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fought as a skirmisher, and fatigued his charger uselessly. He had a rifle pistol in his holster, which he had brought from Paris, and, being an excellent shot, he made very pretty practice on the Cossacks. But the raw soldiers that had replaced the veterans who had fallen in Russia, were not accustomed to fight Cossacks. The hideous countenances and ferocious cries of those savage warriors were not without their effect upon the nerves of young recruits whom there had been no time to train properly, and who consequently lacked confidence in their arms and horses. Just as one of the regiments was going about, to continue its retreat, the boldest of the Cossacks dashed into the intervals and spread confusion in its ranks. The route was instantaneous and complete, and the plain was covered with unresisting fugitives, whom the Cossacks lanced at their leisure. M. Combe was riding towards the forest, in company with General Chastel, when a sergeant of his regiment told him that Colonel de Périgord was dismounted and a prisoner. At this terrible news, he instantly turned his horse and rode across the plain, to rescue his chief or share his fate. But his horse was exhausted, and no spurring could get him to speed. Captain Combe was quickly surrounded by Cossacks. He parried a lance-thrust, and threw himself on one side to avoid another, but in so doing his whole weight was on one stirrup, his saddle turned, and he fell under his horse. In an instant he was on his feet, defending himself with his sabre. The Cossacks of fered him quarter, but he refused, and fought desperately. Suddenly they dispersed and left him; the cause being the sudden onset of a sergeant of the 8th Chasseurs, who, admirably mounted, and using his sword with incredible strength and skill, offered M. Combe the little black horse of a Cossack he had just killed. "Mount this horse, Captain," he said, "it will save you." M. Combe should have done as he was told, but he could not make up his mind to abandon his favourite charger; and, whilst Sergeant Alexander kept turning about him like a shepherd's dog round

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the sheep he protects, he hastily tightened his girths and remounted. The two Frenchmen then rode off together, the Cossacks not daring to attack them. Unfortunately, M. Combe sent the sergeant to look for his colonel; and as soon as the Cossacks saw him alone, they fell upon him, and hurled him from his horse with a lance - thrust in the left shoulder. On foot, with sword and pistol, he continued his obstinate defence. The Cossacks might easily have shot him, but (as he afterwards learned) they had positive orders to make prisoners when possible, and they could have no doubt of capturing a dismounted man in the open plain. They were destined, however, to pay dear for their prize. brave sergeant, returning from a fruitless search for Count de Périgord, again attacked them, killed three or four with thrusts of his sabre, and attacked the others with such audacity that they all fled before him. "Take hold of my horse's tail, captain," he then said, "and I will drag you to the forest, where the Cossacks cannot catch you." The forest was so near, that it seemed possible enough to escape in this way. His sabre hanging from his wrist, M. Combe seized, with both hands, the horse's long tail; whereupon the horse, with the instinct of self-defence, kicked him in the breast, and laid him senseless in the dust. When he recovered his senses he was a prisoner. The Cossacks plundered him of his watch and money, but left him his epaulettes and cross, which he had offered to them, rather than have them torn from his shoulders and breast. They gave him to understand by signs that they were forbidden to take those insignia. One of them could not resist the temptation of appropriating the captain's boots, but as these would not admit of the insertion of his Calmuck hoof, he threw them away, amidst the laughter of his companions, and M. Combe got them back again. The Cossacks caught a horse for their prisoner, who was suffering from the wound in his shoulder, and still more from the kick in his chest, and the party moved in the direction of Milberg. On the way they were joined by other Cossacks; and one of these,

on beholding the French officer, got into a terrible passion, and would have struck him with his fist, but for the interference of the escort. An animated discussion then began, evidently relating to the prisoner; and the gestures of the new-comer explained to M. Combe the cause of his fury. He understood that the savage recognised him as having that morning killed with his pistol several of their comrades; and he insisted so vehemently on vengeance that the escort at last yielded, and allowed him to take the bridle of the prisoner's horse, and lead him towards the forest. Wounded, disarmed, and incapable of defence, M. Combe gave himself up for lost. It was clear that he was about to be massacred in cold blood by this wild beast. But if, as Colonel Combe complains, he has not been fortunate in respect of promotion since the peace, he was certainly very lucky during the war in his escapes from death. He was presently met by a Cossack officer, who spoke German, and who, on learning his rank, rescued him from his intended murderer, and sent him into Milberg, where, at the quarters of the general commanding, he found his colonel and ten officers of his regiment, almost all wounded.

The next day the prisoners were marched off to Berlin, the wounded in carts, the others on foot. At night they were shut up in a church or barn, like a flock of sheep, their ration being a piece of black bread and a mess of boiled potatoes. Everywhere they were assailed by the invectives and threats of the populace, from whose violence their escort had often difficulty in protecting them. On entering Berlin they were pelted with mud and stones. They were the first French prisoners, and the Prussian government exhibited them with pride. Meanwhile Colonel de Périgord had written to Bernadotte, whom he knew, and an order came that he should be allowed to remain at Berlin. The other prisoners, after a day's halt in the capital of Prussia, were sent north. They had got as far as Marienwerder, suffering many vexatious privations and fatigues, when M. Combe and the other adjutant-major of the regiment, Pascal, were sent back to Berlin, in consequence of the exertions of Count

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de Périgord in their behalf. the battle of Leipzic, Bernadotte went to Lubeck, and invited M. de Périgord to go and see him. There the colonel obtained permission, for himself and his two subordinates, to return to France on parole. As far as Rheims they journeyed without impediment, but there were the advanced posts of a Russian corps d'armée, commanded by General Winzingerode, who refused to allow them to proceed, alleging strategical operations and his responsibility as reasons for not allowing French prisoners to traverse his lines. It was just then that the French army turned upon its pursuers, and drove them some way back, taking possession of Rheims. But the two prisoners (Pascal had left them) had already been sent to Laon, before which place the French troops soon arrived. Hoping that they would quickly enter it, Captain Combe and his colonel concealed themselves in the house of a friendly and courageous notary, in order to avoid being again sent to the Russian rear. But Laon, strongly situated on a hill, and highly defensible, proved an insurmountable obstacle to the French, who had not time for a regular investment. Their attempted coup-de-main failed, and they again retired, unpursued by the garrison, which dared not risk a sortie. Then the two prisoners on parole were missed: search was made for them at the hotel, in whose stable still stood the colonel's travelling-carriage, and then they were sought for in the houses of the inhabitants. In an attic of the notary's house, used as a store-room, was a row of huge casks, containing flour, corn, dried vegetables, and other provisions. To two of these casks false bottoms were put, above which were piled empty sacks, and there the French officers lay perfectly concealed when a party of soldiers came the next day to search for them. They visited this granary, and the notary's daughter, with admirable coolness and command of countenance, accompanied them, and uncovered the casks, one after the other, to show their contents. A second search took place during the fortnight the fugitives passed in that house, but it was much less minute than the first. Meanwhile the French army was being concentrated on Paris,

the gates of Laon were opened for the admission of provisions, and the two officers succeeded in escaping from the town, disguised as charcoal-burners. After some romantic adventures, the narrative of which imparts a strong interest to Colonel Combe's thirtysixth chapter, they arrived at Soissons, still occupied by a French garrison, but invested, although not very closely, by the Allies. Thence they had no difficulty in reaching Paris.

The French capital was in great agitation, and even fear. A few days before M. Combe's arrival, his father had thought it prudent to bury in his cellar nearly all his plate and jewellery, and a sum of 800,000 francs in gold. A large stone was removed, an excavation made beneath it, the precious store deposited, and the block replaced. But M. Combe, senior, carried his precautions rather far, and left the money buried for three years, at heavy loss of interest.

When the Allies, after a cautious advance, often impeded by the gallant resistance of the French, arrived close to Paris, and the cannon was heard thundering below Montmartre, Captain Combe got on horseback, and rode out by the barrier of Clichy. He did not intend to fight, being on parole, but, considering, he says that the agreement had not been executed as regarded him, since he had been refused a passage at the Russian advanced posts, and that he might therefore consider himself as an escaped prisoner-tempted also by the sight of his old enemies, and furious at beholding them at the threshold of his home, he drew sabre and charged with the Polish lancers. Returning to Paris for a fresh horse, he went out again, and remained fighting until nightfall, escaping wounds, although his charger received a lance-thrust. "During the whole of that day, a great crowd of curious persons repaired to the plains of Montmartre and Clichy, exactly as to a theatre. Elegant women in carriages, and young men on horseback, drove and rode about as if in the Bois de Boulogne, notwithstanding the danger from the shells, which already reached the houses of the faubourg. . . . . In the army the enthusiasm was general, and there can be no doubt that if, instead of capitu

lating, they had known how to take advantage of that enthusiasm, had armed the faubourgs of Paris, and assumed the offensive, a certain victory would have driven back the enemy, who would have found his grave in France." This, it must be remembered, is the opinion of a sanguine soldier and an ardent Buonapartist.

On the return of the Bourbons, M. Combe, in common with the rest of the army, mounted the white cockade. He was charged with the formation of the 1st Chasseurs, known as Chasseurs du Roi, and was afterwards aide-de-camp to his former colonel, then General de Périgord. He passed a happy year in Paris, his happiness being disturbed only by the presence of the Allies. He and his friend Pascal could not forget the humiliations they had undergone during their captivity; the sight of men whom they had so long been accustomed to treat as enemies, acted upon them as does a red rag on a Spanish bull, producing an irritation which generally led to bloodshed. Captains Combe and Pascal had duels nearly every week, and escaped with some slight wounds. The sabre was invariably the weapon used. M. Combe gives a description of two of these encounters, in one of which he killed an officer of the Red Cossacks of the guard. More creditable conflicts were in store for the fiery hussar. "The return of the emperor, in 1815, put us in a cruel alternative between our affection for him and our duty to our new sovereign." It was at Essonne that General de Périgord's hussar brigade received news of the flight of the Bourbons. A courier from Paris passed through the place, a tricoloured cockade in his hat, and shouting "Vive l'Empereur!" The soldiers soon showed that, if their officers hesitated between their old and their new allegiance, they did not. They got tumultuously to horse, under command of their sergeants, the very vedettes going to the right about, so that, instead of facing the direction from which Napoleon was expected, they faced their own troops, and seemed watching for the Emperor's safety. As soon as his approach was announced, the whole brigade, sabre

in hand, galloped to meet him, and joined his escort.

After some hesitation, M. Combe, carried away by his feelings of devotion to the Emperor, and persuaded by his friends, offered his services to Davoust, then minister-of-war, was promoted to the rank of major, and sent to assist in raising and organising a body of partisans in Burgundy, under the orders of General Lecourbe. On the Swiss frontier he had numerous encounters with the Austrians, but the news of Waterloo put an end to the campaign, and to the exploits of the free corps of the Côte d'Or, for whose dissolution an order came from Marshal Jourdan. Before executing it, Major Combe and some other officers had an interview with the Austrians commanding at the outposts, who had received, only the night before, the order to cross the frontier and enter France. They told the French that they could never have opposed them so long at that point, had not the Austrians, who were much superior in force, had positive orders to keep on the frontier, and on the defensive, until they had official news of a battle having been won by the Allies. M. Combe was at the same time assured that, if the Emperor had won the battle, the Austrians were to assume a friendly attitude, or at least to have retired. The policy of the Cabinet of Vienna was just then of a temporising character-almost necessarily, it may be said, owing to the family connection with Napoleon.

The peace that followed Waterloo did not quite terminate Colonel Combe's adventures, although with it must close our notice of his interesting book. He did not despair of the imperial cause, and when the army was disbanded, and his services were dispensed with, instead of returning to Paris, he hid himself at a friend's house in Franche-Comté, to wait, as he says, for a favourable opportunity. Not long after his arrival there, he learned the persecutions that were then directed against those who had shared in the campaign of 1815. For some time he and a brother officer lived in a charcoal-burner's hut, in the depths of a forest; but at last, weary of uncertainty and inaction, he took

the tricolour from his schako, and made his way to Paris. He had a uniform which was not that of any French hussar regiment, and by speaking bad French, he passed himself off as an English officer, aide-de-camp to the Duke of Wellington. Arrested at his father's house, his presence of mind again saved him. He put the gendarmes off their guard, locked them into a room, and escaped by a back door. Three days afterwards he left Paris disguised as a livery servant. An English physician, Dr Tupper, who was about to proceed to Brussels by diligence, and who had a passport for himself and servant, had agreed, at the request of M. Combe's former general-then the Duke de Dino-Périgord-to travel post, and to take with him the person who should present himself at his hotel in the Rue de la Paix, on the morning appointed for his departure. As long as they were on French territory, the Englishman, with perfect sang-froid, allowed his travelling companion to perform the duties of a servant; but as soon as they had passed the frontier, he held out his hand, and expressed his gratification at having been able to save him from persecution. At Brussels they found a large assemblage of political refugees: the Abbé Sieyès, David the painter, Marshal (then General) Gerard, Colonel Desaix, M. Teste-since notorious as minister of public works under Louis Philippe-the editors of the Nain Jaune, and many others. And at Brussels M. Combe made acquaintance with the English Colonel Halcott, whose daughter he afterwards married. For his subsequent history, for an account of his imprisonment as a Buonapartist conspirator, and for the narrative of the various misfortunes that befell him, we refer our readers to the Mémoires themselves. These, we learn, were originally written only for Colonel Combe's family, but the solicitations of his friends at last induced him to publish them. The reader of the present article will probably agree with us, that his friends were quite justified in persuading him not to confine to a narrow circle the gratification that is to be derived from the perusal of his very interesting autobiography.

MODERN NOVELISTS-GREAT AND SMALL.

GREATNESS is always comparative: there are few things so hard to adjust as the sliding-scale of fame. We remember once looking over a book of autographs, which impressed us with an acute perception of this principle. As we turned over the fair and precious leaves, we lighted upon name after name, unknown to us as to a savage. What were these? They were famous names-scraps of notes and hoarded signatures from the great Professor this, and the great Mr that, gentlemen who wrote F.R.S., and a score of other initial letters against their names, and were ranked among the remarkable people of their generation. Yet we we say it with humiliation-knew them not, and we flatter ourselves that we were not inferior in this particular to the mass of the literature-loving public. They were great, but only in their own sphere. How many spheres are there entertaining each its own company of magnates? How few who attain the universal recognition, and are great in the sight of all men! There is not a parish or a county in the three kingdoms without its eminent person -not an art or a science but has its established oligarchy; and the great philosopher, who maps the sky like any familiar ocean, is not more emphatically distinguished among his fellows than is some individual workman in the manufactory from which came his great telescope-so true is it, in spite of the infinite diversity of individual constitution, that we have but a series of endless repetitions in the social economy of human nature. Nor is it much easier to define greatness than to limit the number of those for whom it is claimed. In the generation which has just passed, are there not two or three grand names of unquestionable magnitude and influence, the secret of whose power we cannot discover in anything they have left behind them? In fact, all that we can do when we descend from that highest platform whose occupants are visible to the whole world, and universally acknowledged, is to reconcile the claims of the lesser and narrower

eminences, by permitting every individual of them to be great "in his way."

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And there is no sphere in which it is so necessary to exercise this toleration as among the great army of novelists who minister to our pleasures. In no other department of literature is the field so crowded; in few others do success and failure depend so entirely upon the gifts of the artist. A biography, however indifferently executed, must always have something real in it. History may be intolerably heavy-may be partial, or disingenuous, or flippant, but still it is impossible to remove fact and significance altogether from its pages. Fiction, on the other hand, has no such foundation to build upon, and it depends entirely on the individual powers of its professors, whether it is merely a lying legend of impossible people, or a broad and noble picture of real things and real men. balance this, it is also true that few people are without their bit of insight, of whatever kind it may be, and that the greater portion of those who have the power of speech, the trick of composition, have really seen or known something which their neighbours would be the better for hearing. So far as it professes to represent this great crowded world, and the broad lights and shadows of universal life, with all its depths and heights, its wonders and mysteries, there are but few successful artists in fiction, and these few are of universal fame; but there remains many a byway and corner, many a nook of secret seclusion, and homes of kindly charity, which genius which is not the highest, and minds of a lower range and scantier experience, may well be content to embellish and illustrate. Nor does it seldom happen that a storyteller of this second rank finds a straight road and a speedy entrance to the natural heart which has but admired and wondered at the master minstrel's loftier tale.

Place aux dames! how does it happen that the cowardice of womankind is a fact so clearly established,

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