main road, I was surprised to find my advance a good deal impeded by the roads being broken up. Dead oxen, which had been fortunate enough to end their labours a little time before they reached the camp, where they were to have been slaughtered-waggons broken down, and other vehicles of military desolation, were scattered along the way, and impeded the progress of passengers. Nor was my advance much accelerated by the convoys of bullocks and provisions, the long strings of mules, the sick, wounded, and prisoners, coming from the army, and the stragglers about to join it, which altogether formed as dense and motley a group, although of a very different character, as the annual procession of the worthy inhabitants of London, eastern and western, on their road to Epsom races. It was nearly dusk ere I arrived at Lord Wellington's headquarters, that were at a village through which the road passed. The names of the various general officers composing the staff of the army, chalked upon the doors of the meanest cottages, shewed pretty plainly what must be the accommodations of the inferior officers. I soon learned that the light division, to which my brother's regiment belonged, was about five miles in advance; and I was particularly cautioned not to stumble upon the French instead of our own troops, as they were stationed close to one another. After leaving head-quarters, I found the road quite clear; yet, notwithstanding the expedition I made use of, it was quite dark before I arrived at the camp of the light division, which was situated upon the side of a hill. On reaching the summit of this hill, and looking around me, I paused, to observe one of the most striking and splendid spectacles which could possibly be imagined. For miles around me the country seemed to be one blaze of light, proceeding from the fires in the camps of both armies. There was almost a perfect stillness around me; and as I stood alone, in the silence of night, upon this foreign soil, I seemed to experience, for the first time, a strong and vivid feeling of mortality. The countless thousands which were stretched around me might, on this calm and beautiful night, be enjoying their last earthly repose. I could not help thinking how different these sensations were from those of an ordinary traveller, passing through the country in a time of peace and tranquillity. My brother's camp lay in a field to the right of the road: I found him, with his tent pitched to windward of a large fire, with one or two of his companions, anticipating the pleasure of devouring a couple of fine ducks, which they were roasting with considerable skill. After an absence of nearly two years, we enjoyed our meeting in this strange spot fully as much as we had ever done, in former times, beneath the peaceful shades of ***** Hall. I soon satisfied his enquiries; and, in return, begged to be informed, by what good fortune he had become possessed of the deur gros canards which promised so luxurious a feast. He informed me that an old campaigner, like himself, was generally a good forager. He had surprised a party of French

that morning in taking a village, and had discovered these treasures attached to the personal staff of one of the French officers, who resigned the promised enjoyment with the utmost complaisance, and in presenting the ducks to my brother remarked, "C'est la fortune de la guerre." A small hamper formed our table, while a piece of oil-skin, on which we sate à la Turc, prevented us from feeling the ill effects of the damp ground. Our dinner consisted of soup and bouille, and the aforesaid ducks, accompanied with the best sauce a ravenous appetite. The old campaigners corrected the badness of the wine, by converting it into very delicious mull, by the aid of nutmeg and ginger, cinnamon and cloves. By the time we had finished the second kettle of this nectar, which operated as a composing draught after the fatigues of the day, we retired to rest, and for the first time I stretched my limbs in a bona fide camp. I lay in my brother's tent, and rolled in my cloak, I slept as soundly as in the softest bed in England, with "all appliances and means to boot." I was surprised on wakening the next morning to find it was already nine o'clock: we rose immediately, and enjoyed a cup of excellent tea. The regiment was ordered to stand to their arms, and waited to be supplied with provisions. A long string of mules, laden with bread, soon afterwards arrived, and a drove of bullocks were brought to be slaughtered in the camp. A certain number of men attended to assist in slaughtering the beasts, and receive their portion of the provisions. The whole affair is usually conducted with great dispatch; insomuch that I have often since seen a bullock alive, slaughtered, dressed, and eaten, within a quarter of an hour. The bugles now sounded to arms, and the brigade was immediately formed. As over our mull, the preceding evening, I had expressed my determination to accompany the regiment, should it be called into action, I was now, by the contributions of several officers, fully equipped in the dress of my brother's corps. We marched forward, and soon deployed into an open field. Behind us towered the lofty chain of the Pyrenees, and before us lay the fertile plains of France. Some companies were sent forward to skirmish, and the firing soon became exceedingly warm. It was impossible to drive-in the picquets, which kept up an incessant fire; but we gained ground by degrees. The French, perceiving the progress we made, brought a party of guns, supported by a detachment of cavalry, against us. A body of French infantry now moved upon our right, and opened a severe fire; and as I cast my eyes along the ranks I observed frequent chasms occasioned by the falling of the killed and wounded. Just before the enemy had formed upon the hill, I remarked a group of about six officers, in blue great-coats, with shabby cocked hats covered with oil-skin, ride past; and the leader of the party had scarcely passed the line of our column, when I heard Lord Wellington's name buzzed along the ranks, and saw a smile of exultation light up every countenance. The party halted upon a hillock close by us, and one of them, dismounting from his horse, reconnoitred the enemy through his spy-glass. I had an excellent view of our commander-in-chief: his features were perfectly unruffled, and his demeanour was that of a man engaged in the ordinary occupations of life. After taking a general view of the situation of the troops, he seemed to be communicating for a moment with one of his Aids, who immediately galloped forward

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towards the brigade with which I was. An old officer, who stood next to me, on seeing this movement, whispered in my ear, "You are in for it now, young man." A general order of "Steady, men, steady; fix bayonets," convinced me that he was a true prophet. The next order "The regiment will advance;" and the bugles struck up a lively tune. As we marched forward, the enemy still continued their fire, and our men kept dropping. We moved up steadily and coolly, with all the regularity of a common parade, till within forty yards of the enemy, when we gave our fire, and the order "Double quick” was given the next word I heard was "Charge!" In an instant we were in the midst of them. I can from this moment only describe my own situation and that of those immediately around me. The first thing I observed, after the shock of the charge was over, was the butt-end of a musket aimed by a ferocious grenadier direct at my head: I was just raising my arm above my head as my sole means of protection, when a friendly bayonet entered the breast of my immense foe, and his upraised arm fell powerless by his side. I had scarcely time to rejoice at this deliverance, when an ancient French officer made a dead thrust at me in most scientific style, with a sword of awful length, which I parried with the back of my own weapon, and instantly cut at him in return. I fancy my blow must have taken effect, for I saw him staggering backwards, and lost him in the universal confusion. The whole of the transaction since we first closed with the enemy had not occupied more than three minutes; and I now began to perceive the confusion amongst our own men becoming less, as the French hurried from the field. There was soon nothing left for us to do, but to pursue the enemy, and capture all we could. By scampering in all directions after them, by wounding some, and terrifying others, we succeeded in making about seventy or eighty prisoners. I was not so fortunate as to surround ten men myself, like Sir John Falstaff; but nevertheless, heavy and tardy as I was, compared with some of my light associates, I managed to overtake a drummer, a wounded corporal, and a lusty major of the Voltigeurs de la Garde. The bugle at length sounded for the regiment to form again; and at the point of my sword I drove up my three disarmed and dejected prisoners, with all the pomp of a Roman Emperor with three kings at his chariot-wheels. The prisoners were placed under a guard; and every individual, as he came in, took his station in his own company. The first object after forming was to tell off the companies, and estimate our loss, and to ascertain who had fallen in the action. I looked around me with indescribable anxiety for my brother, and my fears for his safety were dreadful, when I could not discover him with the regiment. One of the serjeants told me he was close to him at the moment of charging, but he had not seen him afterwards. I had now little doubt that he had fallen.

ON THE OLD FABLES.

THE most delightful of moralists are the old Fables. Compared with these simple instructors, the theses of the early philosophers, later schoolmen, and modern theologians, are but subtle webs to entangle speculative and curious flies. Of all my young enjoyments, reading these fables with their picturesque interpretations of wooden cuts was one of the most precious; old, but always new and pleasant. I doubted the truth of my elder friends' observation, when they told me that the moral was the kernel of the fabulous shell: how sweet were the husks of the (oftentimes) bitter kernels. I needed no invitation to travel over this world of histories-this ever fresh gallery of pictures. A fable is Esop's other name; hence more recent fabulists have been neglected; perhaps because they only re-told what had been more sententiously related before; or, perhaps, their refinements were not so honest as the pithy aphorisms of the Grecian slave. We cannot think

of Gay as we do of the aboriginal Esop: he is the text-book of morality; his brutes are Pythagorean animals, in whom dwell the souls of a generation of men. Fables are moral parables: parables, divine fables. When reading the beautiful parables in the New Testament, our fancy supplies the scene of the divine discourses-the corn-fields, the highway, the vineyard: our imagination becomes pristine; coeval with the unsophisticated state of mankind in that age of mighty events: we are passive beholders: we can even conjure up the persons in the great drama—all but the divine presence; which is only visible to our mind's eye, through the voice of truth. Our impressions on reading the inventions of human wisdom, are less real, as they are more enigmatical; and, of necessity, lack the exalted humanity and sentiment of the inspired narratives. But to descend from the unequal comparison. The refinements of learning and science, are to these everlasting stories, but the pride and vanity of man; the superficial pomp of words; the mere straining of the wits; perplexing the reader, and puffing up the inventor. They have all "faded into the light of common day." The maximum of an age has been displaced and annihilated by another set of" crabbed rules of dull philosophy," produced by a generation of more enlightened theorists; who are now fast decaying before the practical (and real, they would have you believe) schemes of modern systematizers. Yet still we have the parables fresh as from the lips of their holy author: still we have the fables bred from the experience of their inventor. There is nothing in them but is applicable to all mankind at every period; and when applied, but gives birth to, or nourishes the first tender growth of neighbourly feeling and manly wisdom. Truth lies in a nut-shell: fallacy must be built up, a superstructure of folly and deceit, upon the foundation of pride: a huge glittering lie: an unsubstantial dream: itself a moral lesson to its fabricators.

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The Egyptians were a nation of riddle-makers. Their most simple hieroglyphics are the finest, and most symbolical; and we may justly suppose they were among the earliest: as thus-a circle, eternity; a bull, agriculture; a horse, liberty; a lion, power, &c. These are some of the primogenitive parts of speech in their silent language. The extent of their hieroglyphics is unknown to us; but though they might have been multiplied to infinity, there could have been none more

beautiful or expressive than the first few begotten. Indeed, the idea is more grand than the reality.

The worthy successor of the ancient Egyptians, the Professor of the University of Lagado, mentioned by Gulliver, who proposed to converse by means of substances representing things, instead of by words, was a more substantial improver upon the ideal language; in as much as a bona fide image cannot but convey its impression to the mind, without the chance of its miscarrying in a hieroglyphic, or evaporating in a word. What a realm of solids would this world have then become, and mankind a nation of breathing puppets! What an assemblage of pedlars, each with his cosmographical wallet of signs, chests of conversation, waggons of debate, and warehouses of argument! Then should we have stood in need of rail-roads to lead to our senses, and tunnels to reach our understandings!

But to return to the Fables. We can never look at the pictures at the head of each, without being transported to the modern antiquity of time and scene: the cold vacuity of the long wainscotted rooms, with their solid oaken furniture, and large barred windows; the bygone look of the houses; the quaint and uncouth dress of the figures; the terraced gardens, in all the square magnificence of geometrical proportion; the bright inland landscape; mingling a heap of distant and pleasing recollections drawn from their faithful portraitures. This should apply more especially to Gay; but the artist, scorning to be any thing but English, has transferred the scenes of Esop to our own country: it is as honest an anachronism as the unsuspected mistakes of the old masters in this way: it makes us believe Æsop to be an old countryman of ours, who lived a long while ago; and with a harmless deceit we recognize the lion as having some other relation to our desert-less island, than as the typical supporter of our national badge of heraldry.

Let any one who despises the snug prospects of hedge-row landscapes, and the quiet retirement of a hamlet in a level country, look at the fresh morning aspect of these little views, and they will shake his high seated contempt. They are true subjects for an English Teniers. There are the neat farm-houses, with their decorations of clean wooden pails and platters, bright inglenooks, white hearths; and the out-door accompaniments of poultry, pigs, fences, bird-bottles, and hen-coops; and the stacks of hay, granaries, distant fields, with the church spire crowning the landscape; and all this done with a homely faithfulness that charms with the imitation. Even in the print you enjoy the dewy coolness of the grass, the early morning air, the breaking clouds, or the dim twilight. The cuts partake of the raciness of the style, and are mated to the discourse. The only landscapes like them, that I know of, are those in Walton's Angler, one of which I remember-Amwell at sunrise, almost as fine as a painting. In the print at the head of the fable of "The Stag and the Fawn," they are gracefully delineated in the attitude of listening;

"The stag faint hears the pausing horn;"

and the accompanying landscape is, as are all of them, beautiful. In "The Oak and the Reed," we fancy that we hear the blast rustling through the weeds on the banks of the stream, and buffeting the oak's rooted strength.

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