wearing of the "round hat," answered all requests for help and relief by telling them "to hold their own." At half-past four, Niel reached Ponte Nuovo with Vinoy's division: at this moment Macmahon's guns began thundering at Magenta, and called the Austrians back, who were closely followed up by Niel with Martimprey's brigade. No battle, however, was as yet (won, though one foolishly risked was saved. Giulai had let a glorious prey slip through his fingers.

Who was it that saved the battle, the empire, and the emperor? General Macmahon. On the morning of June 4 he marched his division in two columns southward. Motterouge's and Camou's brigades proceeded under Macmahon on Buffalora, while Espinasse dawdled along the road to Magenta, just as he had done in the Dobrudja. The distance between the two columns was too great, and menaced them both with destruction. Macmahon himself had pushed on to Buffalora, where the Guard had already arrived from the other side. Suddenly General la Motterouge remarked heavy masses of Austrians between Magenta and Buffalora, and Macmahon perceived, to his terror, that he had gone too far to his right, while Camou's division was still a long way in the rear. How easily could the Austrians get between the two columns, and defeat them in detail! Adjutants were hurried off to Espinasse, and for two hours Macmahon's troops waited, sniffing the smell of gunpowder.

Macmahon became a prey to impatience, and behaved here as he had done when General Achard's adjutant. He galloped with the speed of lightning through the Austrian videttes, and, though fired after, not a bullet struck him. He reached Espinasse's column, ordered him to turn to the left, and marched straight on the church tower of Magenta. Then he rode back to his own column, which he also led in the direction of Magenta. Espinasse, however, had great difficulty in moving among the shrubby ground, until, at length, Zouaves and foreign legion, losing patience, shouted "A la baïonette!" and formed in long line of sharpshooters. At five o'clock the second corps d'armée was together, and Macmahon led it towards Magenta. There was a terrible collision, for the village was barricaded, every house formed a fortress, and the railway station a miniature Sebastopol. General Auger planted a battery thirty paces from the station, and the action began: the troops advanced over corpses, and Espinasse was mortally wounded. By six o'clock the victory was virtually decided, although the fight was continued from Magenta to Ponte Vecchio till nine. General Auger pounded the retreating Austrians with forty howitzers, and the French bivouacked a little to the west of the battle-field. The battle was not continued on June 5, because Giulai had lost unaccountably two of his corps d'armée; but had it been so, the allies would have had nothing to fear, as their seventeen divisions were now concentrated. Of these only six had been under fire, which, according to the views of Jomini, is a great fault, for he asserts that all troops present ought to be led in turn into action. This was the cardinal defect of the Napoleonic strategy, and produced that "motion décousue et morcelée" to which even French writers gingerly allude.

Macmahon had orders whose strict execution must have proved the infallible ruin of his master. He was, namely, to debouch on "Buffalora

VOL. XLIX.

X

and Magenta:" that is, as matters stood, he was to march inland, and enable the Austrians to drive him into the river. But his perception of the danger of the position and his orders to Espinasse to push on, as well as his decision " de marcher au canon," prove to us the true general. An ordinary strategist would have tried, before all, to join the main body, and have effected the junction at Ponte Nuovo; Espinasse would, probably, have led his column straight on, and exposed it to certain destruction. But Macmahon had the luminous idea of passing round the main body, and laying a trap for the retreating Austrians. In fact, he caught five thousand of them in the triangle formed by Buffalora, Magenta, and Ponte Nuovo. He boldly went at the flank and cut the communications of the enemy: it was a brilliant manoeuvre, in which Ney had failed at Bautzen, and which Desaix effected at Marengo at the cost of his life. The order of the day, dated from Napoleon's head-quarters, strangely enough, said but little of Macmahon, while it spoke in the highest terms of General Camou, who accompanied Macmahon's division with the voltigeurs of the Guard.

Macmahon's elevation to the rank of marshal was necessarily accompanied by that of Regnaud de Saint Jean d'Angely; but the addition, "Duke of Magenta," remained as a lasting distinction for the former. The second corps suffered terribly; and though French statements are so incorrect, the proportion between the several figures enables us to approximate to the truth. Macmahon had 1798 killed and hors de combat, the Guard 1009, and the third corps 1136.

Among the eccentricities of the Italian campaign, we must reckon the four days' halt which the victors allowed the conquered; for, after the battle of Magenta, while the French were resting at Milan, the Austrians were enabled to retreat quietly on the Mincio. The enemy was left for three days at San Giuliano, fifteen miles from Milan, and then two corps d'armée, Macmahon's and Baraguay d'Hilliers', were detached to drive him out of Melignano. But they arrived just two days too late, for at Melignano there were only two Austrian brigades, which held their own manfully against five French divisions attacking on the flank and front, and, after inflicting considerable injury on them, retreated in good order. Two corps d'armée thus drove out two brigades. Macmahon is naturally not responsible for these arrangements, or for the fact that Baraguay d'Hilliers would not await the arrival of the second corps, but attacked at once. Had the two marshals, however, marched in two columns along the road to Lodi on June 6, Macmahon could have repeated the battle of Magenta, and Solferino might have been saved.

We have now only to explain Macmahon's position in the action between the Chiese and the Mincio, when he proved once again that he never spoils anything, and is equal to the most varied circumstances. It is an ascertained fact that the two hostile armies knew nothing of each other's position when the morning of June 24 dawned. The French were marching on the Mincio, while the Austrians were advancing on the Chiese, with their positions excellently chosen, and with the intention of attacking. At five in the morning Baraguay d'Hilliers's corps came into collision with the enemy on the heights of the Valguera, and Macmahon, whose left rested on Baraguay d'Hilliers, his right on Niel, perceived from Monte-Medolano Austrian masses between Cavriana and Solferino. The first corps was under fire, and would evidently be driven

back by the Austrians, and we have no doubt the idea occurred to Macmahon to "marcher au canon as at Magenta. But he knew, too, that circumstances can alter cases, and convert strokes of genius into folly.

Once again had the troops, thirsting for action, to wait two long hours. At seven o'clock, Niel arrived before Medole, and sent to say that he should move to the left so soon as he had news from Canrobert. At halfpast eight the state of affairs appeared to Macmahon so serious that he resolved on advancing and occupying Casa Marino, on the road to Mantua. Schwarzenberg's corps rushed forward to the rescue from Guidizzolo, and a tremendous cannonade commenced, in which the brave General Auger was mortally wounded. Macmahon had plenty of work on both sides of him. Not only must he drive Schwarzenberg back, but at the same time keep up his communication with the first corps. It was here that his successful combination of the three arms, infantry, cavalry, and artillery, was highly applauded.

So soon as the terrible heights of Solferino were stormed, and French troops were visible along the crest of hills running to Cavriana, Macmahon set his corps in motion on Cavriana. Once he was driven back, but the second time his Turcos succeeded in holding the heights. It was now half-past four P.M., the Austrians were falling back on Villafranca, and the terrific tempest began the elements commanded peace. With the breaking through of the Austrian centre any regular battle would have been decided, and this should have been called, after the Austrian headquarters, the battle of Cavriana; but the unexpected collision of the two armies entailed a number of actions: a battle of San Martino, on the left Sardinian wing; a double battle of Solferino and Cavriana; and the battle of Guidizzolo, the largest and most obstinate, on the right wing, whereby Niel gained his marshal's staff. We have thus seen Macmahon display his qualities under every circumstance, and we feel convinced that under the inspiration of a genial commander, such as Napoleon I. or Frederick the Great, he would become one of the greatest generals the age has known.

Grateful Sardinia gave the victor of Magenta the order of St. Maurice and Lazarus; he also wears, we do not know why, the Nischan of Tunis: his breast, consequently, is richly covered when he likes to display himself in all his state. But, if we may believe what we have been told, the Duke of Magenta had no very great opinion of the entire Italian campaign, and the remembrance of all that was done and left undone is at times expressed by a shrug of the shoulders. Every one present at the triumphal march of the army into Paris noticed how coldly and disdainfully the marshal rode along in the theatrical procession; his antitype was naturally Marshal Canrobert, who curveted along beaming with a victor's pride, and permitted no Parisian to take a greater pride in him than he did himself.

The marshal is now fifty-three years of age, light-haired, rather thin, but well proportioned, a little over middle height, somewhat reserved in manner, and sits a horse admirably. When mounted, his demeanour becomes military, his face grows animated, and his eyes flash fire. This is how his troops know him and understand him; hence they follow him through any obstacles, for, with Macmahon at their head, the latter no longer exist.

THE PARTING FEE.

MEDICAL MEM. OF THE LAST HALF-CENTURY.)

"Он, paра! you must make a story of it."

"Nonsense, children," I remonstrated; "it would give offence"But, papa, is he not dead long ago?"

6

Certainly, and has left no child succeeding, though he has, I believe, other relatives. Still, since dead kings are freely spoken of as soon as they become historic subjects, I don't see why they of a king's household' should be held more sacred; and further still, I dare say, on reflection, that the whole affair will now read but for what I intend it, a good story of how a first-class town physician made a green country lad pay for his post-horses into Hertfordshire."

So here goes to give an unvarnished reminiscence of fifty years ago:

Portly and heavy as I now sit, the old man in my "old arm-chair," about forty years ago I might not unfitly have stood, or sat, or lounged, as the original for Tennyson's "long and listless boy, and son and heir unto the squire," lying about in the fields to watch the setting sun, or occasionally mingling in athletic or gymnastic exercises with my fellows, without an aim or object beyond, living that sort of life, in short, in which so many pass some of the most precious years of youth, before the incident comes to set them a-going in their destined track in life.

I found myself suddenly one morning deprived of the free use of my right arm by an affection of the elbow-joint. Speculations, my own among the rest, were divided as to the cause of the accident. Some attributed it to a siesta on the dewy grass on a summer's evening, during which I abandoned myself, as young men will do, to an absorbed contemplation of the "crescent barque of the silver moon," and while leaning on the injured arm, fell asleep! Others eruditely referred it to a violent exertion in raising an extraordinary weight, in a contest of strength with some of my fellows a little time previous. "Doctors differ, and the patient dies." Doctors differed in my case, and the arm grew stiffer and more stiff, until at last I became incapable of the simple feat of tying my own cravat! When it came to this, I felt the matter growing seriouswe were then in the post-Brummel era, when the mystery of the Brummel tie had become attainable by the common world, and when to fail in achieving that necessity of daily dress was to drag on a common, undistinguished, miserable existence. I dare say I should, in due time, have got well at home, but I grew nervous and melancholy about myself, and my father, consigning all country practice to an "unknown bourne," in his anxiety for his son and heir, decided that I must resort to "the best advice," and at once. Now, as "the best advice" included as an essential a visit to unknown London, I fell into his plans with the most amiable docility; so, with an ample credit and some letters of introduction, I achieved the journey with all the "deliberate despatch" which the crawling rate of travel in those antediluvian days admitted. I crossed from the south of Ireland to Bristol, and although the Bristol mail of that date went at

what the coachman justly described as "the tidy pace" of eleven miles an hour, yet the speed at which I have since performed the same journey so immeasurably distances the old rate of going, that they are not to be "spoken of in the same day."

Arrived in London, with my arm in a sling and a case not very pressing, I hesitated some time between the two great medical authorities, thus dividing between them the confidence and practice of the metropolis, who were distinguished as the curt and the courtly. "If you want a man that has no nonsense about him, go to Abernethy," said one. "Sir Astley Cooper is confessedly the first man of his day," said another, in a tone which admitted of no question. I believe the title carried it, and accordingly I presented myself at Sir A. Cooper's morning levee at Springgardens a few days after my arrival in town, with a note of introduction from a lady of rank and fashion, who, for my father's sake (an old friend), commended me to his particular attention. "Bosh" was not known in those days, or I should soon have found out that notes of introduction to a first-rate physician are what is now classically termed "bosh," and that the best and only introduction known in such cases lies in a man's own

purse.

I found Sir Astley Cooper, both in science and courtesy, all for which the public voice proclaimed him. His commanding manner, his noble presence, his full-dress suit, which bespoke him ready at a moment's notice to attend on his royal master, all made their due first impression on a simple country youth, and his after treatment of my case confirmed my first impression. I do not know whether my case was or was not a difficult one; I am not going to inflict it on my readers in a diagnosis or rifacciamento. I know this, that the cure was complete and effectual. Sir Astley Cooper cut short my explanation of the suggested probable causes of an effusion into the injured elbow-joint by slightly observing that either cause would be sufficient, but that the matter was now to come at and remedy the mischief done; and in about a month after he had commenced a system of painful treatment, and when in my ignorance and impatience I was fancying my case becoming chronic and hopeless, he suddenly greeted me with, "Your arm is well, sir; the affection of the joint is removed. You have been undergoing some severe treatment, and as soon as it is healed Ladvise, if you have time, a little change of scene and recreation. Go over to Paris, and enjoy yourself; take some of their medicated baths, in which we fail, and they are famous; they will restore the tone of your system, and then you may return home as soon as you will."

This is a summary of the result of my intercourse with this great and justly celebrated physician of his day and generation. One or two incidents which marked its progress may be worth noting down, the last of which my children think too good to be lost, and thus have teased me into "making a story" of it.

Sir A. Cooper held an ever full morning levee of patients, which, whether all the cases were disposed of or not, closed at noon, when he left for a circuit of visits, never ended until dinner-time. At what rate of fees he dashed about town, as fast as his well-horsed chariot could carry him, I cannot say, but in his morning practice minutes might be said to reckon for guineas; in the month of my attendance on him, at the rate of