wreaked his entire vengeance against the city of Saragossa and its brave inhabitants, by spearing two harmless priests on the banks of the Ebro, is passing strange. He must find some other reason for the act before any one will believe it. But the accusation that he drowned a few monks to frighen the rest, is still more laughable. One would think that Lannes considered himself in danger from monkish conspiracies, that he resorted to this desperate method of inspiring terror. If we were to believe the story at all, we should incline to think that he did it for mere amusement, to while away the tedious hours, in a deserted, ruined, famine-struck, and pestilence-struck city. To inspire a sepulchre and hospital with terror, by drowning a few monks, was certainly a very original idea of Lannes.

In the storming of Ratisbon, Lannes exhibited one of those impulsive deeds which characterized him. Seeing a house leaning against the ramparts, he immediately ordered the artillery against it, which soon broke down the walls, and left them as a sort of stepping-stones to the tops of the walls of the city. But such a destructive fire was kept up by the Austrians on the space between the French and it, that they could not be induced to cross it. At length, Lannes seized a scaling ladder, and rushing into and through the tempest of balls that swept every foot of the ground, planted it against the ruined house, and summoned his men to follow. Rushing through the fire, they rallied around him, scaled the walls, and poured into the city, and opened the gates to the

army.

But now we come to the close of Lannes' career. He had passed through three hundred combats, and proved himself a hero in fifty-three pitched battles. Sometimes the storm swept over him, leaving him unscathed; sometimes, desperately wounded, he was borne from the field of his fame, but always rallied again to lead his host to victory. But his last battlefield was at hand, and one of the strongest pillars of Napoleon's throne was to fall amid clouds and darkness,

In the summer of 1809, after Vienna had fallen into his hands, Napoleon determined to pass the Danube and give the Archduke Charles battle, on the farther shore. The Danube, near Vienna, flows in a wide stream, embracing many islands in its slow and majestic movement over the plain. Bonaparte resolved to pass it

at two points at the same time, at Nussdorf, about a mile above Vienna, and against the island of Lobau, farther down the river. Lannes took charge of the upper pass, and Massena of the lowerthe two heroes of the coming battle of Aspern. Lannes, failing in his attempt, the whole army was concentrated at Lobau. On the evening of the nineteenth of May, Bonaparte surprised the Austrians on the island, and, taking possession of it and the other islands around it, had nothing to do but throw bridges from Lobau to the northern bank of the Danube, in order to march his army over to the extended plains of Marchfield, that stretched away from the bank to the heights of Bisomberg, where lay the Archduke with a hundred thousand men. Through unwearied efforts Bonaparte was able to assemble on the farther shore, on the morning of the 21st, forty thousand men. The Archduke saw, from the heights he occupied, every movement of the French army, which seemed, by its rashness and folly, to be rushing into the very jaws of destruction.

It was a cloudless summer morning, and as the glorious sun came flashing over the hill-tops, a forest of glittering bayonets sent back its beams. The grass and the flowers looked up smilingly to the blue heavens, both of which seemed unconscious of the carnage that was to end the day. Just as the sun had reached its meridian, the command to advance was heard along the heights, answered by shouts that shook the earth, and the roll of drums and thousands of trumpets, and wild choruses of the soldiers. While Bonaparte was still struggling to get his army over the bridge, while Lannes' corps was on the farther side, and Davoust in Vienna, the Austrian army of eighty thousand men came rolling down the mountain-side and over the plain, like a resistless flood. Fourteen thousand cavalry accompanied this magnificent host, while nearly three hundred cannon came trundling, with the sound of thunder, over the ground. The army advanced in five awful columns, with a curtain of cavalry in front to conceal their movements and direction. Bonaparte looked with an unquiet eye on this advancing host, while his own army was still separated by the Danube. In a moment the field was in an uproar. Lannes, who had crossed, took possession of Essling, a little village that stood half a mile from the Danube; and Massena of Aspern, another village,

for Napoleon, and before the onset of which the best infantry of Europe had gone down.

The Imperial Guard formed the reserve. Thus arrayed and sustained, the terrible columns entered the close fire of the Austrian batteries and the deadly volleys of the infantry. Lannes knew that the fate of the battle was placed in his hands, and that the eye of Napoleon was fixed with the deepest anxiety upon him. He felt the weight of Europe on his shoulders and determined to sustain it. In front, clearing a path for his strong legions, went the artillery, sending death and havoc over the field. Around the threatened point the whole interest of the battle gathered, and the most wasting and destructive fire opened on Lannes' steady ranks. But nothing could resist the weight and terror of their shock. Through and through the Austrian lines they went, with the strength of the inrolling tide of the sea. Into the wild battle-gorge thus made by their advance the cavalryplunged at headlong gallop, shaking their sabres above their heads and sending their victorious shouts over the roar of the artillery. They dashed on the ranks with such fury that whole battalions broke and fled, crying, "All is lost." Amid this confusion and terror still advanced the awful column of Lannes. On, on it moved with the strength of fate itself, and Bonaparte saw with delight his favorite marshal wringing the crown from Germany and placing it on his head. At length the enveloped host pierced to the reserve grenadiers of the Austrian army, and the last fatal blow seemed about to be given. In this dreadful crisis the Archduke showed the power and heroism of Napoleon himself. Seeing that all was lost without a desperate effort, and apparently not caring for his life if defeat must be endured, he spurred his steed among the shaking ranks, rallying them by his voice and bearing to the charge, and seizing the standard of Zach's corps, which was already yielding to the onset, charged at their head like a storm. His generals, roused by his example, dashed into the thickest of the fight, and at the head of their respective divisions fell like so many rocks upon the head of Lannes' column. Those brave officers, almost to a man, sunk before the destructive fire that opened upon them, but that dreadful column was checked for the first time in its advance, and stood like a living rock amid its foes. The Anstrians

were thrown into squares and stood like so many checkers on the field. Into the very heart of these Lannes had penetrated and stopped. The empire stopped with him, and Napoleon saw at once the peril of his chief. The brave cuirassiers that had broken the best infantry of the world were immediately ordered to the rescue. Shaking the ground over which they galloped their glittering armor rattling as they came-they burst into the midst of the enemy and charged the now steady battalions with appalling fury. Round and round the firm squares they rode, spurring their steeds against the very points of the bayonets, but in vain. Not a square broke, not a column fled; and, charged in turn by the Austrian cavalry, they were compelled to fall back on their own infantry. Still Lannes stood amid the wreck and carnage of the battle-field around him. Unable to deploy so as to return the terrific fire that wasted him, and disdaining to fly, he let his column melt away beside him. Being in squares the Austrians could fire to advantage, while Lannes could only return it from the edges of his column. Seeing that he dare not deploy his men, the Archduke had the cannon wheeled to within five rods of them and there played on the dense masses.

Every discharge opened huge gaps, and men seemed like mist before the destructive storm. Still the shivering column stood as if rooted to the ground, while Lannes surveyed with a flashing eye the disastrous field from which he saw there was no relief. Added to this, the ammunition began to fail, and his own cannon were less hotly worked. This completed the disaster; while, to render his situation still more desperate, a regiment had dashed in between his lines, which being immediately followed by others, cut them in twain. Added to all, the news began to fly over the field that the bridges over the Danube had been carried away by the heavy boats that had been floated down against them. Still Lannes and his column disdained to fly, and seemed to resolve to perish in their footsteps. The brave Marshal knew he could not win the battle but he knew also he could die on the spot where he struggled for a continent. Bonaparte, as he looked over the disorded field from his position, saw at once that the battle was lost.

Still, in this dreadful crisis he showed no agitation or excitement. Calm and collected as if on a mere review he

surveyed the ruin about him, and by his firm bearing steadied the soldiers and officers amid whom he moved. Seeing that no time was to be lost if he would save the remnant of his army, for the bridges were fast yielding to the swollen stream, he ordered a general retreat. Lannes and his column then began to retire over the field. In a moment the retreat became general, and the whole army rolled heavily towards the bridge that crossed to the island of Lobau. As they concentrated on the shore it became one mighty mass, where not a shot could fall amiss.

The Archduke wishing to complete his victory by a total rout, immediately advanced with his whole army upon them. His entire artillery was brought up and arranged in a semicircle around this dense mass crowding on to the bridges, and poured their awful storm into a perfect mountain of flesh. It seemed as if nothing could prevent an utter overthrow; but Lannes, cool and resolute as his emperor, rallied his best men in the rear, and covered the retreating and bleeding army. With Massena by his side, now steadying their troops by his words and actions, now charging like fire on the advancing lines, he saved the army from burial in the Danube.

Lannes never appeared to better advantage than on this occasion. His impetuosity was tempered by the most serious and thoughtful actions, and he seemed to feel the importance of the awful mission with which he had been intrusted. At length dismounting from his horse to escape the tempest of cannon balls which swept down everything over the soldiers' heads, he was struck by a shot as he touched the ground, which carried away the whole of the right leg, and the foot and ankle of the left. Placed on a litter, he was immediately carried over the bridge into the island, where Bonaparte was superintending some batteries with which to protect the passage. Seeing a litter approach him, Napoleon turned, and, lo, there lay the bleeding and dying Lannes. The fainting Marshal seized him by the hand, and in a tremulous voice exclaimed, "Farewell, sire. Live for the world, but bestow a passing thought on one of your best friends, who in two hours will be no

couch and wept like a child. The lip that had seemed made of iron during the day, now quivered with emotion, and the eye that had never blenched in the wildest of the battle, now flowed with tears. The voice of affection spoke louder than the thunder of artillery, and the marblehearted monarch wept. And well he might. For there before him, mangled and torn, lay the friend of his youth, and the companion of his early career-he who charged by his side at Lodi and Arcola-saved his army at Montibello, and Italy at Marengo-who opened Ratisbon to his victorious army-nay, the right hand of his power-broken and fallen forever.

"Lannes," said he, in his overpowering emotion, Do you not know me? it is the emperor, it is Bonaparte, your friend; you will yet live." "I would that I might," replied the dying hero, "for you and my country, but in an hour I shall be no more." Soon after he fainted away, and then became delirious. He lingered thus for nine days, now charging in his frantic dreams at the head of his column, now calling wildly on the emperor to come to him, and now raving about his cruel fate. He would not hear of death, and when told that he must die, that nothing could save him-" Not save a marshal of France!" he exclaimed," and a duke of Montibello! Then the emperor shall hang you." No, death spares neither marshals nor dukes, and the hero of so many combats had fought his last battle.

Lannes was prodigal of money, notwithstanding the attempt of Mr. Alison to make him covetous; frank even to bluntness, and unconscious of fear. In the midst of battle, his penetrating eye detected every movement with precision. Napoleon himself says of him: "Lannes was wise, prudent, and withal bold; gifted with imperturbable sang froid in presence of the enemy." There was not a general in the French army, that could manœuvre thirty thousand infantry on the field of battle, so well as he. He was but forty years of age when he died. His soldiers loved him like children, and a poor officer never was forgotten by him. His wife, whom he married in poverty, and from the lower ranks of life, partook of his generosity and kindness.

The eldest son of Lannes, the present Duke of Montibello, married not many years ago, in Paris, a daughter of Charles Jenkinson, an English gentleman.

It is not common to have a hook given us, which is the creation, not only in thought and sentiment, but in its plan and idea, of the author's brain. We have works of fiction founded on fact, and works of philosophy founded on fiction. We have also travels and sketches, &c.; but a book that is in itself a sheer conception of the author is seldom put before us. "Big Abel and the Little Manhattan" is, at least, such a book; and did it possess no other merit than this, would deserve a respectable hearing, if nothing more. Mr. Mathews has written a good deal, with very various degrees of merit; but we scarcely know of a writer among us who, with whatever faults of composition, has been treated less fairly, or judged with less discrimination. Of his former writings, we have nothing to say, and but a few words of the present; but those few shall be spoken candidly

The book, "Big Abel and Little Manhattan," is, if we may use the expression, New York City Idealized. Two ladsone tracing his ancestry to the Indian chiefs, who first owned this noisy island of ours; the other deriving his descent from Hudson, the first navigator who explored with doubt and anxiety the perilous region of New York Bay, Fulton Ferry, and the Hudson River-come to the conclusion that the present city belongs to them. Under this very sensible impression, they go about from street to street to survey their somewhat extensive property, and make a fair and equitable division of it. The sights they see, and the sounds they hear, and the incidents they meet with, constitute the filling up of the book. Mr. Mathews is a thorough Metropolitan, and has an affection for whatever is characteristic in New York, especially in its low life. In the manner of Dickens, he is poking his nose into every ale-house and tavern, riverpier and dim alley, where anything worth seeing is to be found; and he is certainly successful in catching, often to the nicest point of truthfulness, the impressions of incident and character that meet his notice-mostly, too, in a way of his own,

though it cannot be denied that he has plainly studied, and hardly to his advantage with the public, the inimitable sketches of the London Novelist. Mr. Mathews has a way of expressing himself, which has an attraction for the lovers of minute picturing. He is able to place the object, or group, or incident, or whatever it may be, before us like a painting. And this is done with so little display, that we are surprised to find it has been done at all. He has the faculty, also, of seeing the picturesque in very common occurrences, and feeling the poetry attached to very ordinary matters. Take, for instance, the description of two boys flying a kite, an incident few notice, and still fewer would think of describing; and another on page 26, one of the last an ordinary man would have selected, but the best for such as have the skill to throw the garb of their own sentiment around it. The latter is, in fact, a description of the author's own feelings, as he has sometimes lain awake and heard the carts late at night, one after another, rumbling up the city to their homes.

"There is a yellow house, not far from the Parade Ground, famous for the cider that he draws; Newark cider, fresh and latest, a full supply; and you may go there and drink when you choose, and that little public house is always at home, with a glass for you. Thither Lankey and Big Abel repaired; and there they supped, in for work, of that golden drink; and then with many a draught, now that they were they chambered themselves up stairs. But not asleep quite as soon as you might think, for this was a cart-street in which they lodged; in other words, an avenue patronized by those lay-bishops, the carting gentry, in their morning and evening trips up and down town; and, returning now from the day's work, they kept up a buzz of wheels for hours. Sometimes a slow cart, they could tell each one by his sound, sauntering along with a tired horse; and a fast cart, heard in his approach far off, thundering by the door, and rattling away, for whole squares. Then three or four carts in company, with a talk of cartmen; these were moderate movers; to each other as they jogged along. Then a couple of