We have been three months at peace. Even we who live at home at ease and feel that it is a reality and not a name. We have no more lists of killed and wounded, which we look over with fear lest we should catch the name of an old friend, and which we know that others who have all they hold dearest at stake are looking over with a death-like anxiety. We have no more harrowing accounts of the sufferings of our soldiers, which make us accuse ourselves of a life of selfish ease, while others are fighting the battle of truth and right. We hope it is a lasting peace. The conditions were agreed to by men who have in the very highest degree the great English virtues of common sense and honesty. The people at first feared they were overreached, but are gradually gaining a conviction, that the blood of our warriors has not been shed in vain. Now that we breathe freely after the contest, it will not be uninteresting to study the life of one of its heroes; the man who first led to the Crimea that



daring expedition, which, after unlooked-for toils and endurance, was finally crowned with the success which has so largely contributed to the result of the war. But a study of the character of Marshal St. Arnaud has a great interest for its intrinsic value, especially as it is opened up to us in his private letters, which lay before us a picture of his life, filling in by the most intimate details of thought and feeling the outline which his public services and graphic despatches had already presented to the world.

A youth, in whom the most conspicuous qualities are good humour, ardour, and ambition, the outward traits of deeper qualities, which become developed in later life, in a character where we see the man of refined and elegant mind and feeling winning the hearts of all around him; the able general, devoted to his duty and sympathizing keenly and actively in all the sufferings of his soldiers; the patriot, anxious above all things for the glory of France; such is the character which these private letters, added to what we know of his public life, disclose to us.

We shall not attempt in this essay to give a detailed account of his life, but as true a sketch as we can of the man, by a series of pictures drawn at different periods; dwelling chiefly upon those later scenes of his career which have the most lively historical interest for us at present, and in which the real excellence of his character is most fully brought out.

His father, an avocat at Paris, died when his son was five years old. He received his education at the Lycée Napoléon, and obtained his commission in the Gardes des Corps at the age of seventeen, at the end of the eventful year 1815. The life in such a corps, however, affording too many temptations to a young, ardent nature, his stepfather soon afterwards procured him an exchange into a regiment of infantry. Soon tired of garrison life, and impatient for active service, in the year 1822 he volunteered his services in the war for the independence of Greece.

His description of the state of things on his arrival there is very amusing. All wanted the command. Every one was captain, no one soldier. In spite of all this, he proffered his services to the Ephors at Navarino, who gave him a cup of coffee and a pipe, read his letters of introduction, and dismissed him without a reply, or even thanks for his offer. He met with a similar reception from the senate at Corinth; so after mixing in a few fights before Modon, which was occupied by the Turks and besieged by the Greeks, he left the country. Before returning to France he visited Constantinople, Smyrna, and Gallipoli. In the following years he visited Italy, Belgium, and England, studied their languages, and became a proficient in English and Italian.

The revolution of July, 1830, appearing likely to kindle an European war, recalled him to France, where he obtained employment in the rank of sub-lieutenant in the 64th Regiment, then in garrison at Brest. There he married, and was soon afterwards engaged



in active service in the war in La Vendée, the district which a few traces of the golden age of St. Louis, lingering through all the corrupt governments that followed, had made the constant rallying point of the royalists. The end of the year 1832 brought him, much to his chagrin, to Blaye, with a battalion which was to perform the not very dignified service of a guard to the Duchesse de Berry. “From chaser of the chouan,” he writes, “behold me turned gaoler. I shall die with rage if they fight on the Rhine, while I remain shut up in the citadel of Blaye.”

It was here, however, that he met with General Bugeaud, with whom his subsequent life in Algeria is much bound up. He first attracted the notice of that general by translating a small book of his into three languages, and soon afterwards he became his officier-d’ordonnance .

From this time to 1835 he is employed in different garrisons. In October of that year he returns to Paris, and is attached to the Gymnase Militaire. Early in 1836 he loses his wife, and applies soon after for service in the Foreign Legion for Africa, where he endeavours to forget his domestic grief in the energetic performance of his public duties. To his brother he writes from Africa: “Patience, resignation, you see my lot. I have sufficient courage and philosophy to bear it without murmuring. There are better; but this life, so active, mingled with so many dangers, such privations, has restored my heart, increased my energy tenfold; and if at times the remembrance of the past did not come to make me sad, I could be almost happy—quite happy, if I could have news of you, of my mother, and of my children. But you do write as often as you can, I am sure. Ma gentille petite fille! kiss her a thousand times for me, and tell her that I too think of her, and of her brother, and that I love them both dearly, and am working for them.”

It was not long after his arrival in Africa that peace was made with Abd-el-kader, and the French army turned its attention against the Bey of Constantine. It was at the siege of Constantine, which was one of the hottest actions on record, that St. Arnaud well earned his first Cross of the Legion of Honour. Shortly after this we find him nearly falling a victim to cholera, but much cheered by the affection and attention of his comrades. “I was dying, my brother,” he writes, “but I saw myself loved, regretted.”

In July, 1839, his company occupy Jijelli, and during a pestilence he converts his house into an hospital. “In the shelter of my fig-tree and vine arbour,” he writes, “I have received five Voltigeurs whom the hospital cannot admit, and who are struck down with the terrible burning of the hot fever. They are on the straw, enveloped in coverings; I give them as many citrons, oranges, &c. as I can, and supply baths for their feet.”

During the spring and summer of the year 1840, he distinguished himself in several actions; and in August he is raised to the rank of Commandant of the 18th Regiment of Infantry, and stationed at Metz.

Towards the end of that year it begins to appear that Abd-el-kader is becoming a formidable enemy; and it becomes evident that Marshal Valée is not the man to oppose him successfully. To preserve the French possessions, vigorous measures must be taken. Accordingly General Bugeaud is made governor of Algeria, and the army there is increased to 100,000 men. St. Arnaud, in writing to congratulate him on his appointment, places at his disposal his own services and African experience, on which Bugeaud immediately asks his services from the ministry. He obtains them, and St. Arnaud finds himself in command in the Zouaves, “the first soldiers in the world,” under Colonel Cavaignac.

Bugeaud’s plan for subduing Abd-



el-kader is by terrifying the Arab tribes into obedience to the French. He adopted the Arab system of warfare, making his troops almost as moveable as the Arabs themselves, and carrying destruction and devastation among every tribe who would not submit. It was an aggressive and severe system, but necessary for the security of the French possessions. The outposts of the French territory were garrisoned, protecting the tribes which had submitted, and ready for predatory excursions in the country of those who had not.

That Bugeaud was a great general there is no question. He was not, however, popular with the army; and St. Arnaud, who fully appreciated his great qualities, had often to defend him from abuse. A sketch of this man’s character, in a letter of St. Arnaud to his brother, may interest the reader: “General Bugeaud pursues his end with a perseverance as praiseworthy as it is able. Passionately fond of war and combat, he prefers to great accounts which he might produce, the pursuit of an end useful to the country. This man is admirable, brother; people do not know him; they do not render him justice. He has true genius; I follow him, I examine him dispassionately, and every day I discover in him new qualities. But he has many defects. Frank and loyal to excess, he approaches at times to bluntness. Of an inconceivable activity, he becomes trifling. Engaged for fifteen years in agriculture; living in continual contact with the less elevated class of society, he has not all the dignity, all the tenue desirable. But what conscientiousness! What probity! What refinement of sentiment! What self-denial! And he is surrounded with difficulties.”

There is a great contrast between these great men; and yet the tie between them was strong. Very likely it was the refinement of St. Arnaud, contrasted with his own rougher nature, that drew Bugeaud so much to him. Their intimacy became great. On one occasion St. Arnaud, in a letter from Algiers, says: “The general, on his return home, found me there as he had left me, and his reception was paternal. As I would have retired to leave him with his wife and children, he said to me: ‘Stay, you are one of the family.’”

In April, 1842, St. Arnaud is promoted to the rank of Lieut.-Colonel, and soon afterwards placed by Bugeaud in the Government of Milianah, one of the outpost garrisons of the French, with three battalions of infantry, sixty cavalry, besides artillery, engineers, &c., under his orders. His work here is a mixture of administrative and military duties. He has to find quarters for his garrison of more than 2000, where there was at first scarcely room for 800. He has to organize the civil government of the city, &c, and occasionally to make a sortie to punish the revolting tribes and lay waste their country. The best idea of his position there may be given in his own words. Six weeks after his arrival he writes to his brother: “I regard my position exactly as you do. It is truly too fine. You are right in saying it. I reign, and reign almost without control. I have neither Chambers to control me, nor Ministers to counsel or to contradict me; and hitherto all the measures which I have taken had been already accomplished when I gave in the proposal for them, and nearly always have been approved. It is the finest epoch of my life, my brother; and for our old age an inexhaustible subject of recollections and anecdotes. I have acquired self-command visible to my own eyes, and that will not astonish you if you think of the important orders which I give; of their immediate execution, of the responsibility which accompanies them. With the Arabs hesitation is feebleness, incapacity. One must then think quickly, but well; strike hard, but



justly. This is my endeavour, and I flatter myself the Arabs at Milianah love me as much as the French. How many miseries to relieve, my brother! How many three-franc pieces, in the form of a measure of wheat, have entered the houses of poor families, to arrest the famine at their door! . . . . In short, where were ruins a city rises; where misery reigned, reappears commerce, industry, well-being. I had 100 poor families, I have now scarcely ten; and the number diminishes every instant, for I make them useful and make them earn their bread.” That he had effectually gained the hearts of the people appears from the following extract: “General Fabvier, Inspector General of Africa, has just passed three days at Milianah. I shewed him everything in detail;—the theatre, public works, building, administration, magazines, municipal commission;—I left the general in admiration, stupified. Then while he was inspecting the three battalions, I took the command, made them manœuvre and defile before him; in short, the brave man is gone away enchanted with me. I will not repeat the compliments with which he overwhelmed me. But the best part of the affair was this: all the influential Arabs, the chiefs of the tribes, came to pay their respects to the general. At the moment of his departure they presented themselves in a body, and begged him to tell the governor and king to leave me always at Milianah; and that, if they wished to take me from them, they would not let me go.”

At the same time his military talents were not without exercise. At the head of his little column from Milianah he had several times to make expeditions against the neighbouring tribes, which he always conducted with success. It was a command for a general, though he was only a lieutenant-colonel.

In July, 1843, he was to give up the command of Milianah; Bugeaud receiving orders to give employment to his general officers in those governments. He is informed of this in a very complimentary letter from Bugeaud, thus:—“There can be nothing but what is honourable for you to be replaced by a major-general, and it can by no means injure you. You have gained your spurs at Milianah; and without doubt a third or fourth recommendation will give you a regiment.” In July St. Arnaud leaves for Paris and is succeeded by General Gentil.

In February, 1844, he returns to Africa as colonel of the 32nd regiment. After taking part in a few expeditions in the earlier part of the year, he is, in November, appointed commandant supérieur of Orléansville, where his duties are very similar to those at Milianah, and where he continues till November, 1847, when he receives the rank of Major-general, having previously attained the rank of Commander in the Legion of Honour.

This epoch is also marked by the submission of Abd-el-Kader. The second of the hostile chiefs, Bou-Heaza, had already submitted to St. Arnaud himself at Orléansville, and requested, on his surrender, to be conducted to him. In January, 1848, St. Arnaud starts for Paris. “I shall see Abd-el-Kader again in Paris,” he writes. “O destiny!”

He returns to Paris just in time for the Revolution, Bosquet having taken his duties in the meanwhile at Orléansville.

To describe the part he took in the Revolution, we quote a note of the editor of the Letters:

“In the night between the 23rd and 24th of February, at two o’clock in the morning, Marshal Bugeaud called up General de St. Arnaud (who was at Paris on leave), and gave him the command of a brigade. On the morning of the 24th, the general carried in his course the barricades of the



Rue Richelieu, which were scarcely defended, but which were reconstructed after the passage of the troops. On his turning back from the Place de Carrousel, the general received orders to go and occupy the Prefecture of Police with three battalions of the army and one battalion of the National Guard. This last disbanded itself at the Pont Neuf. The general had been forbidden to make use of arms. In spite of this order, and without infringing it, the general occupied the prefecture, and there maintained himself till he learnt the abdication and departure of the king, and the seizure of the Tuileries and Chamber of Deputies. He attempted to retire upon Vincennes with his troops, in the middle of which he had stationed the Municipal Guard. Arrested on the Quai de Gevres and the Place de l’Hotel de Ville by the barricades, the general could not prevent the soldiers from dispersing at the cry of abdication. He was pressed upon, surrounded, thrown from his horse, bruised, threatened with death. Disengaged by an officer of the National Guard, and conducted to the Hotel de Ville, where the Provisional Government was forming itself, brought in and placed in custody in one of the halls, he recovered his liberty with the aid of a working jeweller named Caylon. From the Hotel de Ville he came to the house of M. Leroy St. Arnaud, while the latter, forewarned of the danger his brother was running, had just come to the Hotel de Ville to look for him.”

At the end of April he returned, with his wife, to Africa, and is transferred from the government of Orléansville to that of Mostaganem, one of more importance, and afterwards from thence to the command of the subdivision at Algiers. We pass slightly over the remaining events of his history in Africa. On the 27th of January, 1850, he is nominated commandant of the division of Constantine, his last appointment in Africa. About the beginning of May, 1851, an expedition into Lesser Kabylie, which he has some time been meditating, is undertaken by him. This was the most important expedition of which he had the command in Africa. It was completed with entire success. It occupied eighty days, in which time the division passed over 430 miles, and measured their strength twenty-six times against the enemy, always with victory. More than forty tribes were subdued, and in the whole expedition their loss was about one-eighth of the entire number.

In July, at the end of this expedition, St. Arnaud is appointed general of division, and soon after is recalled to Paris, to take the command of an



active division. On the 26th of October he receives the portfolio of minister of war under the President, Prince Louis Napoleon.

We must pause here for a moment to look at his political sentiments. They were simple and consistent, and centred in an abhorrence of a republic and of selfish demagogues. He would have supported the monarchy under Louis Philippe. When that had fallen, he looked with despair on the prospects of France, and would have welcomed anything that had given the chance of a firm and stable government. “One thing,” he writes in a letter in 1842, “I shall always oppose, in word and deed, that is a Republic, because it is hateful to me.” “Poor France!” he writes in December, 1848, “so strong, so glorious, once! will she awake?” Again, in February, 1850, “Army of the President, army of the Republic, I would none of them. I would rally round that which would have nothing of a Republic, which I love neither for itself, nor for its forms, nor above all for its men. France wishes it not, France repels it.”

He was personally unknown to Louis Napoleon until he came to Paris in 1851, to take the command before mentioned. He had given his vote for him in December, 1848, as the man who was unknown, when all the rest were odious to him. St. Arnaud was pointed out to the President by his rare combination of administrative and military talent, as shown in his government of Constantine and his expedition to Little Kabylie. He took office as minister of war on the 26th of October, 1851, an office which could have been no light task during the stormy debates and narrowly contested divisions in the National Assembly during those few months. The most important debate in which he took part was that upon the proposition of the quæstors for conferring upon the President of the Assembly an unlimited right of calling out the military force. The proposition was a most direct vote of want of confidence in the executive government. It was rejected by a majority of 408 to 300; but in the applause which followed the vote, several of the majority exclaimed, “It is only a victory for them.” The assembly finally rejected the government measure for the abolition of the limitations of land suffrage by the law of the 21st of May, 1850, and the coup d’etat was resolved on.

Let us now look for a moment at the position of Louis Napoleon in the autumn of 1851. He was at the head of the executive government of France, with a legislative assembly in which the party in opposition to his government was tremendously strong, sometimes victorious. Shall he resign his power, or continue in office and be obliged to sanction acts of which he disapproves? Such would be the constitutional alternative. But on the other hand, look at the vision which opens itself. He saw France torn with contending factions, to which for sixty years it had been alternately the victim. The elements of a reign of terror were still there. So late as June, 1848, Paris had witnessed a death-struggle, which only just saved her from its triumph. He felt a power within him, and a noble destiny before him; a destiny nobler far than the mere name and state of Emperor of the French. He felt called as the “instrument of the decrees of Providence” to give order and stability to the government of France, and to make his country honoured and powerful; not by extending the bounds of her territory, but “by putting herself at the head of the movement of generous impulses to extend everywhere the empire of right and justice.” Such words were scarcely believed when they were uttered; but in all minds unprejudiced by party feelings the acts of every year are increasing the conviction of their sincerity.

His determination was then taken to



make use of the real power which he possessed of forcibly dissolving the National Assembly, and appealing for the ratification of the act to the only sovereign of a republic, the people. Such we believe to be a true view of the Revolution of 1851, looking at it from the side of Louis Napoleon himself. Into the question between him and the National Assembly we do not enter. That he was most sacredly pledged to the existing constitution is true; but, on the other hand, the permanence of that constitution was impossible; and it was no longer upheld by the will of the French people, which was its only origin and resting-ground. The pleading of advocates on the point would be interminable; and the judgment is above any earthly court.

We have spoken at such length of Louis Napoleon in order the better to enter into the feelings and motives of St. Arnaud’s line of action on the present stirring occasion. He entered heart and soul into the plans of Louis Napoleon; and of course did his share of the work in bringing them about. “Good morning, dear mother,” he writes early on the 2nd of December, 1851, “I write at a solemn moment. Two hours hence we are to be present at a revolution, which I hope will save the country.

“This assembly, foolish, blind, factious, will be dissolved, and an appeal to the people will decide the lot of a nation wearied with being tossed about by disquiet and cares. We shall have a stable government, and I have confidence that all will go well. The Republic remains with the President named for ten years.”

Before morning the leaders of the opposition in the assembly are arrested; the doors of the house shut and guarded, and Paris placarded with the President’s decree of the National Assembly dissolved; universal suffrage re-established, the state of siege declared in Paris, and the people convoked in their comitia to vote upon the ratification of the President’s act. To these decrees follows his appeal to the people.

Such was the revolution of the 2nd of December. On the morning of the 4th, the resistance organized by the minority of the Assembly and their supporters came to a crisis, but the military standing by the President, it was immediately suppressed. As every one remembers, the President’s appeal to the people was entirely successful, and was responded to by a majority of 7,000,000 votes.

In February, 1852, St. Arnaud lost his only son, a fine fellow of about twenty, of whom he had been very fond and proud. He had been prevented by his public duty from going to see him in his last moments; and we can see from a few short private letters about this time the heart which bears affliction like a man in the uninterrupted discharge of his public duties; but which also feels it like a man in the deeper thoughts which form the constant refrain to the work of life.

He accompanied the Prince Napoleon in his celebrated tour before the declaration of the empire; and gives some very interesting descriptions of the enthusiasm of the people. From Bordeaux he writes:—“Bordeaux has shown itself the first city in France by its reception. At Grenoble enthusiasm of the heart; at Toulouse enthusiasm of the head; here enthusiasm of conviction, and from good society. You don’t like speeches, but what do you think of that at Bordeaux? It is a fine and noble manifesto, which will satisfy Europe where it is hardest to satisfy. The discourse is summed up in this French thought, ‘When France is satisfied, Europe is tranquil!’ ”

A few months after this, we find among the letters one or two so remarkable, and throwing such a light upon the innermost recesses of the character, that we cannot pass them without a full quotation. In March, 1853, while at Hyères, St. Arnaud has



had a sharp attack of illness. His brother Leroy had joined him, though St. Arnaud himself had written to spare him the trouble, as he was convalescent. His next letter is to his half-brother, M. de Forcade. “Dear brother, the Conseiller d’état has just set out for Toulon as tranquil and happy as he had come uneasy and disquieted. He has seen the progress of a wretched disease arrested, and health return as by enchantment, with strength increasing every day. Then passed in me something extraordinary. The body, spirit, all was sick; and this state had caused a great disorder, which had attacked the principle of life. I took refuge in meditation; then in prayer I lifted my soul to God, and the calm returned to my heart.

“I have found in the curé of Hyères a priest such as I understand and love. We have had long conversations, and on Sunday I take the sacrament like a true Christian. This conversion will perhaps astonish you, and you will see in me a great change. Prayer is an excellent medicine, remember this on occasion. You may let my amiable sister read this letter; her elevated soul will comprehend me.”

The ground is too sacred for comments of ours. We shall pass on, merely remarking, that if any one, in looking at the devotion and self-sacrifice of this man’s life during his last expedition to the Crimea, should trace the influence of the prayers and meditations at Hyères, we do not think he will be wrong. We must admire too the man who can leave on record his inmost feelings with such an absence of reserve on the one hand and of self-deception on the other. Soon after he writes again to the same:—“To the fierceness, to the irritation which governed me have succeeded a calm and a gravity perhaps too serious, but which still cling to my malady. I have suffered so much! I hope soon to recover a gentle gaiety, but I do not dissemble that all my ideas are grave and serious. I read much the ‘Imitation of Jesus Christ,’ and this wonderful book, which penetrates me with admiration, inspires me also with a painful distrust of my strength. Will God give me enough strength of will, enough perseverance to remain in this noble path which he shows me? This is what I ask of him every day with fervour.”

From this time his health is never very good.

In April, 1854, however, he is called to the command of the army of the East, which he accepts without hesitation.

The army is first organized at Gallipoli, in order to be ready to protect Constantinople in case of the Russians making good their progress so far. In the middle of June a second camp begins to be formed at Varna, and it is among the trials and disasters of the army here that the character of our hero is brought out in its greatest brightness. In the meantime Silistria is holding out beyond hope, and though considerable time must elapse before the whole army and material can be got up and made ready for the march, it appears still possible that the allied armies may be able to save Silistria, and drive the Russians into the Danube. St. Arnaud’s plans are well matured, and it will give a good idea of the difficulties with which he had to contend, as well as of the foresight with which it was his habit to act, if we make an extract from a letter to his brother written from Yenikali, June 20th:—“I see that you always lend yourself with ardour to the plans of a campaign. I have already carefully drawn out more than twenty, and may, perhaps, not carry out one of them. They say, one ought always to have one’s plans determined beforehand; I say one should be ready for all contingencies, and make decisions prompt and sound. Plans must be daily regulated by circumstances.

“I shall probably quit Varna from the 10th to the 11th of July, to march upon Silistria: and my plan is to save the town and drive the Russians into the Danube. But who can say that I may not be obliged to face about to the right against the 30,000 Russians who are in the Dobrutscha. It is for this that I have strongly occupied Kustenje with marines from the fleet; and if the Russians, after sure and positive information, besiege Silistria regularly and not out of all order, proceeding by trenches, &c., make in front of the Danube a very strongly intrenched camp defended by fourteen works armed with heavy guns, a camp in which there are about 90,000 men; if the Russians, I say, having done this, let the allied army defile from the forest below Silistria, place 20,000 men to defend their camp, which will be enough; and with 60,000 men, and the 30,000 descending from the Dobrutscha, march to place themselves on my right and in my rear, occupy the grand route between Varna and Pravadi, and intercept my communication with the sea, I may find myself in a very awkward position. Don’t be alarmed, I have taken my precautions against the manœuvre, and shall baffle it; but you see with what prudence one must act. If had 100,000 men, I should put 30,000 men in force on my right, and proceed straight on my way.”

His hopes, however, were to be disappointed in another way. As soon as it appeared that the allied army was nearly ready to be put in motion, the Russians, having made one final grand assault on Silistria in which they were repulsed, commenced a retreat, re-crossed the Danube, destroying their redoubts, batteries and intrenchments, and thus, as St. Arnaud expresses it, in saving themselves, robbed him of a great opportunity of victory.

Everything now must be decided on afresh. He will not, as he writes, follow the Russians, unless to aid the Austrians, if they should decide on war, as he would otherwise throw the Russians back upon their reserves and magazines, and withdraw himself from the sea, his true base of operations; in which case a defeat of the Russians would do them little damage, but one of the allies would be most disastrous.

In the meantime negotiations are going on at Vienna; but, while the reply of Russia is uncertain, it is evident the armies must not remain inactive. On the 11th of July a grand council of war is held at St. Arnaud’s quarters to decide upon what is to be done; and the result is, that the expedition to the Crimea is resolved upon. This was in accordance with St. Arnaud’s own views, and there is little doubt that he was the chief advocate of the proposal, which he carried “in spite of timid counsels.” These are the words of the Emperor in his letter of condolence to his widow, and refer without doubt to this council of war. The others present in the conference were the Admirals Dundas and Hamelin, Bruat and Lyons, and Lord Raglan. Now that the expedition, though after long toil and disappointment, has been crowned with such substantial results, no one will gainsay the wisdom of the step; and even when the prospects appeared the darkest, it was never blamed by the main body of the English people. It is true that St. Arnaud was sanguine as to the quickness of the result; but he never shut his eyes to the immense difficulties to be overcome. “We must,” he writes to his brother, “expect a strong resistance, an artillery formidable and well served, difficulties of ground as well as of position for attack. The Fort Constantine, at the north of the city, is considerable. It is the key to Sebastopol; it is there that we shall have to commence a regular siege; but we shall have at the same time to carry on a siege and hazard a battle. What a glorious page of military history!



At the same moment to immortalize the Crimea by a siege, one, and perhaps several, battles, and a naval combat, for the Russian fleet will not let itself be burnt without going out; fourteen vessels of the line defend it in all, and the Russian fleet has its valour, if we may judge from the exploit of the Wladimir.”

In the meantime negotiations had been going on between Austria and Turkey respecting the occupation of the Principalities by Austria. The Austrian Envoy had spent two days with St. Arnaud; and we have no doubt that as Austria was not prepared to take more active measures, he had acquiesced in the proposal. His approval of this treaty has been blamed by his detractors; but that, as one sometimes heard wildly stated, this treaty could have had any immediate prejudicial influence on our operations, is simply absurd. The only possible objection could be the question whether a refusal of this to Austria, except on the condition of actual co-operation in the war, would have induced her to go further; and beyond this the remote possibility of its leading to future complications. On the other hand, it was necessary in order to set our army free for the Crimea; for it must never be forgotten that our first duty in the war was to defend the territory of Turkey from aggression, and that it was only the presence of our troops at Varna which caused the retreat of the Russians from Silistria.

In the midst of the preparations for the expedition to the Crimea, appears an enemy against which artillery is of no avail. The cholera breaking out at first among the Spahis d’Orient in the first division, thence spreading to the second and third, seems to paralyze the work, and to threaten to put a stop to the expedition. It is during this visitation, however, that the Christian heroism of the General’s character is brought out in its full brightness. Feeling the disasters of the army more than any one, and himself all the time suffering under a trying illness, he is throughout, the cheering and encouraging spirit of all. In a description of the pestilence in the Moniteur we read:—“In the midst of the painful trials to which the army has been exposed, the common danger has given rise to various acts of devotedness, and nothing can equal the moral vigour which has been displayed during the continuance of the epidemic, as well by those who obey as by those who command. Marshal St. Arnaud every day passed several hours among the sick, consoling and encouraging them, and ‘everywhere,’ he says in his report, ‘I recognise the great nation, a moral demeanour of iron, a devotion beyond all admiration. Everybody assumes a multiple character, the soldiers are become sisters of mercy.’ ”

And he had set them the example. No one sustained the double character better than himself. As he was their general in the field, so he led the mission of mercy in the hospital. But we can form the best conception of what he did and felt during that trying time from his own letters, where he describes all with that true modesty, which makes no pretence of concealing his own merits. To his brother, on the 4th of August, he writes:—“I bear up stoutly against such a disaster. I sustain every one; but I am bruised at heart.” Again, to the same, August 9th. “Can history produce many situations parallel to mine? My spirit and energy at least are at their highest pitch. God, who strikes me on one side, supports me on the other. My health has not for a long time been better; in the midst of the grief and cares which feed upon me, and which I smother in secret—death in my heart, calm on my brow. Such is my existence. When you receive this letter I shall be embarked for the Crimea, or very nearly so. In the



meantime I pass five hours daily amidst the dead and dying.”

Again, to his wife, August 9th and 10th, after visiting the hospitals on the heights of Franha, “I have seen there 1000 sick and 2000 invalids, who never leave my thoughts. I believe to be a general-in-chief one ought to be utterly selfish; I cannot be so. I love my soldiers, and suffer with their ills.” To the same, August 23rd. “I went yesterday to see all my cholera patients, and was not dissatisfied. A poor officer of artillery died in my arms. I hope I have saved another by speaking a little to his heart and his imagination.”

To add to the misfortunes of the army, on the 10th of August a conflagration broke out, which must have been terrible indeed to those who knew the full extent of the danger. “During five hours,” St. Arnaud says, in describing it to his brother, “we were between life and death. The flames played on the walls of our three powder magazines, French, English and Turkish. The ammunition for the whole war was there, eight million cartridges. Four times I was in despair. I was in doubt whether to take the last resource, and sound the retreat, the signal of Sauve qui peut. God inspired me. I resisted. I battled with it; sent my adieux to you, to all, and awaited the explosion. The wind changed. A gap was made with the hatchet, the magazines were cleared. At five in the morning we had got the fire under, though it is still burning; a seventh of the town exists no longer.”

Towards the end of the month the cholera begins to disappear in the army, though it still lingers in the fleet. It is now well known in the army that the Crimea is to be their destination, and the spirit of all rises in the expectation of getting to work; but as the health and spirits of the army rally, those of the General, who has been throughout their miseries the encouraging and consoling spirit, becomes exhausted. His letters are generally uncomplaining; but he occasionally expresses a strong longing for a complete repose, and looks forward to rest in the bosom of his family when the main object of the expedition is achieved. For the moment of action he believes he shall find strength enough. “God,” he says, “will not withdraw from me his grace at the moment when it is most necessary.” His health becomes worse as the time of embarkation approaches, and between the anxiety weighing upon his mind and his bodily suffering, his spirits are prostrated. On the morning of embarkation he writes to his wife in very anguish of mind: “I abstain from all reflections; those which I should make would be so bitter that they would not be Christian. Shall I ever have drunk deep enough in the cup of bitterness? There are moments when my whole soul revolts and rebels. Prayer acts on me only like a tempest. Its powerlessness throws me back sometimes into doubt, and I suffer so much that my faith gives way. I ask why a poor being should be overwhelmed with so many tortures and sufferings, inflicted at once on the body and the soul. If the physical pain had left me all my strength, I should struggle against it; but my strength fails me in the contest; it is too long. Everything has an end. One hope yet remains, the repose which I must have on board ship.” What must have been the mental suffering here described! It is the complaint of a true Christian at a moment when he cannot realize the consolation of his religion.

On the 2nd of September St. Arnaud starts in the Ville de Paris for the rendezvous in the bay of Baltschick, where they have to wait a day or two for the English, who are not yet ready. The whole, however, weigh anchor merrily on the 7th, but the Commander-in-chief is prostrated under



an aguish fever, superadded to his old complaints, and has to keep his bed the greater part of the voyage. His health, however, rallies as they approach the land. Respecting the disembarkation his own view was in favour of saving time and marches by landing in the face of the enemy at the Katcha, which they were occupying. He was, however, overruled by the English, who thought it impossible, and it was agreed to land at Old Fort. He had been right as it appeared afterwards. He had sent the fourth division to the Katcha to make a demonstration of landing there. At the first few shells thrown from the ships the Russians filed off, and it appeared that this division could have landed alone if it had received the order. So he writes in a subsequent letter to his brother, and adds, “I do not make the English feel too much that I was right.”

From the landing at Old Fort, every step of the expedition is a household word with us. We must, however, spare a few words to describe the great closing scene of our hero’s life, the battle of Alma, especially dwelling upon the part he personally took in it and the dispositions for it, which have often been misunderstood. We shall take the account, in a great measure, from his own words in his public despatches and private letters.

On the evening of the 19th September the allies bivouacked in sight of the Alma. The Russian army, which occupied the opposite heights, consisted of all their disposable forces in the Crimea; they had 40,000 bayonets, 6,000 cavalry, and an artillery force consisting of 120 pieces well served. The centre and right of their position, where the slopes were less steep than on the left, were fortified with redoubts, and there also were concentrated the greater masses of their troops. The valley in front of the slopes, which is covered with trees, gardens and houses, was occupied by riflemen. The river itself has a winding course with only occasional fords.

At six o’clock in the morning of the 20th, St. Arnaud sent the division under General Bosquet to turn the right flank of the enemy. This movement, executed under protection of the guns of the fleet, was attended with complete success, and in a measure, he says in his report, decided the success of the day. A similar movement on the English left had formed part of his original plan; but, as they were menaced by the cavalry on the left of the Russians, it had to be abandoned. We shall proceed chiefly in St. Arnaud’s own words. “At half-past twelve the line of the allied armies, occupying an extent of more than a full league, arrived at the Alma, and was received with a terrible fire from the riflemen. At this moment the head of Bosquet’s column appeared over the heights. The signal was given for the general attack.” The French line is advanced through the gardens, each passing where he could. The Russian riflemen in retiring are followed by the French skirmishers, who press them with great daring to the foot of the heights. In the meantime the French artillery is brought to bear on the Russian battalions who are descending the heights to support their riflemen in retreat. The French first line arrives at the foot of the heights, under the fire of the enemy’s batteries, while the second line is advanced through the gardens to its support. Then commenced a real battle, with episodes of brilliant deeds and noble valour. The French were victorious everywhere, and carried the heights with enthusiastic cheers, the wounded even raising themselves from the ground to cry Vive l’Empereur. The Russians are compelled to withdraw from the crest of the hill, and the French reserve artillery is brought up with incredible celerity over such obstacles as are presented by the river and the steepness of the heights. After some continuance



of an exchange of cannonade and musketry, the Russians retire in bad order, which, with the help of cavalry, might have been converted into a rout.

The English had encountered greater obstacles, for the positions they had to take were more strongly fortified, and there also were concentrated the greater masses of the enemy; for the Russians had not supposed that the steep declivities on their left could be surmounted by a large force of the enemy. How the English surmounted these obstacles must be well remembered; through what a storm of shot and shell they crossed the river, and how in regular line they walked up to the face of the batteries; such things once heard can never be forgotten, and we should go too much from our present subject if we were to describe them at length. We shall only quote one more picture of the whole from St. Arnaud’s account of it to his brother. “I never saw a finer panorama than this battle of Alma. Arrived on the heights, the better to judge of the movements of the enemy, I could see the positions carried by my Zouaves, and the English arranging their line under the fire of the Russian artillery. It was sublime!”

St. Arnaud’s first plan of attack on Sebastopol seems to have been to attempt a coup de main by a combined attack by land and sea on the northern forts. For in his first mention of Sebastopol in his private letters, he calls Fort Constantine the key to the place; but now on the 24th September, writing from the bivouac of the Katcha, and speaking of the Russian manoeuvre of sinking their ships, which was done after the battle of the Alma, he says, “The Russians have committed an act of desperation, which proves to what extent they are terror-struck. They have closed the entry of the port of Sebastopol by sinking three of their large vessels and two of the frigates. It is a commencement of Moscow. It troubles me much, for it will force me perhaps to change my plan of attack, and to take the army towards the south on the side of Balaklava.” This march was resolved on. It was impossible to attempt a regular siege on the north side; for besides the ground not being good for fortifying their position, they would be badly placed for obtaining supplies.

On the 24th they march from the Katcha and arrive at the Belbeck. From here he writes: “The Russians had erected strong batteries in front of the passages of the Belbeck. I threw myself to their left, and passed six miles above them. I have turned all their positions. To-morrow I advance by the route to Balaklava. I pass the night by the Tchernaia, and on the 26th I shall be at the south of Sebastopol, master of Balaklava, and having turned all the strong batteries and redoubts of the enemy to the north. This is a fine manœuvre.”

It was his last; he had finished his work in this world. On the night of the 25th he was prostrated by an attack of cholera. On the 26th he addressed his adieus to the army. On the 29th he embarked on board the Berthollet for Therapia, and that day he died.

He had found the repose he had been longing for through these months of suffering and labour. He fell at his post, as many another brave man has done in the Crimea. But that soil holds no heart more brave and gentle than that of their Commander-in-chief.

The grave generally stops the mouth of calumny. It is not always so with those who have taken part in great political events. And in true, loyal England, where not a man but joins in honouring the Queen, however we may be often disposed to grumble at those set in authority under her, and however we may dispute on questions of class interests, we can scarcely realize the bitterness of feeling which rages between the different parties in France. St. Arnaud was a man, who since the autumn of 1851, was politically



bound up with Louis Napoleon; and those who hate Napoleon’s government, as they dare not openly speak defiance against the Emperor, take delight in spreading all kinds of calumnies against his general and minister of war. Their variety and absurdity is refutation enough, but the publication of the letters to his family, as his brother says in the preface to that book, is the best answer to them. The picture of his character from these letters can be no deception. They are the reflector which presents to us an image of his character, and even if there be some kept back from us, the image is distinct, and a few more would only throw additional light upon it.

These letters have a most peculiar charm about them. To say nothing of his constancy in correspondence, for in the midst of the greatest press of business in the bureau, or as soon as his tent is pitched in a bivouac on an expedition, we find him writing to his wife or brothers, they possess a vividness of description, an unreservedness of feeling, an amiability and refinement, which is delightful. We cannot refrain from quoting here a little gem in a letter to his wife from Varna, not long before setting sail for the Crimea. “It is your birthday, my Louise, and I am not by you to wish you joy. This is a real pain to me. Yesterday I sent you by the Mouette my little remembrance, which will reach you to-day.

“You might think, perhaps, I should have forgotten your birth-day; it had been almost pardonable in the midst of so much business; but no, you will receive a bouquet of flowers of all kinds, sweet, and not mixed with cares; I keep them for myself.”

We hope in what we have written the character of the man has been sufficiently developed, without a formal summary in conclusion. And if this essay has made the character more clear to any one, or corrected misconceptions of it, its end has been gained.

Long ago there was a land, never mind where or when, a fair country and good to live in, rich with wealth of golden corn, beautiful with many woods, watered by great rivers, and pleasant trickling streams; moreover, one extremity of it was bounded by the washing of the purple waves, and the other by the solemn watchfulness of the purple mountains.

In a fair lowland valley of this good land sat a maiden, one summer morning early, working with her needle, while she thought of other matters as women use. She was the daughter of a mere peasant, tiller of the kind soil, fisher in the silver waters of the river that flowed down past his cottage to the far-off city; he lived from day to day seeing few people, the one or two neighbours who lived in the cottages hard by, the priest of the little hamlet, now and then an artizan travelling in search of work; except, indeed, when he went to the wars; for he was a fighting man, as were all the people of that country, when need was. His wife was dead these five years, and his daughter alone lived with him; yet she, though of such lowly parentage, was very beautiful; nor merely so, but grand and queen-like also; such a woman as might inspire a whole people to any deed of wise daring for her love.

What thoughts were hers, as she sat working on that summer morning, the song of birds all about her, and the



lapping of the low, green river waves on the white sand sounding fresh and pleasantly as the west wind blew them toward her? What thoughts? Good thoughts, surely. For the land wherein she dwelt—so fair a land, so small a land, had never ceased to be desired by the tyrant kings who bore rule round about. Always had they made war against it; never had they conquered, though sometimes they were seemingly victorious in a scattered fight here and there, through sheer force of numbers; for the dwellers in that good land were of a different race to the lazy, slavish people who dwelt about them. Many a song Gertha could sing you of how, long, and long ago, they came from a land far over the sea, where the snow-laden pine-forests, weird halls of strange things, hang over the frozen waters for leagues, and leagues, and leagues along the coasts that were the cradles of mighty nations. Sailing over the sea then, long ago, with their ships all a-blaze with the steel that the heroes carried, they came to this land with their wives and children, and here made desperate war with the wild beasts, with savage swamps, dragon-inhabited, daring famine, and death in all ugly shapes.

And they grew and grew, for God favoured them; and those who dwelt nearest to the “Savage Land,” as it used to be called, grew more and more like the strangers, and their good rule spread; and they had a mighty faith withal that they should one day ring the world, going westward ever till they reached their old home in the east, left now so far behind.

Judge, therefore, whether the tyrant kings feared these free, brave men! Judge whether, growing more and more cruel as they grew more and more fearful, they strained the chain over the miserable millions of their subjects so that with many it grew intolerable, and was broken asunder; so that, both in well-doing and in wrong-doing, God’s kingdom spread.

Think what armies went up against the good land; what plains and valleys were sown with swords and spears and helmets, and the bones of valiant men; and from being nameless once, only thought of as the place where such and such a tree grew very plenteous, where such a river ran, became now to be remembered to all time, nor to be forgotten in eternity.

Think of the desperate fights, in treacherous slippery fords, where the round stones rolled and shifted beneath the hurried trampling of men, fighting for life, and more than life, amid the plash of the reddened waters in the raw, gusty twilight of the February mornings; or in close woods, little lighted up by the low sun just going to sink when the clouds looked thunderous in the summer evenings; or with shouts from crag to crag of the great slate-cliffs, with wrathful thundering of rocks down into the thronged pass below, with unavailing arrow-flights, because arrows cannot pierce the mountains, or leap about among the clefts of the rocks where the mountaineers stand, fiercely joyous.

Think too of the many heads, old and young, beautiful and mean, wept over, not joyously indeed; nay, who knows with what agony, yet at least with love unflecked by any wandering mote of the memory of shame or shrinking; think of the many who, though they fought not at all with spear or sword, yet did, indeed, bear the brunt of many a battle, in patiently waiting through



heart-sickening watchings, yet never losing hope, in patiently bearing unutterable misery of separation, yet never losing faith.

Had not Gertha then enough to think of, as she sat working hard by where the water lapped the white sand? For this people were so drawn together that through the love they bore to one another sprung terrible deeds of heroism, any one of which would be enough for a life-time’s thought; almost every man of that nation was a hero and a fit companion for the angels; and the glory of their fathers, and how themselves might do deeds that would not shame them, were the things that the men thought of always; and the women, for their part, looked to become wives to brave men, mothers to brave sons.

So now Gertha was singing rough spirit-stirring songs of the deeds of old, and thinking of them too with all her heart as she sung. Why she, weak woman as she was, had not she seen the enemies’ ships hauled up on the island bank yonder, and burned there? Were not the charred logs, which once, painted red and black, used to carry terror to the peaceful, slothful people of the islands, mouldering there yet, grown over by the long clinging briony? Did not her eyes flash, her brow and cheeks flush with triumph, her heart swell and heave beneath her breast, when the war-music grew nearer and louder every moment; and when she saw at last the little band of her dear countrymen hemming in the dejected prisoners, the white red-crossed banner floating over all, blessing all alike, knight, and sailor, and husbandman; and when she saw, too, her own dear, dear father, brave among the bravest, marching there with bright eyes, and lips curled with joyous triumphant indignation, though the blood that he was marked withal did not come from his enemies’ veins only? Did she not then sing, joyously and loud-ringing, remembering these things and many others, while the west wind was joyous about her too, whispering to her softly many things concerning the land of promise?

She sung about a king who lived long ago, a man wise and brave beyond all others, slain treacherously in a hunting party by emissaries of the enemy, and slain at the height of his wisdom and good rule; and this was one of the songs that his people had embalmed his memory withal. So, as she sung, behold, the blowing of horns, and trampling as of horse, just as her voice rang clear with,

• “The King rode out in the morning early,
• Went riding to hunting over the grass;
• Ere the dew fell again that was then bright and pearly,
• O me!—what a sorrow had come to pass!”

And a great company rode past going to hunt indeed, riding slowly, between her and the river, so that she saw them all clearly enough, the two noble knights especially, who rode at the head of them; one very grand and noble, young withal, yet looking as if he were made to burst asunder the thickest circles of the battle, to gather together from the most hopeless routs men enough to face the foe, and go back fighting, to roll back the line of fight when it wavered, to give strength to all warriors’ hearts: fancy such an one, so wise, yet so beautiful, that he moved like the moving of music; such tenderness looked from his eyes, so lovingly the morning sun and the sweet morning haze touched the waves of his golden hair, as they rode on happily. He that rode beside him was smaller and slenderer, smaller both in body and face, and it seemed in mind and heart also; there was a troubled restless look about his eyes; his thin lips were drawn inward tightly, as if he were striving to keep down words which he ought not to speak, or else sometimes very strangely, this look would change, the eyes would glance about no more, yet look more eager



and strangely anxious than ever; the thin lips would part somewhat, as if he were striving to say something which would not leave his heart; but the great man’s eyes were large and serene, his lips full, his forehead clear, broad, and white; his companion was sallow, his forehead lower and rather narrow, his whole face drawn into wrinkles that came not by age, for he was no older than the other.

They past as they had come, and when the last note of their horns had died away, Gertha went about her household duties; yet all that day, whatever she might do, however much she tried to beat the phantom down, that stately man with the golden hair floated always before her eyes.

Evening now, the sun was down, the hunt had swept away past the cottage again, though not within sight of it, and the two knights having lost their companions were riding on slowly, their tired horses hanging down their heads.

“Sire, where are we going to?” said the small dark man; “I mean to say where past that beech-tree? the low swinging boughs of which will hit you about the end of the nose, I should think: Ah! his head goes down, somewhat in good time; he has escaped the beech-bough.”

But the other answered no word, for he did not hear his friend speak, he was singing softly to himself:

• “The King rode out in the morning early,
• Went riding to hunting over the grass;
• Ere the dew fell again that was then bright and pearly,
• O me!—what a sorrow had come to pass!”

He sung this twice or thrice with his head sunk down toward the saddlebow, while the other knight gazed at him with a sad half smile, half sneer on his lips and eyes; then with a sigh he turned him about and said, “Pardon, Leuchnar, you said something I did not hear; my mind was not in this wood, but somewhere else, I know not where. Leuchnar, we shall not find the hunt to-night; let us, let us seek rest at that cottage that we passed this morning; it seems to be the only house near.”

“Yea, my Lord Olaf,” said Leuchnar, smiling again in that bitter way, when he saw in spite of the twilight, both of the sunken sun and of the thick beech-wood, a great blush come over Olaf’s face.

“Yea, for why should we not?” and as he said this, he fairly burst out into strange explosive laughter, that did not sound merry, yet was not repulsive, but sad only; for Leuchnar was thinking of the ways of man, and found much to amuse him therein; yet his laughter sounded sad in spite of himself, for he was not one who was made to laugh, somehow; but what specially made him laugh now was this, that neither of them had forgotten that hour in the morning, and the maiden sitting alone near the river: each of them, as they burst through the greenest glades of the forest, with cry of hound and sound of horn, had, according to his faith, visions of a dark-haired maiden, sitting and singing, her eyes raised and fixed on one of them; also both wished to go there again, and accordingly had been sad laggards in the hunt, and had lost themselves, not very unwillingly, perhaps; yet now neither liked to confess his longing to the other; Leuchnar would not even do so to himself, and for these reasons he laughed, and his laugh sounded strange and sad.

But Olaf knew that he was in love, and all day long he had been nursing that love delightedly; he blushed yet more at Leuchnar’s laugh, for these two seldom needed to tell each other their thoughts in so many words, and certainly not this time. He bowed his head downwards in his confusion so low, that his gold curls, falling forward, mingled with the full black of his horse’s mane, and growled out therefrom:

“You are a strange fellow, Leuchnar,



though a good one; but we will go.”

“Yea, to the peasant’s cottage, my lord,” said Leuchnar, with his head raised, his eyes set straight forward, and his lips curled into something much more like a sneer than a smile; thereat Olaf with a spring sat upright in his saddle, and glanced quickly on either side of him, as though something had stung him unawares; afterwards they both turned their horses’ heads aside, and rode slowly in the direction of the cottage, Leuchnar singing in a harsh voice, “The King rode out in the morning early,”—“though the dew has fallen again,” he muttered; whereat Olaf gave an uneasy side glance at him.

And soon they heard again the lapping of the river waves on the sand of the silver bay, only lower than before, because the wind had fallen. Then presently they drew rein before the cottage door, when the moon was already growing golden. Sigurd, Gertha’s father, came to the door, and courteously held the stirrups of the knights while they dismounted, and they entered, and sat down to such fare as the peasant had, and Gertha served them. But they prayed her so to sit down, that at last it seemed discourteous to refuse them, and she sat down timidly.

Then said Sigurd, when they had eaten enough, “I pray you tell me, fair knights, what news there is from the city, if you come from thence; for there is a rumour of war hereabout, only uncertain as yet.”

“Nay, at the city,” Leuchnar said, “there is certain news concerning one war, and even beside this, rumours of a great conspiracy between the surrounding rulers of slaves. The Emperor says that this valley always belonged to him; though, indeed, he was not very anxious for it when poisonous swamps spread out on both sides of the river here; or rather his ancestors laid no claim to it; but now, at all events, he is coming to take his own, if he can get it; coming by way (it is his only way, poor fellow!) of the mountain passes. Only, my lord Adolf is off to meet him with ten thousand men, and they are going to try the matter by arbitrement in this fashion; marry, that if the valley belongs to the Emperor, he must know the way to it, and accordingly shall have it if he gets through the mountains in any other way than as a prisoner or dead corpse.”

Sigurd and Olaf laughed grimly at Leuchnar’s conceit, and Gertha’s eyes flashed; while both the knights watched her without seeing how matters went with each other. “Then,” said Sigurd again, “Concerning the young king, fair knights, what is he?” Olaf’s eyes twinkled at the question, and Leuchnar seeing that he wanted to answer, let him do so, watching him the while with a quaint amused look on his face. “Why,” said Olaf, “he is counted brave and wise, and being young, will, I hope, live long; but he is very ugly.” Here he turned, and looked at his friend with a smile. Sigurd started and seemed disappointed, but Gertha turned very pale, and rose from her seat suddenly, nor would she sit down again all that evening.

Then Olaf saw that she knew he was the king, and somehow did not feel inclined to laugh any more, but grew stately and solemn, and rather silent too; but Leuchnar talked much with Gertha, and he seemed to her to be very wise; yet she remembered not what he said, scarcely heard it indeed, for was not the KING by her; the king of all that dear people; yet, above all, whether the other were so or not, her king?

Poor maid! she felt it was so hopeless; nay, she said to herself, “Even if he were to say he loved me, I should be obliged to deny my love; for what would all the people say, that the king of so great a nation should marry a peasant girl, without learning or wealth, or wisdom, with nothing but a pretty face? Ah! we must be apart always in this world.”

And Olaf, the king, said, “So Leuchnar loves her—and I love her. Well, it will change his life, I think; let him have her; poor fellow! he has not got many to love him. Besides, she is a peasant’s daughter; I am a great king. Yet is she nobler than I am, for all my kingship. Alas, I fear the people, not for myself, but for her; they will not understand her nobility; they will only see that which comes uppermost, her seeming wisdom, her seeming goodness, which, perchance, will not show to be so much greater than other women’s, as the queen’s ought to do. Then withal to her, if, perchance, at any time I am not quite sufficient to fill her heart, will come a weariness of our palace life, a longing for old places, old habits; then sorrow, then death, through years and years of tired pining, fought against, bravely indeed, but always a terrible weight to such an one as she is. Yet, if I knew she loved me, all this ought to be put aside; and yet, why should she love me? And, if she does not love me now, what hope is there; for how can we see each other any more, living such different far apart lives? But for Leuchnar this is otherwise; he may come and go often. Then he is wiser; ah! how much wiser than I am; can think and talk quite wonderfully, while I am but a mere fighting man; how it would change his life too, when he found any one to love him infinitely, to think his thoughts, be one with him, as people say. Yes, let Leuchnar have her.”

Those three so seeming-calm! what stormy passions, wild longings, passed through their hearts that evening! Leuchnar seeming-genial with his good friendly talk, his stories of brave deeds, told as if his heart were quite in them; speaking so much more like other men than his wont was; yet saying to himself, “She must see that I love her; when since I can remember have I talked so?” Poor fellow; how should she know that? his voice was to her as the voices of a dream, or perhaps rather like grand music when it wakes a man; for, verily the glory of his tales got quite separated from him, and in some dim way floated in a glory round about Olaf, as far as Gertha was concerned. She heard his name, the hero of every deed, which that far-distant knight, Leuchnar, less present than his own tales, was telling of; whenever danger clung about the brave in those tales, her heart beat for fear of her golden-haired, broad-foreheaded hero; she wondered often, as her heart wandered even from those tales, why she did not fall down before him and win his love or die. How then could she think of Leuchnar? Yet Olaf did think of him, saw well through all his talking what he was thinking of; and, for his own part, though he did not talk aloud, and though even what he said to himself had to do with that subject dearest to him, yet none the less even to himself choked down fiery longings, hardly, very hardly to be restrained.

He tried hard to throw himself into Leuchnar’s heart, to think of the loneliness of the man, and his wonderful power of concentrating every thought, every least spark of passion, on some one thing; he remembered how in the years past he had clutched so eagerly at knowledge; how that knowledge had overmastered him, made him more and more lonely year by year; made him despise others because they did not KNOW; he remembered, with a certain pang, how Leuchnar even despised him for one time; yes, he could bear just then to recal all the bitter memories of that time; how he saw it creeping over his friend; how he saw it struggled against, yet still gaining, gaining so surely; he called to mind that day, when Leuchnar spoke his scorn out openly, bitterly despising his own pride and himself the while; he remembered how Leuchnar came back to him afterwards, when knowledge failed him; and yet how it was never the same between them as it had been;



he remembered then many a fight wherein they rode side by side together, Leuchnar as brave as he, yet ever with that weight of self-scorn upon him, that made him despise even his bravery; while Olaf rejoiced in his own, reverenced that of others; then he remembered how he was made king, how the love of his countrymen became from that time much more of a passion, true love, than it had been; and through all these things he tried to be Leuchnar, as it were; not such a hard thing for him; for, through his unselfishness, he had gained that mighty power of sympathy for others, which no fiercest passion can altogether put aside, even for the time. So he, too, had his thoughts, not easily to be read by others, not to be expressed by himself.

So the night passed; and they went to rest, or what seemed so, till they were wakened very early in the morning by the sound of a trumpet ringing all about the wooded river-shore; the knights and Sigurd rose and went forth from the cottage, knowing the trumpet to be a friendly one; and presently there met them a band of knights fully armed, who drew rein when they saw them.

“King Olaf,” said their leader, an old, white-haired knight, “thank God we have found you! When we reached the palace last night, after having lost you, there were waiting for us ambassadors, bringing with them declarations of war from the three Dukes and King Borrace; so now, I pray you, quick back again! I have sent all about for men, but the time presses, and there is a credible report that King Borrace has already begun his march toward the plain; as for the three Dukes, (whom may the Lord confound!) Lord Hugh’s army will account for them, at any rate to hold them in check till we have beaten King Borrace; but for him we must march presently, if we mean to catch him; only come King Olaf, and all will be well.” Then knelt Sigurd before the King, as he stood with eyes flashing, and cheek flushing, thinking how God’s foes were hastening on to their destruction; yet for all his joy he longed to see Gertha, perhaps for the last time; for she was not there, neither did she come at Sigurd’s call.

So the King smiled sorrowfully when Sigurd made excuse for her, saying that she feared so great a man as the King; he could not help wishing she loved him, even though he meant to give her up: so he said; he could not



acknowledge to the full what a difference her love would make to him.

Then would he have given Sigurd presents of money and jewels, but Sigurd would not take them; only at the last, being constrained, he took the King’s dagger, hilted with curiously wrought steel.

Then they all rode away together; Barulf, the old man, by the King’s side, and talking eagerly with him concerning the coming wars; but Leuchnar fell into the rear, and said no word to any.

Then for some days each man wrought his best, that they might meet the invaders as they ought; yet through all the work Leuchnar seemed very restless and uneasy, falling into staring fits, and starting from them suddenly; but the king was calm and cheerful outwardly, whatever passion strove to fever him.

But one day when he was resting, leaning out of a window of the palace that was almost hidden by the heaped jasmine and clematis, he heard horse-hoofs, and presently saw Leuchnar, his sallow face drawn into one frown of eagerness, well mounted, lightly armed, just going to ride away, Olaf well knew whither.

A fierce pang shot through to Olaf’s heart; he felt dizzied and confused; through the clematis stems and curled tendrils, through the mist rising from his own heart, he dimly saw Leuchnar gather himself together, raise his bridle-hand, and bend forward as his horse sprung up to the gallop; he felt sick, his strong hands trembled; and through the whirling of his brain, and the buzzing in his ears, he heard himself shout out: “Good speed, Sir Leuchnar, with your wooing!”

That was enough; his heart sank, and his passion grew cool for the second, when he saw how fearfully Leuchnar’s face changed at the well-



understood words: troubled before as it had been, what was it now, when suddenly all the conscience of the man showed in that small spot of clay, his face?

He turned his horse, and rode back swiftly; Olaf waited for him there, scarce knowing what he did at first; yet within a little, something, thoughts of approaching death perhaps, had steadied his brain, and kept his passion back: he heard soon the quick footsteps of some one striding far, and walked quietly toward the door, where he met Leuchnar, his teeth set, his lips a little open, that his hard-drawn breathings might not choke him, his black eyes fixed forward and shining grimly from under his heavy brows like pent-house roofs.

Olaf took him by the arm and gripped him hard; but he tore it away fiercely; he flung himself down before Olaf’s feet.

“King Olaf,” he said passionately, “I will not go, I will stay here then, if you look at me like that—with your broad white forehead and golden locks—you!—I will die here if I cannot live till I meet the enemy.”

Olaf stooped to raise him up, but he drew farther back from him; then said, still kneeling:

“No word—no word yet, king, from you—was it not enough, Olaf, that you should take care of me, and love me in the days before you were king—me, a lonely discontented man, a black spot in the clear whiteness of the most loving people of the earth? was it not enough that, on the day when all the people shouted for Olaf, calling him the wisest and the best, you, with the crown yet on your head, the holy oil not dry there, should take me by the hand, and say to all the knights and all the people, whom you loved so, whom I (God help me!) loved not; ‘behold Leuchnar, my friend, who has given me all the wisdom I ever had?’ Ah, king! had you looked on me at that moment and seen even then my curling lips saying to my false heart, ‘I am so much wiser than these simple ones!’—but your clear eyes only looked straight forward, glancing over the heads of the people that was dear to you, despised by me. Was it not enough, King Olaf, that you, as the days passed, still keeping me the nearest to you, still asking me concerning everything, should be beginning to thaw my hard heart and to shake my faith in the faithlessness of Adam’s sons? were not these things enough, that you also, first of all finding pretences to mar the nobleness of your sacrifice even to your own heart, should give your love up to me, not as I do now to you, noisily, but quietly, without a word spoken; then afterwards, when you saw with what base eagerness I caught at that love given up by you, and fearing terrible things for my wretched soul if this went on, stopped me, like my guardian angel, just now when I was sneaking off like a thief in the night, and perhaps now—God help me! God help me!—have perhaps even made me do one thing in the whole course of my life which it is good to have done in His eyes?”

Then, as he knelt there, like a man before the presence of God, the king spoke slowly, with humble face indeed, and tearfully, but almost smiling, because all things seemed so clear to him in a moment of prophetic vision.