THE NEW YORK

PUBLIC LIBRARY

319983A

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

R

1927 L

C. SHERMAN, PRINTER.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following pages contain a simple and unadorned relation of the principal occurrences in the life of the individual whose memoirs they profess to be. The subject of them-one of the most respectable of the many respectable inmates of Chelsea Hospital-is still alive to vouch for the accuracy of the statement, being in every respect competent to satisfy the most distrusting that no liberties whatever have been taken with historical truth in the management of his story. I do not know how far I may be expected to account for the publication of the narrative at all; but the circumstances which led to it, as they involve no mystery, so they are certainly not worth concealing.

My acquaintance with the habits of the brave men with whom I am now professionally associated, soon made me aware that, in Sergeant Landsheit, Chelsea Hospital could boast of an inmate possessed of more than ordinary intelligence. I accordingly begged of him to relate to me some of his personal adventures while actively employed in the army, with the design of adding his story to other "Traditions" of the place. I found, however, as we went on, that the narrative grew, not nly in bulk, but in interest; so I determined to send it forth as a separate work. I am willing to believe that the public will not blame me for this proceeding; becafisë, numerous as such narratives have now become, I, at

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least, do not know where one is to be found containing a greater variety of curious and interesting matter.

It will be seen that I have confined myself in writing to the use of the first person. This, indeed, I was in some sort compelled to do;-for our practice was, that my friend Landsheit came to me every morning, and told his tale till one or two o'clock in the day; after which I wrote-being sometimes unable to keep pace with him, even though I repeatedly encroached far upon the short hours of the night. And, to insure the correctness of the story, he has listened to each proof-sheet as it went through the press. THE HUSSAR, therefore, is no work of fiction, but just as much the Memoirs of Norbert Landsheit, as Captain Carlton's delightful volume is a memoir of himself.

If it be asked, why was this man left in the condition of a non-commissioned officer?-why was he never promoted? I answer, that I, too, put the question to himself; and the reader will judge of the character of the man by the sort of answer which he made to me.

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I will reply to you, sir," said he, in his slightly-broken English," by reminding you of a passage in the Life of Frederic the Great. There was a poor Curate, somewhere near Potsdam, who, after many years' faithful service in the diocese, applied to the Bishop for a living. The Bishop assured him that he was alive to his merits, and that he might depend upon being one day or another provided for. Encouraged by this assurance, the Curate kept quiet, till he ascertained that a certain living was vacant; upon which he repaired again to the Bishop, and entreated that he might be inducted to it.

"Ah!' replied the Bishop, so you knew that living was vacant, did you? Well, I am very sorry. I cannot give you that, for I have promised it to one of my ne phews; but you shall have the next that falls.'

The Curate returned home scarcely disappointed, for he thought that the Bishop's reason was a fair one; and

he counted surely on succeeding to the very next benefice that should become vacant. One did fall soon after, and he flew on the wings of hope to the palace.

"It is very provoking, my dear sir,' said the Prelate; but I cannot give you this. I have promised it to my sister's son; but you shall have the next.'

"The Curate was disappointed this time, but he said little; neither was he much surprised when, on repairing a third time to the episcopal residence, a similar result attended his application. And so it continued to be, over and over again. There was always a brother, or a nephew, or a cousin, between him and the realization of his day-dreams—till his patience became at length exhausted, and he began to consider what was best to be done. He was a sharp-witted man, and his meditations brought him to a happy issue.

"It chanced, once upon a time, that Frederic the Great, who always rose early, and was accustomed to walk before breakfast in the palace-garden, looked out from his window, and, to his infinite surprise, saw an ecclesiastic, with a lantern in his hand, stooping and poking close to the ground, as if in search of something. The sun was up, yet the man's lantern contained a lighted candle; and he seemed to depend in his search entirely upon that, and not upon the sun's rays. Frederic's curiosity was roused. He desired his attendant to order the man up, and bid him wait in the anteroom till the King should be dressed. When he was dressed, the King went forth; and lo! the stranger, instead of meeting him like a reasonable person, continued still to keep his lantern close to the floor, and to peer about him.

"What are you looking for, sir?' demanded the King.

"I am looking for a cousin, please your Majesty,' was the reply.

"A cousin, you fool!' said Frederic; 'what do you mean by that?'

"Because I have none,' answered the man; 'and I can't do without one.'

"These strange answers only whetted the King's curiosity, who went on questioning the ecclesiastic, till the whole truth came out.

“Oh! that's it,' exclaimed Frederic, laughing. You could not get a living, because you had no cousin among the Bishops. Never mind-I will be your cousin, if you deserve one-and then we will see what can be done.'

"The King made his inquiries-found that the Curate was a deserving person-made him fix upon the best living in the Bishop's gift which was then vacant-and desired the Bishop to make out the presentation in his favour. The Bishop demurred a little, spoke of a cousin to whom he had promised it, and assured the King that his protegé should have the very next that fell.

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“That won't do,' replied Frederic; your Curate is my cousin for this time-so you must give him the living.'"

"The Curate got the living. But I had no cousin, Sir; so I got no living."

I was much struck with Landsheit's story. But if he got no living, he has at least earned for himself the repu tation of a good soldier in his youth, and a good man in his old age.