behind the screen of those wooden walls, she wept,-bitterly, bitterly she wept. The At length a beggar on the road brought back her courage. post-boy had stopped to water his horses, and a poor woman-herself blue with cold, and hunger, and sorrow, with a child strapped upon her back, another hanging at her breast, and a third shivering at her sidecame up to the chaise-door, and told her sad tale. Her husband had forsaken her; she had no home, no hope, no friends; "and that I've brought these children into the world to share my misery with me," said she, "that makes it harder still to bear." Milly gave her half-a-crown (such a benefaction the poor object had not received for many a day); never before had she felt such an earnest, thrilling sympathy with sorrow. "God help you," she said, "and help me too! Let me tell you, poor soul -for it may solace you to knowthat there are people covered with decent clothes who carry under them as deep a heart's grief as yours." Milly's thoughts had been drawn from herself-that did her service; and when they fell back again to her own case, she felt that there were some sharers of her nature visited with sorrows even deeper than her own, and something like a sense of mitigation stole into her heart. As it was her object to secure concealment, she left the chaise before it reached the inn for which it was bound, and made her own way to another. There she learned that a coach taking the direction of Wales would pass at nine in the evening. By this she took her place to one of the towns of the principality, where she arrived at two in the morning. A boots was still up at the inn at which the coach stopped. He shewed her into a parlour where she might remain till morning, and left her with a flickering light. She threw herself upon a sofa, and tried to sleep. It was vain. Sleep courts the happy and flies from sorrow. A short, uneasy doze was all she could procure. As she roused herself from that for a moment, she hoped she dreamed! The events, so dark, so new, so rapid, -could they be the sleeping creation of the brain? Oh, that it had been so! "But it is real," she exclaimed, -"it is real, and this is I, late the happy, happy wife, but now disgraced and wretched!" She pressed her face violently against the hard frame of the sofa, as if from the rude contact she hoped to draw relief for her sad soul; and thus, ill in body and afflicted in spirit, she waited for the day. "I shall die, perhaps," she thought, "for I feel very, very ill; and if I may find mercy from my God, how I could wish to be taken now! but if I live, I will live a Christian, not a rebel." Then she put up a fervent prayer to Him who had sent upon her this sorrow, to give her strength to bear it with fortitude and submission. When the soul by real prayer comes into contact with her God, she must grow calm. In that awful presence she dare not chafe and storm. As Milly long remained upon her knees, the wild madness of her spirit received a check, and she already felt something of the submission for which she craved. Hers was not the idle, ostentatious prayer of the hypocrite; it was the very language of her inmost soul, and her conduct was the tally of her prayer. From that time forward she exercised the patience and the fortitude for which she asked. At eight she rang for breakfast; then asked to see the landlady. That worthy made no hurry to attend her call. The young person come in by the night-coach could wait her lei sure. The leisure came at length, and a portly dame with a harsh face entered her parlour. "Pardon me for disturbing you!" said Milly. "I wish to ask for information which you may better afford me than your servant.' A stern look, and "Oh, indeed!" were all the answer. He looked confounded, but answered only, "Let me go-let me see her; I will return immediately and clear it all." He went a quarter of an hour passed, another quarter, and he did not return. Milly went now to the door of the room where he and the stranger were together. It was bolted. She returned to her own. Another half-hour passed. She heard her husband's step; trembling seized her. He entered, and said, "God forgive me, Milly; you never will! I have deceived you; she is, indeed, my wife. I had hoped she never would appear again. I had no care for her, and when I saw you, I loved you with such a love that no power of mine could stand against it. Now, base as I have been to you, I pray you,—with all my soul I pray you, not to leave me! I hope I shall be able to buy her off. Do not hate and loathe me, Milly!Do not forsake me !-Be mine still!" He wept and knelt-wept as Esau might have wept when he had sold his birthright, as the burdened heart has ever wept from Esau's days to these. Milly wept too, but she answered, firmly, "I will not tell you that I hate you, I will give you no reproach to add to what your own conscience must feel; I will pray to God to forgive you, but stay with you I will not. I am disgraced and wretched, but I will not be guilty. She is your wife: I am a poor, deceived, unhappy woman, who must spend the rest of her sad days hidden and alone. Go, and tell her that I yield to her her rights." He prayed yet more earnestly, but it was vain; then, with a curse upon himself, a curse upon the woman whose chains were thrown around him-ay, and in the agony of that moment, a curse upon Milly too, he left the room. Milly rang, and ordered wine and biscuits they came. She helped herself. Then she opened her desk, and burnt some letters. Next she took from it such money as it contained-457. within a few shillings: it had been recently paid in upon several bills. She paused. "I would fain leave it," she murmured, "but it is the means of life; I must take it." Again she paused; "The means of life to myself and to my unborn child-I must take it." She placed the purse in her pocket. Next she collected together several ornaments which had been given to her before her marriage. These," said she, "with the money, will save me from starvation till my baby's born and grown a little, and I can get my own livelihood." She took from her drawers such two or three articles of wearing apparel as she could make into a small bundle. She opened that drawer in which she kept the little garments which she had prepared for her expected infant. She shook her head mournfully, and shut it, taking nothing from it. "He shall see that left," thought she, as I shewed it him last night." She then sealed up her keys, and directing the packet which contained them to Mr. P―, laid it on the table, put on her bonnet and cloak, and went quietly down stairs. 66 How she dreaded to meet a servant on the way, or a messenger, or a visitor!-but, most of all, how she dreaded to meet her husband! She met no one. She passed softly through the door and closed it softly after her, and spoke no farewell, and gave no second look. She strove to quiet her throbbing heart, and to still her maddening thoughts. She passed hurriedly up the street, her head unturned, her eye upon the pavement, lest she should meet the salutation of any of the friends of her past happy days, or catch the glance of any human eye; and though her downcast look saw no one, she fancied every gaze was turned upon her, and, under the suppositious scrutiny, she almost screamed. At that moment she was very near to madness. At the first turning she shot off into a bye-street, and following the lanes and alleys to which it led, she reached the suburbs of the town. She continued her course upon the highroad for half-a-mile farther, and then a return post-chaise bound for the town of C- twelve miles distant, overtook her. She glanced round, and observing no person within sight, she beckoned the post-boy, and engaged him to carry her thither. Then, hidden behind the screen of those wooden walls, she wept,-bitterly, bitterly she wept. At length a beggar on the road brought back her courage. The post-boy had stopped to water his horses, and a poor woman-herself blue with cold, and hunger, and sorrow, with a child strapped upon her back, another hanging at her breast, and a third shivering at her sidecame up to the chaise-door, and told her sad tale. Her husband had forsaken her; she had no home, no hope, no friends; "and that I've brought these children into the world to share my misery with me," said she, "that makes it harder still to bear." Milly gave her half-a-crown (such a benefaction the poor object had not received for many a day); never before had she felt such an earnest, thrilling sympathy with sorrow. "God help you," she said, "and help me too! Let me tell you, poor soul -for it may solace you to knowthat there are people covered with decent clothes who carry under them as deep a heart's grief as yours." Milly's thoughts had been drawn from herself that did her service; and when they fell back again to her own case, she felt that there were some sharers of her nature visited with sorrows even deeper than her own, and something like a sense of mitigation stole into her heart. As it was her object to secure concealment, she left the chaise before it reached the inn for which it was bound, and made her own way to another. There she learned that a coach taking the direction of Wales would pass at nine in the evening. By this she took her place to one of the towns of the principality, where she arrived at two in the morning. A boots was still up at the inn at which the coach stopped. He shewed her into a parlour where she might remain till morning, and left her with a flickering light. She threw herself upon a sofa, and tried to sleep. It was vain. Sleep courts the happy and flies from sorrow. A short, uneasy doze was all she could procure. As she roused herself from that for a moment, she hoped she dreamed! The events, so dark, so new, so rapid, -could they be the sleeping creation of the brain? Oh, that it had been so! "But it is real," she exclaimed, "it is real, and this is I, late the happy, happy wife, but now disgraced and wretched!" She pressed her face violently against the hard frame of the sofa, as if from the rude contact she hoped to draw relief for her sad soul; and thus, ill in body and afflicted in spirit, she waited for the day. "I shall die, perhaps," she thought, "for I feel very, very ill; and if I may find mercy from my God, how I could wish to be taken now! but if I live, I will live a Christian, not a rebel." Then she put up a fervent prayer to Him who had sent upon her this sorrow, to give her strength to bear it with fortitude and submission. When the soul by real prayer comes into contact with her God, she must grow calm. In that awful presence she dare not chafe and storm. As Milly long remained upon her knees, the wild madness of her spirit received a check, and she already felt something of the submission for which she craved. Hers was not the idle, ostentatious prayer of the hypocrite; it was the very language of her inmost soul, and her conduct was the tally of her prayer. From that time forward she exercised the patience and the fortitude for which she asked. At eight she rang for breakfast; then asked to see the landlady. That worthy made no hurry to attend her call. The young person come in by the night-coach could wait her leisure. The leisure came at length, and a portly dame with a harsh face entered her parlour. "Pardon me for disturbing you!" said Milly. "I wish to ask for information which you may better afford me than your servant." A stern look, and “ were all the answer. Milly went on, Oh, indeed!" "I desire to pass a few months, perhaps longer, in this neighbourhood, and to find some respectable farm-house where I may be receiv ed. Can you recommend me to one ?" The hostess glanced at Milly. "I comprehend the case," thought she. Milly writhed under the glance, but remained silent. "I am acquainted with the people at a decent farm two miles off," said PRINCIPAL CAMPAIGNS IN THE RISE OF NAPOLEON. No. IV. THE ITALIAN CAMPAIGNS. CHAPTER VI. Fourth Attempt to relieve Mantua.-Battles of Rivoli and the Favorita.-Surrender of Mantua.-The French march against Rome: peace of Tollentino.-Projects of Napoleon, and Conduct of the British Government during the Campaign. AND now again to the field, for we are following in the footsteps of him who "strewed our earth with hostile bones;" whose career was little more than a succession of battles, the thunder of which burst upon Europe with such stunning rapidity, as effectually to hinder any event unconnected with their fierce and fatal results from fixing itself in the minds of men, during the brief intervals of occasional repose. Napoleon's battles constitute not only his own history, but the great landmarks in the history of his time, a circumstance which renders a just understanding of the character of these actions indispensably necessary to a proper appreciation of the period in which they were fought, and of the ruling powers who then influenced the destiny of millions. The last battle of Arcole had been fought on the 17th November, and on the 5th December Marshal Alvinzy already received a letter from the Emperor of Austria, again commanding him to proceed forthwith to the relief of Mantua. This order the fieldmarshal communicated to the generals of his army, requesting their opinion of its practicability, together with their advice as to the best mode of carrying it into effect. All were unanimous in declaring it impracticable. The army, they said, counted only 37,000 men, was greatly disorganised in consequence of the loss of officers, and of the sufferings and privations it had undergone during the last operations; it was, besides, in want of provisions, money, clothing, carriages, and matériel of every description. The elements had also added to the difficulties; snow had fallen in such quantities in the mountains of the Tyrol and the Venetian Terra Firma, as to render them in a great measure impassable; and the possession of the road across On the other hand, the accounts from Mantua were of the most afflicting nature. Marshal Wurmser declared, indeed, that there could be no thought of surrender as long as a single "horse, cat, or rat, remained unconsumed within the walls of the fortress;" but the power of endurance was rapidly giving way. Wholesome food had long been wanting; fuel also failed; and the troops were exposed without fire to all the inclemencies of a severe winter. hospitals were destitute of medicines, and unchecked sickness crowded the lazar-houses of woe and suffering in all the ghastly forms impressed by famine; death alone was busy in Mantua, from which hope itself had almost fled. The The cabinet of Vienna, well aware of the distressing state of affairs, made generous efforts to strengthen Marshal Alvinzy's army. Provisions, money, clothing, carriages, and pontoons were forwarded. Recruits and drafts were sent from the interior by forced marches, and by the beginning of January the army again mustered 48,000 men ready for the field; but these men had been hastily collected, were insufficiently organised, and the old soldiers, from whom the young were naturally to take their tone and feeling, were bending bencath the recollection of their late disasters. The order for their immediate advance was, however, imperative. The French army had received reinforcements to the amount of 7000 men from France, and the Italian levies had also rendered some of their garrisons and detached corps disposable for service in the field. Their return strength at this moment was 57,000 men, of whom 48,000 were effective with the army deducting as usual 10,000 men for the blockading corps, and 2000 for other detached purposes, which we find specified, it leaves 36,000 disposable for active operations. Of these forces, 12,000 under Joubert occupied Rivoli, the Corona, and the passes of Monte - Baldo: Massena, Augereau, the reserve and the cavalry, observed the line of the Adige from Verona to Legnano. Major, afterwards Colonel Weirotter, chief of the staff, was the officer who, when generals and marshals paused, projected the plan which was now to be pursued for the relief of Mantua. The project was to deceive the French respecting the real point of attack, and to fall with the principal part of the army on the division of Joubert, which was farthest from assistance, and to destroy it entirely before it could be supported. The severity of the season, the quantities of snow which had fallen, and the difficulties of attacking the Corona, the most commanding point of MonteBaldo, under such circumstances, would, it was concluded, help to make the French think themselves secure in their mountain-fastness. To confirm them in this belief, two corps, one of 9000 under Provera, the other of 5000 men under General Bayalish, were to advance towards Verona and Legnano, as if intending to force the passage of the Adige; both were to turn their feint attacks into real ones if the opportunities offered, and Provera in particular, was commanded to force the passage of the river, and proceed to Mantua. If this project was too complicated, perhaps, for a military operation, which should always be as simple as possible; if it depended too much on the punctual and exact performance of duty by detached corps and commanders; we are, nevertheless, bound to allow, that it was devised with great ability and calculated with singular accuracy; and its ultimate want of success must be ascribed more to the severity of the season, and the misconduct of the troops, than to its o.vn demerits. But when the soldier is wanting in nerve, confidence, or goodwill, when the elastic spring which must hurl him against the foe is once relaxed, then strategists and tacticians exert their skill in vain, and find their best efforts tend only to disappointment and defeat; a good reason, it might be supposed, for bestowing more fostering care and kindness on the labourer in the humbler ranks of war, on whom so much is ultimately made to depend. In the British army it happens that, owing to some gallant quality which our people derive from the land of their fathers, personal courage has never been found wanting: we have, therefore, thought ourselves entitled to cast science entirely overboard; and so completely have we succeeded in this laudable task, that we do not possess a single_volume of strategy in the language. What progress any science can make without the aid of letters it is needless to say; and yet is the value of science illustrated on every page of military history. And if a small portion only of the skill evinced in projecting the operation we are about to describe, had been displayed during the enterprises of Castiglioni and Arcole, it is almost impossible, considering how nearly the results were balanced, notwithstanding the mismanagement on the part of the Austrians, to see how they could have failed of success. The Austrian flanking corps advanced to the Adige, and on the 8th already drove in the French outposts: an attempt to surprise Legnano failed; but though Provera lingered with his movements, Bayalish acted with so much spirit as completely to deceive his opponents. On the 11th Marshal Alvinzy commenced operations: his army, reduced by detachments to 28,000 effective men, was divided into six columns: of these, one advanced on the left bank of the Adige; a second, with which was all the cavalry and artillery, followed the high road leading along the right bank of the river; with the other four the marshal ascended the huge, steep, and gloomy masses of Monte-Baldo, which, covered with snow, now presented to the cye a trackless and seemingly impassable Alpine barrier. The difficulties of the road were found far greater than had even been anticipated: the narrow paths and mountain-ladders were covered with snow, |