thick woods, they formed their columns for a desperate attack upon our extreme right-the cottage where I was, and the conical hill, upon the possession of which our safety depended. While these new dispositions were being made, the firing almost ceased along the whole line. We guessed pretty well what was coming, and prepared as best we might for the approaching storm.

Presently thousands of bayonets glittered in the bright sun-light among the trees in our front; the heads of three heavy columns issued from the wood and pushed across the valley against our positions. The main force assailed the platform, but could make no head against the fire of the artillery, and the masses of troops defending it; another body of some strength rushed up to our cottage stronghold, swarmed round it, and poured a deafening roar of musketry upon the doors and windows; we were instantly driven from the orchard to the shelter of the dwelling, but there we held our own, and the stout Londoners dealt death among the foe. Several men had been killed, and some badly wounded, while retreating from the orchard into the cottage, so my hands were full. I did my utmost, but could not keep pace with the work of destruction. The fire waxed heavier; the Carlists, though suffering severely, pressed closer and closer round us, animated with the hope that we might fall into their hands; but the conical hill is not yet assailed, and till it is lost our retreat is safe. The third attacking column has disappeared in a ravine to our left. Where will that storm burst? See, there they are! now they rise up from the deep hollowthe glittering bayonets and the terrible "white caps;" and now with a fierce shout, louder than the roar of the battle, they dash against the conical hill. We see no more; the thick woods conceal alike our friends and foes.

My late patient, the commander of our little garrison, had been already wounded in the head, but refused my aid with horrid oaths. A torn handkerchief was wrapped round his temples, his face and long grizzled beard were stained with blood, begrimed with smoke and dust; he had seized the musquet and ammunition of a

fallen soldier, and fearless of the deadly hail of bullets, stood upright before a window firing with quick precision, then rapidly reloading. Nevertheless, every now and then, he cast an anxious look beyond, to see how fared the strife upon the all-important hill.

And now the roar of musketry is heard among the trees, and a thick cloud of smoke hangs over the scene of the struggle, concealing the fortunes of the fight. But see! From the back of the hill furthest from the enemy, a tall man, in the uniform of an officer, hastens stealthily away; he crosses towards the river close to the cottage; though hidden by a bank from the Carlists, we see him plainly from the upper windows; his object is probably to escape unobserved down by the stream into the lines. He has thrown away his sword, his eyes are bloodshot, his face pale with deadly fear, and wild with terror. We look again: eternal infamy! it is the captain of carbineers. Immediately after this, the defenders of the hill, deserted by their leader and pressed by the superior force of the Carlists, gave ground, broke, and fled along the valley. "That accursed coward has betrayed us," shouted our commander, fiercely. "But he shall not escape us, by As he spoke he aimed at the fugitive and pulled the trigger, but before he finished the sentence, I heard a dull, heavy splash, as of a weight falling upon water; the musket dropped from his grasp, he threw his long sinewy arms up over his head, and fell back without a groan. A bullet had gone through his brain; meanwhile the object of his wrath ran rapidly past and gained the sheltering underwood by the stream in safety.

Our soldiers, instead of being daunted by the loss of their commander, were inspired with the energy of despair. They knew they might not hope for mercy from their fierce assailants, and determined to struggle to the last. All retreat was cut off, but as long as their ammunition lasted they could keep at bay. This, however, began soon to fail. They rifled the pouches of their dead comrades, and still, though almost against hope, bravely held on the fight.

The Carlists upon the conical hill were now exposed to the fire from E guns of the platform, and though in a

great degree sheltered by the trees, they suffered severely. The Christino forces were, however, being gradually withdrawn from the field of battle, and the chances of our perilous situation being observed by our friends, became momentarily less; a vigorous rush upon the conical hill to gain possession of it, even for a few minutes, might enable us to extricate ourselves, but in the roar and confusion of the battle our little band was forgotten by the Spanish force, left to cover the withdrawal of the army-forgotten by all but one, the gallant young cadet, my generous friend. He knew that I was in the beleaguered cottage, disgracefully left to its fate by a portion of his own regiment; he saw that we still held out,-that there was hope that we might yet be saved. He hastened to the commanding officer of his corps, told of our perilous situation, and pointed out the means of extricating us. The orders were, that this regiment, the second light in fantry, should check the Carlist advance, till the main body of the Christinos had fallen back upon the positions taken in the morning. The generous boy who had gained a hear ing by his gallant conduct through the day, urged his cause so earnestly, that at last it won attention; he pointed out how the recovery of the conical hill would effectually secure the retirement of the troops from annoyance, and that they would have the glory of saving the detachment of the Legion from destruction. The colonel, a gallant old soldier, himself an Englishman by birth, leant no unwilling ear, and the regiment received the order to advance.

Meanwhile, we saw with bitter sorrow battalion after battalion withdrawing from the platform, and the Carlist reserves advancing down the valley in our front to press on the retiring army. But when we had almost ceased to hope, a dark green column emerged from the woods in our rear by the water side, and in serried ranks, with steady step, marched straight upon the fatal hill. It dashes aside the opposing crowds of white-capped skirmishers like foam from a ship's prow; it gains the slope and nears the wooded brow, still, with unfaltering courage, pressing on, though men are struck down at every step. They are now close at hand;

A

we feel their aid; our assailants slacken their fire, and give way; the path is nearly clear: when the hill is won we are saved. We can now plainly distinguish our deliverers — the Second Light Infantry, and in front of the leading rank the gallant cadet toils up the bloody hill. crashing volley staggers the advancing files; but the youth cheers them on-one effort more. Hurrah, brave boy! hurrah for the honour of Castile! They follow him again; the brow is gained, they plunge into the wood; another rattle of musketry, and the Carlists are driven from the hill.

We seized the golden opportunity, and bearing with us those of the wounded who survived, made good our retreat. The few still capable of any exertion joined our brave deliverers, and retired slowly with them, but the Carlists pressed upon us no more that night.

But

The evening was falling fast, and the long shadows of the mountains covered the field of blood, when I sat down at the advanced post of our lines to await the returning column and meet the gallant boy, our deliverer from the merciless enemy. They marched slowly up along the road; for many wounded men, borne on stretchers, or supported by their companions, encumbered their movements. Then, as company after company filed past, I looked with anxious straining eyes for my dear young friend. he came not. Even in the pride of their brave deed the soldiers seemed dull and sorrowful without his airy step and gallant bearing to cheer them on. Last in the ranks came a tall bearded grenadier, carrying something in his arms-something very light, but borne with tender care. It was the young cadet. His eyes were closed; his face wore a smile of ineffable sweetness, but was white as marble, and, like the smile on the features of a marble statue, there may be never again a change; for the fair child was dead.

The Captain of the ship had joined our group some time before, and listened attentively to the latter part of the story. When it came to this point, he cried out somewhat impatiently," Hillo, Doctor! if you have nothing pleasanter to tell us, the sooner we turn in the better."

MANY of our readers, unacquainted with his writings, will remember the name of the gentle prelate and renowned rhetorician who delivered the funeral oration of the great TURENNE, accomplishing the mournful but glorious task with such eloquence and grace that the composition constitutes his chief claim to the admiration of posterity. We should say, perhaps, that it did constitute his principal hold upon the world's memory, previonsly to the year 1844, date of exhumation of a work likely to command readers longer than his Oraisons Funébres, or, than any other portion of the ten serious volumes published under the incorrect title of Euvres Completes. We can imagine the astonishment of an erudite book-worm, suddenly encountering, when winding his way through dusty folios and antique black letter, a sprightly and gallant narrative, sparkling with graceful sallies and with anecdotes and allusions à la Grammont; and finding himself compelled, by evidence internal and collateral, to accept the mundane manuscript as the work of a grave and pious father of the church. A courtly chronicle, in tone fringing on the frivolous, and often more remarkable for piquancy of subject than for strict propriety of tone, suddenly dragged from the cobwebbed obscurity of an ancient escritoire and put abroad as the production of a South, a Tillotson, or a Blair, would astound the public, and find many to doubt its authenticity. In bringing forward the earliest work of the amiable bishop of Nismes, the librarian of the town of Clermont had no such scepticism to contend against. Moreover, he had arguments and proofs at hand sufficient to confound and convince

the most incredulous. True, there was vast difference in tone and subject between the literary pastime of the Abbé, and the results of the grave studies and oratorical talents of the reverend churchman and renowned preacher; but affinities of style were detectible by the skilful, and, in addition to this, there had crept out, at sundry periods of the present century, certain letters of Fléchier†-letters not to be found in the so-called "complete editions" of his works whose strain of graceful levity and exaggerated gallantry indicated a talent distinct from that to which he owes a fame now daily diminishing; and prepared the few whose notice they attracted for a transition from grave didactics and inflated declamation to lively badinage and debonair narrative. The masses knew little about the matter, and cared less. Latin verses, complimentary discourses, and funeral orations, dating from a century and a half back, and relating to persons and events great and brilliant, it is true, but now seen dim and distant through the long vista of years, are not the class of literature to compel much attention in this practical and progressive age.

a

As

constructor of French prose, Fléchier is unquestionably entitled to honourable mention. If his claims to originality of genius were small, he at least was an elegant rhetorician and a delicate and polished writer, to whom the French language is under obligations. As a man of letters, he formed an important link between the school of Louis XIII. and that of the Grand Monarque; he was one of the first to appreciate grace of diction, and to attempt the elevation and correction of a spurious style. His florid

cloquence, however, not unfrequently wearies by its stilted pomposity, and, save by a few scholars and literati, his works are rather respected than liked, more often praised than read. He wrote for the century, not for all time. And his books, if still occasionally referred to, cach day drew nearer to oblivion, when the publication of the Mémoires sur les GrandsJours tenus à Clermont came opportunely to refresh his fading bays. The lease of celebrity secured by ten studied and ponderous tomes, exhaling strong odour of midnight oil, had nearly expired, when it was renewed by a single volume, written with flowing pen and careless grace, but overlooked and underrated for nearly

two centuries.

Although scarcely essential to a just appreciation of the book before us, we shall cursorily sketch the career of Esprit Fléchier, esteemed one of the ablest of French pulpit orators, one of the most kind-hearted and virtuous of French prelates. Born in 1632, in the county of Avignon, he early assumed the sacerdotal garb, and obtained occupation as teacher of rhetoric. At the age of eight-andtwenty, business resulting from the death of a relation having taken him to Paris, he conceived an affection for that capital and remained there. Having no fortune of his own, he was fain to earn a modest subsistence by teaching the catechism to parish children. Already, when professing rhetoric at Narbonne, he had given indication of the oratorical talents that were subsequently to procure him the highest dignities of the church, the favour of a great king, and the enthusiastic admiration of a Sévigné. At Paris he busied himself with the composition of Latin verses, for which he had a remarkable talent, and celebrated in graceful hexameters the successes and virtues of ministers, princes, and kings. The peace concluded with Spain by Mazarine, the future prospects of the dauphin of France, the splendid tournament held by the youthful Louis, in turn afforded subjects for the display of his elegant Latinity. Fléchier had the true instinct of the courtier, exempt from fawning sycophancy, and tempered by the dignity of his sacred profession.

And when he condescended to flatter, it was with delicacy and adroitness. Ambitious of the patronage of the Duke of Montausier, he knew how to obtain it by a judicious independence of tone and deportment, more pleasing to that nobleman than the most insinuating flattery. A constant guest in the Salon Rambouillet, he made good his place amongst the wits frequenting it, and when its presiding genius expired, it fell to him to speak its funeral oration. This was the commencement of his fame. From the hour of that brilliant harangue, his progress was rapid to the pinnacle of royal favour and priestly dignity. Unanimously elected member of the academy, he became almoner to the dauphiness, and was long the favourite court preacher, petted by the king and by Madame de Maintenon. His nomination as bishop was delayed longer than the high favour he enjoyed seemed to justify. At last, in 1685, he received his appointment to the see of Lavaur. The words with which Louis XIV. accompanied it, were characteristic of the selfish and smoothspoken sovereign. "Be not surprised at my tardiness in rewarding your great merits; I could not sooner resolve to resign the pleasure of hearing you." His promotion to the bishopric of Nismes followed two years later, and there he founded the academy, and abode in the constant practice of all Christian virtues, until his death, which occurred in 1710, five years sooner than that of his royal patron and admirer. This provincial residence could hardly have been a matter of inclination to one who had so long basked in the warm sunshine of court favour. But the self-imposed duty was well and cheerfully performed. And we find the mild and unambitious churchman deprecating the benefits showered on him by the king. "It is a great proof of your goodness," he wrote to Louis, when appointed to the rich and important see of Nismes,

66

that you leave me nothing to ask but a diminution of your favours." Strict in his own religious tenets, he was tolerant of those of others, and more than once, during the cruel persecutions of the Huguenots, his sacerdotal mantle was extended to shield the unhappy fanatics from the raging

"He

sabres of their pitiless foes. died," says St Simon, “distinguished for his learning, his works, his morals, and for a truly episcopal life. Although very old, he was much regretted and mourned throughout all Languedoc."

It is pleasing to trace so virtuous a career, its just reward and peaceful termination; otherwise we might have been contented to refer to the period when Fléchier was tutor to the son of M. Lefevre de Caumartin, one of the king's council, master of requests, and bearer of the royal seals at the tribunal of the Grands-Jours. The future bishop had been at Paris about two years, when he accepted this tutorship. Four years more elapsed; he was in priest's orders, and already had some reputation as a preacher, when he accompanied M. de Caumartin to Clermont. It was in 1665, and Louis XIV. had convoked the exceptional court occasionally held in the distant provinces of France, and known as the Grands-Jours. "This word," says M. Gonod, in his introduction to Fléchier's volume, "which excited, scarcely two centuries ago, such great expectations, so many hopes and fears, is almost unknown at the present day; and one meets with many persons, otherwise well informed, who inquire what the Grands-Jours were?' They were extraordinary assizes, held by judges chosen and deputed by the king. These judges, selected from the parliament, were sent with very extensive powers, to decide all criminal and civil cases that might be brought before them, and their decisions were without appeal. They inherited the duties of those commissioners, called missi dominici, whom our kings of the first and second dynasties sent into the provinces to take information of the conduct of dukes and counts, and to reform the abuses that crept into the administration of justice and of the finances. The rare occurrence of these assizes, and the pomp of the judges, contributed to render them imposing and solemn, and obtained for them from the people the name of Grands-Jours. They were held but seven times in Auvergne," (the dates follow, commencing 1454 ;)" and of those seven sittings, the most remark

VOL. LXIII.-NO. CCCLXXXVII.

able for duration, for the number and importance of the trials, for the quality of the persons figuring in them, and for their result, are, without the slightest question, those of 1665-6. They lasted more than four months, from the 26th September to the 30th January. More than twelve thousand complaints were brought before them, and a multitude of cases, both civil and criminal, were decided. And, amongst the latter, whom do we see upon the bench of the accused? The most considerable persons, by birth, rank, and fortune, of Auvergne and the circumjacent provinces, judges, and even priests!" Here we find the true reason why Fléchier's interesting memoirs of this important session have so long remained unprinted, almost unknown. It were idle to assert that want of merit caused them to be omitted, or at best passed over with a cursory notice, by collectors and commentators of Fléchier's writings. We have already intimated, and shall presently prove, that, both as a literary composition, and as a chronicle of the manners of the times, this long-neglected volume is of great merit and interest. And had these been less, this was still hardly a reason for grudging the honours and advantages of type to a single volume of no very great length, at the cost of the integrity of its author's works. If not included in any of the partial editions of the bishop's writings, or printed with his posthumous works at Paris in 1712, a nook might surely have been reserved for it in the Abbé Ducreux's complete edition, or in the less estimable one of Fabre de Narbonne. But no-such favour was not afforded. M. Fabre dismisses it with a curt and flippant notice, and Ducreux confines himself to a careless abstract, inserted in the tenth volume of his edition, as a sort of sop to certain persons who, having obtained access to the manuscript, were sufficiently judicious to hold it in high estimation. The Abbé alleged as his reason, that he thought little of the style, which he considered strange and negligent. We will not do him the unkindness to accept this as his real opinion. His true motive, we cannot doubt, was more akin to that loosely hinted at by M. Fabre, who,

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