vengeance; and of these but thirteen were, after a solemn trial, executed. The remaining seventeen, for want of evidence, were fairly acquitted and discharged. That this is the truth, no one can doubt. Every word uttered by the three persons spoken to by Count Rostopchin, gives positive proof of it. There is not a shadow of accusation against the French army or their chief, of precipitation or cruelty. Several days elapsed between the arrestation of the seventeen innocent men, and the executions of the thirteen convicted. The execution was attended by a group of mounted officers, evidently some general and his staff. The condemned individuals were formally taken from the line and executed, and the other individuals immediately set at liberty. The utmost proved by the recital of Count Rostopchin's three informants is, that they were not brought to trial, from want of evidence against them. As to the exaggeration of the bulletin, which said three hundred instead of thirteen, it does not at all surprise us. Napoleon never boggled at trifles of this kind. His object at that particular moment was to appear terrible rather than accurate. He did not object to run the risk of appearing cruel, for he knew the truth would come out one day-and here it breaks on us from a quarter the least to be looked to. But what must we think of Count Rostopchin's inference, after ten years consideration of the subject, "that the thirteen put to death were shot by supreme orders," which is nothing more nor less than an accusation against Napoleon of wanton, barbarous, wholesale murder! We have given a good deal of space to the exposure of this calumny. We think the character of the greatest man of the age had enough of actual infirmity to prevent its floating too buoyantly down the stream of Time, and it is therefore that we felt it a duty not to suffer this slander to go out unrefuted into the world. Count Rostopchin is very desirous to shake off the imputation of having been an incendiary. We would suggest to him, that besides the only meaning which he attaches to the epithet, it bears another, which we will explain to him by a quotation from Addison, that appears to us extremely applicable. "Incendiaries of figure and distinction, who are the inventors and publishers of gross falsehoods, cannot be regarded but with the utmost detestation." And having now got rid of the Count in his capacity of accuser, we will turn to him once more in his position as the accused, and examine whether Napoleon had not more apparent reason for the charge he made, than probable criminality in reference to that preferred against him.

In the whole of the pamphlet there is no attempt to deny the assertion, that the persons executed at Moscow threw the blame (supposing it to be such) of the conflagration upon the governor. Every thing seemed to bear testimony against (or for) Rostopchin. He took every means in his power to embarrass the hostile occupiers of the city. He removed, with the great mass of the citizens, every thing that could be useful to the enemy,-bread, wine, and provisions of all kinds, as well as the ninety-six fire-engines. Supposing that the removal of provisions might have had for its object the service of the Russian, as well as the privation of the French army, why were the fire-engines carried off? They could have been of no possible use in the open country to which the population was retreating. They must, on the contrary, have been a considerable difficulty to the flight of a multitude of both sexes and all ages. As to the 2100 organized soldiers with their

corps of officers, attached to the engines, they might have been advantageously employed in the Russian army, had they left the engines behind them; and it is remarkable that the only observation made by the Count on this specific and all-important charge of having carried off the engines to forward the conflagration is, that "he did not think it proper to leave this corps of officers for the service of Napoleon, having removed all the civil and military authorities from the city." Now the fact is, that Napoleon would not have given a fig for these officers, but would have bartered all the jewels of his crown, and half the conquests of the campaign, for one quarter of the engines. The Count must have known this well, and we really cannot help suspecting, even after the perusal of his pamphlet, which he so solemnly protests to be "la verité, et rien que la verité," that some lingering notion which he may now forget, whispered him that Moscow might be set fire to by some accident after his departure. Napoleon, at all events, must have believed such a catastrophe to have been in the governor's views-seeing that it did actually take place, that every remedy for the calamity was premeditatedly removed, and that Count Rostopchin had shewn, by setting fire to his own house, that propensity for burning which he now would fix upon Napoleon, founded upon the order given by the latter to put flames to the house of an enemy. "Napoleon aimait à brûler," says the Count," preuve, l'ordre au Marechal Mortier d'avoir soin de mettre le feu à mes deux maisons à Moscou." -Page 39.

Upon the whole, we think no one will hesitate to say that Bonaparte had good cause for believing Rostopchin to be the author of the conflagration; and our only astonishment is, as we have said before, that he did not appreciate the honourable nature of the act which he first endeavoured to constitute a crime, and afterwards utterly acquitted the Count of, by asserting him to be mad―(23d Bulletin, 9th October 1812). For our own parts, our opinion is, that Count Rostopchin was quite incapable of the grand conception and unhesitating execution of such a deed. As to the French having deliberately performed it for their own destruction, it is preposterous. We think it not at all unlikely, and hope it will still turn out to be the fact, that some heroic Russians did conceive the project, though no regularly concerted plan was laid. There is evidence from the Count's own statement, that such an intention was generally entertained before the French entered the city; and we are borne out in saying that the governor must unquestionably have been influenced by a suspicion of those intentions, before he took the troublesome and embarrassing measure of removing the fire-engines. But in conclusion, we must say, that we think such a man quite unfit to bear the burthen of the glory that was so long placed upon him; and that such a work as his pamphlet is a proper record of his unfitness.

The two pamphlets which followed the Count's, are meant as refutations of his statement, and have for their object to fix on him the whole responsibility of the burning. In this point of view, the "Reponse" is incomplete, and the "Lettre" an utter failure. The author of the first, reasons as we do, on probabilities, but establishes nothing. The production of the Abbé possesses abundance of fire, but affords no light. It is a pathetic account of the conflagration, such as might be expected from a benevolent parish priest, an eye-witness of the

scene; but it evinces the ignorance of such an obscure individual as to the causes and motives of the act. History must pause for better testimony than any as yet before the world, before it records, with certainty, the particulars of the burning of Moscow.*

STANZAS.

-The mind can make

Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.

I LOVE a revel of romance

I love at times to be

Where all that is seems but a trance,

And thought reality;

Where the world far away has fled,

And living man to me is dead.

It is a joy the dwelling then

On visions of the past,

Among the years, and scenes, and men,

That time hath not o'ercast

The Scian's hero, king, and sage,
The grey sires of a later age-

The white-plumed son of chivalry,
The stately dames of yore,
The mask antique or pageantry,
The bard or troubadour;

The tourney made for ladies' eyes,
The sovereigns of the envied prize.

I love to dwell with fantasy,
And find in vision warm
Some mighty spirit rushing by
Before the winged storm,

Or haunting lonely paths, or near
Where Autumn woods are rustling sere.

Or by the ivy-buttress'd tower

To glance the ancient hall,

Where beauty throng'd from park and bower

To dance and festival,

And many a twinkling foot was gay
That long in dust hath passed away.

Where many a stately robe and train
Swept in its pride along,

And the red wine-cup met the strain
Of love or battle-song;

I love to rear those walls once more,

And revel on the ancient floor :

To call the patriot from his grave,

And see him awful rise,

And they the "bravest of the brave,"
Who paid the sacrifice

BYRON.

* The burning of Moscow not being regarded by the natives as an act of patriotism, which they could not feel, and the destruction of the wounded Russians, of whom between twenty and thirty thousand were in the city, (half of whom perished in the flames, who might have been previously removed,) may account for the wish of Rostopchin to conceal his participation in the affair.

Of life to freedom's holy laws,
With martyrs in opinion's cause :-
To lie upon the battle-field

Where thousands lay before,
And see the stricken vanquish'd yield,
And hear the wild uproar ;

Marshal the charger, chief, and man,
In the long march from rear to van.

I would not give these idle dreams,
(For fools may style them so)
And power of snatching pleasing gleams
From perish'd scenes below,

For countless sums of whatsoe'er
The world may deem most rich or rare.

Visions of parted time! long be
My solace, and beguile
The dull hours of reality
With sad attractive smile,
Filling a pleasant cup for me
From fountains of antiquity.

MY BOOKS.-NO. I.

The Menagiana.

To the Editor of the New Monthly Magazine.

Sir, I am one of those inveterate lovers of reading, who take a poet to bed with them, and stick a book up against the castors at dinner. I devour poetry, biography, romances, novels, voyages and travels, nay, metaphysics and little children's books. The metaphysics are my experimental eating. Little children's books are my gingerbread; and I think I like it as well as ever I did. Did you ever read Mrs. Leicester's School? If that is not excellent home-made, then hath my palate become sophisticate.

Poetry is my wine and fruit. I linger over it, and love to take it in a bower betwixt dinner and tea. Biography is what I like next, unless I am in a course of novel and romance reading; during which I look upon that other reality as a secondary thing. I may say, that poetry and romance are my passion; biography my friendship; and French wit my fine acquaintance.

I think I hear a lady ask, how it is I can be so fond of poetry and romance, which include so much about love and the fair sex, if I am such a shameless old bachelor as to be wedded to nothing but my books, morning, noon, and night. Sir, I did not say I was an old bachelor. I did not say any thing about that part of my condition, bachelor or not but this I say, that the lady's question refutes itself; and that I could not love such books so well, if my love of books, enormous as it is, were not less than my regard for those fair subjects. I will ask the lady a question. Did she never take a poet to-(Be quiet, Wilkins, I am not going to say any thing wrong)-Did she never take a poet under her pillow to bed with her? If not, let her ask the opinion of any fair friend who has.

No, Sir: I am none of Peter Bayle, who declined a beauty with a fortune, because he had no time to spare from his lucubrations. Idle bookworm! He might have bought libraries with the fortune, and perused her loving face between whiles, instead of hankering after his Laises and his Lamias. Willingly do I give up his learning and immortality for the sake of an inglorious nibbling at his folios, followed by a liberty to amuse myself all over the rest of the house, "up-stairs, down stairs, and in my lady's chamber." Decius Mus was not more devoted in his way; nor could have died with greater pleasure in the cause. If I should prefer breathing my last sigh with my head on a book, rather than on a beloved shoulder, it would only be to spare the latter the pain of my departure.

I have particular reasons, Mr. Editor, why I think you are bound to agree with me in this matter; but I will not enter upon them. A favourite poem of mine, with a lady and a book in it, could explain them; but I fear to trench upon the coy dignities of your office.

Higher of an Editor by far,

And with mysterious reverence I deem

Your

I hope you will find as much reason to acquiesce in a thought which struck me the other day, while turning over a New Monthly Magazine with one hand, and holding a volume of Menage in the other. publication is abundant in original articles, and has sometimes enough learning in one of them to sprinkle a whole volume with scholarship. But I think it would not be amiss (and other readers of the Magazine are of the same opinion) if you took off some of the objections which you appear to have against certain commoner and more triffling evidences of reading, such as might form something of a gossiping link between this erudition and the very lightest articles. I allude to passages from curious books; criticisms of a similar nature to the annotations of Warton and Heyne; translations of rare or diverting subjects from any language, not excepting French; and, in short, all kinds of resort to other sources of amusement, not strictly original, provided something original be added. Care should be taken to adapt it to all tastes that are worth consulting, those of the learned, and those that happen to be destitute of learning. A true scholar need not be told, that among the latter are many that would have relished him to the height, if they had had his opportunities. On this account, no apology would be necessary for translating quotations, even from the most popular languages, French itself. Time was when it was as common for a Greek or Latin scholar to be incapable of understanding a joke in the language of our neighbours, as it is for a reader of French not to be able to laugh with Plautus or Hierocles. I do not read Spanish or German; and I feel myself disobliged, when an author calls upon me for my admiration of a good thing in one of those tongues, if he leaves me without explaining it. The modesty of the compliment is equivocal, and does not incite me to deserve it. How does he know but what I am a clerk in a counting-house, who have not leisure to acquire German? or an apprentice, who could relish his author's wit, though not in a jargon? or an author myself, equally full of occupation and bad health, and no more able to put another language into my head, than another head-ache?