“Here’s a volume of verse,” was the auctioneer’s cry.
“What! nobody bids!—Tom, throw that book by.
Though it cost the great author one half of his life,
Unplagued (I beg pardon) with children or wife.
Here’s an Epic in embryo, still out of joint,
Here’s a bushel of Epigrams wanting the point,
With a lot of Impromptus, all finished to fit
A dull diner-out with extempore wit. Tol de rol.
“Here’s a sonnet, inscribed ‘To the Shade of a Sigh.’
A ‘Lament’ on ‘The Death of a Favourite Fly;’
And, well worth a shilling, that sweetest of lays—
To the riband that tied up a ‘Duchess’s stays.’
Here’s a note from a Young-England Club, for a loan,
Lord B——’s famous speech on ‘The Sex of Pope Joan,’
With the bard’s private budget of H—ll—d House stories,
Of Tories turned Whigs, and of Whigs turning Tories.
Tol de rol.
“What! nobody bids! Must I shut up the sale?
Well; take all the verses at so much per bale!
I come to the autographs:—One from the Duke,
Assigning the cause for cashiering his cook;
A missive from Byr-n,—a furious epistle,—
Which proves that a bard may pay “dear for his whistle;”
With letters from geniuses, sunk in despair
By the doctrine, that ‘Poets should live upon air.’
Tol de rol.
“A scrap from Bob Burns, to d—n the Excise,
Where they sent him to perish—(a word to the wise;)
A line from Sir W-lt-r, in anguish and debt,
To thank his good king for what never came yet;
A song from the minstrel of minstrels, T-m M—re,
To laud his ‘dear country’ for keeping him poor;
With a prayer from old Coleridge, in hope that his bones
Might escape all the humbug of ‘National stones!’
Tol de rol.
“Here’s a note to T-m C-mpb-ll, (indorsed, ‘From a Peer,’)
To mulct Income-tax from his hundred a-year;
Pinn’d up with a note from his Chef to his Grace,
That he ‘must have five hundred, or throw up his place;’
Here’s an epitaph written by Haydon’s last pen—
Poh! Genius may die in a ditch or a den!
The country wants none of it, female or male,
So, as no one bids sixpence, I’ll shut up the sale.”
Tol de rol.
PRUSSIAN MILITARY MEMOIRS.[6]
“Vieux soldat, vieille bête,” is a French proverb, implying an exceedingly low estimate of the mental acuteness of the veteran soldier. We do not know that English soldiers are quicker witted than French ones; better educated we know they are not, except, as we love to believe, in what pertains to push of bayonet. But in how much more flattering terms is couched the popular opinion in this country, concerning the capacity and wit of the man of musket and sabre. On this side the Channel, to be an “old soldier” implies something remarkably knowing—a man quite “up to snuff,” and a trifle above it. “He’s too old a soldier for that,” signifies that the “he” is a very sharp and wary dog, the last fellow to be taken in or made a fool of. “He came the old soldier over me,” is a common cant acknowledgment of having met more than one’s match—of having been overreached or outwitted. Other similar phrases are there, familiar to most ears, and unnecessary to cite. They concur to show a prevailing belief, that a long habit of scarlet—we mean no pun—and familiarity with pipeclay, or else the many vicissitudes and much experience of life they argue, polish the soldier’s faculties to a particularly sharp point, and remove from his character each vestige of the unsophisticated, as effectually as he himself, with sand and oil-rag, would rub all stain of rust from scabbard or barrel. There is exaggeration in this notion. It is not unusual to find in veteran soldiers, a dash of naive simplicity, even of childish credulity, co-existent with much shrewdness and knowledge of the world. For this incongruity, let physiologists account; we shall not investigate its causes. The remark applies to soldiers of most countries; for, with certain shades of difference, derivable from climate, race, and national customs, the soldier is the same every where. The original material is various, but the moulds in which it is fashioned are to a great extent identical. Divide the whole population of Europe according to trades and professions, and in the military class shall the least diversity be found.
We strongly suspect that Baron von Rahden, whose “Wanderings” we noticed in a previous number of this Magazine, and from whose agreeable pages we propose again to glean, is a fine example of the compound character above described. On duty, none more matter-of-fact than he, none more prompt and keen in conduct and language; but, suspend the activity of camps, and dangers of the fight, remove him for a moment from his battalion’s ranks and the routine of service, and behold! he builds up all idyl about a peasant girl and cow; or, better still, and more fully confirming our opinion, treats you with all gravity and deep conviction to a spice of the supernatural. Of his ghostly gambols we will forthwith give a specimen.
It was in the month of October, 1812, that a party of young cadets, of whom the baron was one, left Breslin for Berlin, there to pass their examination as officers. The ordeal to which the aspirants hastened was severe and dreaded, and the journey was no very soothing preparation for the rigours of the examiners. German roads and diligences were far less respectable then than now, and the lumbering carriage in which the cadets, in company with Polish Jews, market-women, baskets, bags, and blankets, prosecuted their journey, was a bone-setter of most inhuman construction. Its wooden lining was clouted with nails, compelling the travellers to preserve a rigid perpendicular, lest a sudden jolt should diminish the number of their teeth, or increase that of the apertures of their heads. About midnight this modern barrel of Regulus reached a large town, and paused to deposit passengers. The halt was of some duration, and the cadets dispersed themselves about the streets. One of them, designated by the Baron under the initial Von L., did not re-appear till the post-horn had sounded its fourth signal, when he came up in haste and agitation and threw himself into the carriage, which immediately drove off. The next day this youth, who had been silent and gloomy since the halt of the previous night, was taken grievously ill, a misfortune attributed by his comrades to a plentiful breakfast of sour milk and sausages. On their return from Berlin, however, Von L., whose health was still delicate, and depression visible, showed, on passing the scene of their midnight halt, symptoms of uneasiness so strong as to excite suspicion that his illness had had some extraordinary cause. That this suspicion was well founded, he, at a later period, confessed to Baron von Rahden, who tells the story in his friend’s own words.
“Being very thirsty,” said Von L., “I lingered at the great fountain on the market-place, and there I was presently joined by a young peasant girl, carrying a great earthen pitcher. We soon became great friends. It was too dark for me clearly to distinguish the features of my little Rebecca, but I nevertheless readily complied with her tittered invitation to escort her home. Arm in arm we wandered through the narrow by-streets, till we reached a large garden, having a grated door, which stood half open. Here the damsel proposed that we should part, and nimbly evaded my attempt to detain her. She ran from me with suppressed laughter. I eagerly followed, soon overtook her, and, by flattery and soothing words, prevailed on her to sit down beside me upon a bank of soft turf in the shadow of overhanging trees. Here, for a short quarter of an hour, we toyed and prattled, when I was roused from my boyish love-dream by the distant sound of the post-horn. I sprang to my feet; at the same instant, with a peal of shrill wild laughter, my companion disappeared. My light and joyous humour suddenly checked, I looked about me. I was now better able to distinguish surrounding objects; and with what indescribable horror did I recognise in the supposed garden a churchyard, in the turf bank a grave, in the sheltering foliage a cypress. And now all that related to the maiden seemed so mysterious, her manner occurred to me as so strange and unearthly! How I found out the gate of the cemetery, I know not. I remember stumbling over the graves and rushing in the direction whence the postilion’s horn still sounded, pursued by echoes of scornful laughter. Shuddering and breathless, I at length rejoined my comrades, but the impression made upon me by that night’s adventure has never been effaced.”