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were generally employed throughout
Europe. There, in the mean time, the ways of
Frederick the Great were being copied slavishly
down to the tight coats and pipeclay of the
soldiers, until the time of Napoleon, who over-
set all dull tradition, and taught with a new
vigour the value of swift secret movements
working out large plans. After the affair of
the bridge of Lodi, Napoleon, in going his
rounds, asked an old Hungarian officer among
the prisoners how matters went? Not very
prosperously, it was owned; but, said the
veteran, "it is impossible to comprehend any
thing now. We have to deal with a young
general who is sometimes before us, sometime
behind, and then suddenly on our flanks. We
do not know how to place ourselves. Such
manner of making war is intolerable, and
violates all rule."

Suwarrow was a scientific soldier who was
wise in strategy, but who said that his tactics
were "Advance and strike." Of the campaigns
of Wellington in India we need tell nothing.
His antagonists thrive, only on their own system
of war. When it was wished to draw Hyder Ali
into a battle, he said, "Shall I risk my cavalry,
which cost a thousand rupees a horse, against
your cannon-balls which cost twopence? No!
I will march your troops until your legs become
the size of your bodies; you shall not have a
drop of water or a blade of grass. I will give
you battle, but it must be when I please, not
when you please."

No matter when; the truest general leads the
best men and must be victor. In illustration of
the skill of Wellington, there is the well-known
anecdote that at Salamanca, after thirty days'
manœuvring of both the French and English
armies, he one day suddenly turned to his
generals and said, "Now I have them!" Whereupon,
the field was won.

We have all seen by what wise strategy, revolt
was quelled, even yesterday, in India by British
hands, under the guidance of good British

But, how is it to be henceforward with war?
"In ancient times," said Napoleon at St.
Helena, "a general at one hundred and sixty or
two hundred yards from the enemy ran no
danger, and could conveniently direct the
movements of his army. In modern times, a general
placed at eight hundred or a thousand yards
[but in these times we are to say, placed three
or four miles away] is in the midst of the
enemy's batteries; and although so much exposed,
he is still at such a distance that many
movements of the enemy must escape his notice. It
hardly ever happens that he is not obliged to
approach within range of small-arms. Modern
arms have more or less effect according as they
are well placed; a battery which commands, or
enfilades, may decide the fate of an action. The
fields of battle are also now more extensive,
which makes it necessary to study a greater
extent of ground." The general of generals at
this day, when the carrying power and precision
of fire-arms has been multiplied so strangely, must
indeed be as a Morphy among chess-players
able to work out half a dozen problems with his
back turned to the players. Possibly, one issue
of the changes may really be in the contrary
direction, and it may happen that the fate of a
field will now more frequently be decided by the
ability of a great number of combatants. More
may be left to captains acting with an independence
not allowed to them while the general's
eye could run at a glance over all parts of the


MY fiddle and I we are ancient friends;
We trudge thro' the hot and the frosty weather.
We have little of music, save odds and ends,
That we now and then struggle to patch together.

Over the hill and over the dale,
And through the busy towns we go,
Freighted with many a merry tale,
And many a song that sweetens woe.

My fiddle's my friend: In peace, in strife,
In poverty, still companion ever;
It cheers my trouble, has shared my life,
In hunger and want the unfailing giver.

It opens its heart to the rich and poor;
To sorrow it yieldeth its tenderest measure;
In the carpeted room, on the sanded floor,
From the labouring clown to the lord at leisure.

It mimics my lady who sings and smiles;
The plover's cry; and the witches' chorus;
The parrot; the cat on the midnight tiles;
And the croak of the raven that travelleth o'er us

My friend, I never will part with thee!
On the homeless road, or the mountain heather,
Whatever the fate shall fall on me,
Thou and I will be found together!


IN lonely room, half lit by the midnight oil,
Four sister spinners plied their nightly toil ,
With haggard eyes, thin lips, and wrinkled skin,
They looked the Furies that they were within;
On the grim walls their spectre shadows hung,
While thus, with jeering voice, they hoarsely sung:


Twine the flax, oh, pretty flax,
Thou shalt be hidden in wax;
Thou shalt rise a blazing torch,
Fit for lamp or palace porch;
Thou shalt look on mighty things,
Noble eyes,—perhaps a king's!
                Draw the threads, twist the twine,
                Whose bright labour equals mine?


Weave the flax, oh, honest flax,
Thou shalt ride on peasants' backs.
Not a London blight shall smutch thee,
Not a footman slave shall clutch thee;
But, as sweet as hawthorn air,
Thou shalt be the peasants' wear.
               Twine the thread, twist the twine,
               Whose sweet labour equals mine?


Weave the woof, ply the looms,
This shall lie in lordly rooms