no remedy. Nor was he able, indeed, to do justice to the gallantry of his soldiers. A great part of the battle consisted of charges, made by the French cavalry on the squares of Austrian infantry, and always with the same ill success,-the natural consequence of the want of skill on the part of the troops as well as on the part of a chieftain, who was naturally answerable for the skill of his soldiers. On level ground, no modern infantry, unskilful marksmen and unprovided with arms fit for close combat, can resist a compact charge of bold and resolute cavalry, who, regardless of the single volley to which they are exposed, rush in upon the foes with the full speed and impulse of their horses; but the moment speed is slackened, defeat is certain, for a slow advance not only gives the infantry time to augment their fire, but it gives them confidence also, whilst the additional number of men and horses brought down by the musketry, naturally augments confusion among the assailants. Besides, we do not find that on any occasion during these sanguinary days, Napoleon evinced sufficient skill to combine the action of infantry or artillery with that of the cavalry he was so constantly hurling on against the Austrian squares. While formed in mass to resist the charge of cavalry, the infantry could offer only a helpless and almost passive mark to the fire of hostile infantry, and would be certain to fall beneath the sabres of the first horsemen, who, bursting through the intervals of that fire, should dash in upon them. The same would be the case with infantry under a close and heavy fire of artillery, though of all this Napoleon seems to have known nothing.

The Austrians have been greatly blamed for not following up the advantage they had gained; but their success was rather that of a wellparried blow, than of decided victory, and it is not very certain what they could have effected. Their loss had

been very considerable; an attack upon the Lobau was, of course, entirely out of the question, and though they might, perhaps, by crossing the Danube above Vienna, or at Presburg before the communication with the island was restored, have fallen upon the French divisions left isolated on the right bank of the river; it was only on an exact knowledge of the situation of the enemy that such an operation could have been hazarded, and this knowledge it is not likely that they possessed. Massena said, indeed, "that if he had commanded the Austrians, the whole of the French army would have been taken." The speech, though not complimentary to his chieftain, may be true; for the French marshal could hardly fail to know the nature of his own position; but the time has long passed when the assertions of these men were received as oracular dicta. In his letters to the Archduke John, the generalissimo frequently says that he intends to make an offensive movement, but of what nature is never mentioned, nor was any thing undertaken. Ample time and verge enough was thus allowed Napoleon to collect all his disposable forces for another and more decisive blow.

This battle of Aspern is the first of a long series of actions which we shall have to record, in which the mere pressure of masses decided the result. Henceforth we find the generalship and soldiership of the con tending parties nearly on a level; equal bravery on the part of the troops, equal skill on the part of subordinate leaders, and Victory turning to those who were prepared to pay the highest price in human blood for her favours. The great advantage the French had hitherto derived from confidence, from long success and the habit of acting together, seems, from this time, to produce less striking effects; and from the day of Aspern, the spell of Napoleon's military fame forms the only superiority which they retain over their adversaries.

of it, and I'll get you a far better price than you were paid for the last."

"You know very well," replied her mistress, "that it is already sold to the same house, and the price agreed upon.".

"The Jews!" muttered Marian. "Nay, Marian," said her mistress, "you must not forget that these good people have given me constant employment, and so saved us much trouble."

"Ah!" returned the servant, in a tone of impatience, "you could have done without them if you would but have spoken one word."

A look of some severity from her mistress cut short the further loquacity of Marian, who with some embarrassment added,—

"I meant, by your teaching the piano, dame! at ten francs a lesson!" "You know it displeased M. Alfred."

"That is true enough; and after all I like this better than your teaching-obliged to be abroad in all sorts of weather, and coming home sometimes so harassed and fatigued. At present you never go out at all, except when M. De Monville gives you his arm, and that is not too often."

Another look from her mistress again arrested the garrulity of the old servant, which, be it observed, was seldom without a slight infusion of malice. While she had been speaking, the former detached her work from the frame, and carefully rolling it up,

66

Here," said she, "go with this at once before M. Alfred arrives; it is now near his hour. Put this frame also out of the way that he may not see it."

"Take care, take care," said the old woman; 66 you know how he hates mystery."

"Alas! Heaven knows how it pains me to conceal any thing from him. But this- -" She made a sign, and Marian took the things and went out, leaving her mistress plunged in melancholy reflection; for this brief conversation had brought her situation-the present and the futuresadly and painfully before her.

Louisa Chatenay was but three years old when she experienced the

loss, always deplorable, of her mother. Her father, a highly learned and esteemed professor in a provincial town, had spared neither care nor cost on her education; and his best and most distinguished pupil was his darling Louisa.

To a singular aptitude for all kinds of elegant literature, he saw that she added a decided taste for music. Instructors were procured, and her progress was even more rapid in this most fascinating of the sciences than in the other branches of her education, as though there existed some hidden sympathy between the enchanting art and the soul of the fair musician, now become a charm

ing girl of sixteen. Her playing seemed less execution than inspiration; and though unequal to the tremendous crashes of the modern tornado school, which makes one feel even for the unfortunate instrument, her facile comprehension of the great masters appeared rather divination than study. Her voice, too, was magnificent, a rich mezzo soprano, which thrilled in the solemn strains of the divine Pergolèse, or the touching melodies of the too-early-lost Bellini (for her exalted admiration of the master-spirits of the times gone by did not render her insensible to the beauties of the moderns-so ignorant was Louisa of the rules laid down by modern criticism). At this period Louisa was, both in mind and person, every thing that the fondest father could desire; and though she, perhaps, enjoyed a greater share of liberty than a mother's anxious vigilance would have allowed, her natural prudence and a sensitive delicacy of character supplied the want of experience.

Among the more intimate friends of her father was a family named Preville; the children had been infant playfellows, and their friendship afterwards continued without interruption. During the age of childhood a marriage had even been talked of between the little Louisa and the elder boy, Julian Preville ; and although no mention had been made of this project of late years, the parents on both sides, particularly the father of Louisa, looked forward to it as an event which, though not certain, might be re

garded as far from improbable. The boy, who was some two or three years older than Louisa, was, perhaps, even more sanguine in his hopes.

These hopes, however, if he really entertained them, were neither shared nor thought of by Louisa. Whether it was that the hour of her heart's awakening had not yet come, or from whatever other cause, she continued to regard Julian with the kindness due to the friend of her childhood, but without a ray of warmer feeling; and her life glided on peacefully and tranquilly until her eighteenth year. She was now struck with a dreadful calamity-the death of her father.

He died suddenly, leaving no fortune. Louisa would have been nearly a beggar, but for a trifling income derived from her mother. Julian Preville, now engaged in commercial pursuits, was absent at the time; his family learning theextent of Louisa's poverty, prudently evinced no desire to renew the recollection of the formerly projected marriage; and with the advice of her friends she determined upon proceeding to Paris, where she had an old relative, the only one left her in the world, but the amount of whose assistance on her arrival was, counselling her to employ the little money she had remaining in perfecting her talents, and to receive lessons before commencing to give them.

Louisa, however, soon succeeded in procuring a few pupils, and her talents were already securing for the friendless girl a modest independence, when, at the residence of a family of rank in which she gave lessons in music, she met M. Alfred de Monville,—an event which materially affected the colour of her future life. Without entering into details of the growth of their acquaintance, it is only necessary here to state, that, struck by her uncommon beauty, he became an assiduous and devoted admirer, and that the passion thus commenced was daily augmented by a further knowledge of her mind and character. He was also a passionate lover of music, and this led to a dangerous intimacy between them. His assiduities and devotedness made an impression upon her heart; and, not unnecessarily to prolong our narrative, Louisa for the first time felt

the loss-the irreparable loss of a mother.

Six months had passed; and although the affection of Alfred seemed constantly to increase, during his absence a corroding sentiment of sorrow and remorse would frequently intrude. Her sole happiness rested upon the continuance of his love, and she knew that his family were unceasingly urging him to a union with a young lady of rank and fortune. Louisa had other motives for uneasiness-in the character of her lover himself. With a tenderness and depth of affection, almost without example, mixed with great nobleness of mind, he displayed some defects which she could not regard without inquietude. Of these, jealousy and a proneness to suspicion were the principal. On this account she had long since given up her music-lessons, for he had, with some justice, objections to a profession which led her so much into public without adequate protection. But in sacrificing this source of income, Louisa would accept of nothing in return from her lover, giving him to understand that the small succession left her at the death of her father was sufficient for her wants. We have seen how the deficiency was supplied.

The servant had not left the house many minutes, when Louisa was roused from her reverie by the ringing of the bell. "Marian went in time," mentally exclaimed she, as she hastened to open the door.

M. de Monville entered. He was a young man of dark complexion, tall and well-made, apparently about thirty years of age. His manner and appearance bore that unmistakable impress of high life which is, perhaps, never to be imitated with success. Habits of serious study had imprinted something of precocious gravity upon his features; and though naturally kind and indulgent, the expression of his dark and piercing eye denoted the suspicious, or, at least, highly impressionable disposition to which we have already alluded, and which is not altogether unfrequent with those who have passed more of their time in company with books than with the world.

De Monville looked round on entering, and inquired for Marian.

"I have just sent her out," said Louisa, without further explanation.

"I am glad we are alone," rejoined Alfred. He entered the little saloon, and taking both the hands of Louisa in his own, he imprinted a tender kiss on her forehead. There

was something in his manner which seemed to indicate that he had something of importance to communicate; and in the course of a long and interesting conversation between the lovers, which we generously spare the reader, he acquainted her that the constant importunities of his mother and friends on the subject of his marriage had at length forced him to come to a determination.

"Well ?" said Louisa, turning rather pale.

"Well," continued he, "I have chosen a wife. I have not sought her among those who, gifted with birth and fortune, conceive that they can dispense with the amiable virtues and acquirements which to my mind constitute the real ornaments of life. I have found one, kind, modest, gifted, and loving,-one whose heart has made sacrifices for me, which a life of devotedness only can repay. Louisa, will you accept my hand and name ?"

Is it necessary to state the reply of Louisa? The noble and generous offer which comprised in her eyes not only happiness, but the establishment of honour and reputation, was

received with tears of love and gratitude.

A long conversation followed, chiefly upon their future arrangements; in the course of which Alfred entreated her to give him a small gold ring which Louisa's mother had tied round her neck with her dying blessing, praying Heaven that it might be as a talisman to shield her child from evil. This gift Louisa had guarded with religious love and reverence. Alfred had before frequently solicited it in vain. He now claimed it in the right of her future husband.

Louisa promised that it should be her wedding-gift to him. He was fain to be satisfied with this promise, for before he could reply to it the entrance of Marian put a stop to their further discourse.

The old servant was evidently in a very bad humour. She made signs to her mistress that she had not found the shopkeeper at home, and that she had brought back the embroidery unsold.

Alfred perceived some of this dumb show, and inquired what it

During the hours which the lovers were passing so happily together, a scene was proceeding in a neighbouring street at the Hôtel de Monville, Rue de Grenelle, the dénouement of which, if realised, promised effectually to interfere with their plans. The mother of Alfred was at that time receiving the formal-nay, almost solemn visit of the Countess de Châteauneuf, a lady immensely rich, of the ancient noblesse, and influentially connected with the highest personages of the court. The countess had an only daughter, and hence her present visit to Madame de Monville. The negotiations had been going on for some time; the present interview was long, and the ladies, in sepa

rating, had lost something of the stiff and ceremonious dignity which marked their meeting. The two mothers had agreed to the marriage of Alfred and Mdlle. de Châteauneuf.

Madame de Châteauneuf had scarcely quitted the drawing-room, attended by her hostess, at one door, when a personage of some consequence in our story entered by another. This was a lady, who had probably reached her twenty-sixth year, but whose features still retained the charm and freshness of youth. The expression of her countenance was replete with winning modesty and in harmony with all her movements, which were marked by serene gentleness and grace. The beauty of