white, and those of Vorarlberg and Swabia were red. How strange that the colors of the mightiest race that ever ruled on the banks of the young Rhine should compose the banner which, hundreds of years later, set free the stream, and now waves from every steamer that plies down the Rhine to the sea ! Valley obtained a fine trade. No ship floated more proudly over the blue surface of Lake Constance than the great market-ship from Rheineck; no other booty was more eagerly watched for by the hunting or pirate ship which cruised about the lake filled with marauding troops. It was natural that so much wealth and prosperity should strengthen the courage and the self-consciousness of the citizens—and indeed they needed all their courage; for at one time they had to defend themselves against a governor who cruelly oppressed the people, and at another against insolent neighbors who broke over their frontier in company with a for But we are reminded, as our feet tread its soil, the great kingdom has forgotten one little spot, and that is the little land of Liechtenstein. For half a century it was the Benjamin of the holy German Confederation; and now, though that good body is dead, no one has adopted the blooming orphan. The five-and-fifty soldiers stand at peace, the faith-eign power. Then came the Reformation, whose ful subjects live without a state under the castle of Vaduz, with few cares and few taxes, while the father of the country tarries in his Austrian possessions. Vallis dulcis-that is the fragrant root from which the name of Vaduz springs. mighty influence was felt even in the most distant valleys. In the middle of the winter of 1528 the people of the Rhine Valley were called upon to say which religion each man would adopt; the alarmbells were rung, and the new teaching made a tri Very soon we, too, pass over into Austria, indica-umphal entry to their sound. In the mean time the tions of which may already be observed in the darkyellow post before which the grumbling tollman stands, with a pipe in his mouth and paper florins in his pocket. conflict became more fierce, and the strife of minds became the strife of arms, when the Thirty Years' War broke out in full blaze even in the provinces of the Rhine Valley. The Evangelicals attacked not only the Imperialists, but also their own countrymen; the corpses which the Rhine washed ashore lay unburied all around, food for the famished and maddened dogs. The prices will show to what a pitch famine, and consequently usury and extortion, had risen: the ducat at that time was worth seven florins, and a quarter of corn cost five and a half florins. In the wars of the eighteenth century also the Rhine Valley suffered severely, and it was long before those quiet, blessed days returned of which the river Rhine is now the witness. As we approach Lake Constance the valley grows broader; the mountains recede noticeably, and, in the place of wild beauty striving against cultivation, we have lavish fertility. It is not improbable that, as Strabo relates, in his time the whole Rhine Valley was covered with marshes, between which the stream ran in its deep bed. The land owes its fertility to the deposit of mud which was left behind on hill and valley. Vines were planted in the Rhine Valley as early as 918, and the market-towns scattered at distances in the valley were soon among the most charming places of South Germany. It is true that fire and drought, endless war and discord, intruded among these plenteous blessings; but they could only destroy what was created, and not the creative power which is here specially peculiar to Nature. She gave her gifts willingly, with a full, indeed prodigal, hand; the fields in the valley were covered with heavy crops, and over the hills the vine clambered until, indeed, it became almost unvalued from its very abundance. The time of the vintage was appointed by the common council, and also the price of the wine, which, even at the beginning of our own century, was restricted to seven kreutzers the measure. The supply was, indeed, almost inexhaustible, and the proximity of the Rhine made it impossible to dig cellars which would remain free from water. A great portion of the harvest, therefore, had to be disposed of abroad, especially in the frontier land of Appenzell, which gave in exchange the produce of its cattle. Boats plied to and fro over the stream, and in quite early times the markets which were held by imperial privilege in the Rhine | youth. The last great stronghold, which stood commandingly at the exit of the valley, was Rheineck—a fortress the possession of which was contested, even in the time of Staufen, by the Bishop of Constance and the Abbot of St. Gall. Now, of the two castles, the one is leveled to the ground, and the vine grows luxuriantly on the hill where it once stood; of the other, nothing but the ruins look down into the valley. But below on the Rhine, which at this place first becomes navigable for large vessels, the little town lies strong and well built. It has a fine hall of commerce for its brisk trade, especially in timber which is floated down from Chur in rafts. The proximity of the mouth of the river is announced by the depression of the banks, which are covered with thick sedge; barely a mile more, and the noblest of rivers vanishes from our sight, and the blue, shimmering surface of Lake Constance lies before us. The stormy history of the upheaval of this lovely lake is thousands of years old, but its smiling mirror ever greets us with the sparkle of eternal WA BY WALTER BESANT AND JAMES RICE, AUTHORS OF " READY-MONEY MORTIBOY," CHAPTER X. WAR. AR! I was eighteen at the close of the "long, long canker of peace," as Tennyson called it.Why does every poet try to be a Tyrtæus? And why should holy peace be called cancerous ?—The country put on its rusty armor, sharpened its swords, and sent out aged generals brought up in old traditions of Peninsular times. When news came of the first Turkish successes at Oltenitza, and we read of the gallant defense of Silistria, one began to realize that we were actually in the piping times of war. For my own part, I was pleased and excited, independently of my private, and Polish, reasons for excitement. It seemed to my foolish understanding that the forty years since Waterloo, those years in which the world had done so much in a quiet and peaceful way to make wars more bloody, had been quite wasted and thrown away. The making of railways, the construction of steamers, the growth of great armaments, were things done slowly and without dramatic tableaux. Now, what the world likes in contemplating the never-ending human comedy is that from time to time the curtain should fall for a few moments on a thrilling and novel situation. This we were going to have. "It is splendid, Cis!” I cried, with the latest war-news in my hand-" splendid! Now we are going to live in history! We, too, shall hear hymns to the God of battles; we shall understand the meaning of the war-fever; we shall know how men feel who live in the time of battles, sieges, and victories!" Celia did not respond as I expected to this newly-born martial enthusiasm. "And the soldiers will be killed," she said, sadly, "the poor soldiers! What does war mean to them but death and wounds?" "And glory, Cis! They die for their country!" "I would rather they lived for their country. Laddy, if the new history that we are going to live in is to be like the old, I wish it was over and done with. For the old is nothing but the murdering of soldiers. I am sick of reading how the world can get no justice without fighting for it." Looked at from Celia's point of view, I have sometimes thought that there is something in her statement. So many kings, so many battles, so many soldiers fallen on the field of honor! Blow the trumpets; beat the drums; bring along the car of Victory; have a solemn Te Deum; and then sit down and make all things ready for the next campaign! THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY," ETC. "What good," this foolish young person went on, "does the glory of a nameless soldier shot in a field and buried in a trench do to his mourning people? I know, Laddy, needs must that war come, but let him who appeals to the sword die by the sword." When General Février laid low the author of the world's disturbance, and the Poles lamented because their enemy was gone before they had had time to throw one more defiance in his teeth, I thought of Celia's words, and they seemed prophetic. "Why do the Russians fight the Turks?" she went on. "What harm have Turks done to Russians or Russians to Turks?" I suggested outraged and oppressed Christians. • Then let the Christians rise and free themselves," she went on, "and let us help them. But not in the czar's way. And as for the soldiers, would they not all be far happier at home?" Nor could any argument of mine alter her opinion on this point: a heresy which strikes at the root of all wars. To be sure, if we read history all through-say, the history of Gibbon, the most bloodthirsty historian I know-it would be difficult to find a single one out of his wars that was chosen by the people. 'Now, then, you drilled men," says king or kaiser, “get up and kill each other." The Official Gazette proclaims the popular enthusiasm, shouting of war-cries, and tossing of caps—the value of which we know in this critical age. But the people do not get up of their own accord. There is a good deal of fighting again in the chronicles of old Froissart, but I remember no mention anywhere of popular joy over it. The historian is too honest to pretend such nonsense. In fact, it never occurred to him that people could like it. They were told to put on their iron hats, grasp their pikes, and make the best of things. They obeyed with resignation; their fathers had done the same thing; they had been taught that war was one of the sad necessities of life-that and pestilence and the tyranny of priests and the uncertainty of justice-you had to fight just as you had to work or to be born or to die; the pike was an emblem of fate. For wise and mysterious purposes it was ordained by Providence that you were to be cuffed and beaten by your officers before being poked through the body by the iron point of the enemy's pike. It has been hitherto impossible for mankind to get out of this mediaæval way of thinking: some Continental nations, who believe they are quite the advanceguard of civilization, even go so far as to preserve the cuffing to this day as part of their Heaven-sent institutions. It is taught in the schools as belonging to the divine order, and therefore to be taken with resignation. At the same time we need not go so far their arms taken from them. Fancy Russia without an army or a fleet, obliged to live peacefully and develop herself! Why, in ten years she would be civilized; and then we should see strange things. But my point, however cleverly put, will not convince the captain, whose opinions on the necessity of war are based upon the advantages of a superior fleet. After all, it is a great thing to be the adopted son of a land like this isle of England, which can never again, we hope, be made to serve the ambition of kings and priests; never more drive her sons by the thousand to the slaughter-house, or her daughters to lamentation and tears, for aggrandizement. The only country in Europe of which such a boast may be made. When will it cease? When will men be strong enough to say: "Enough; we will have no more of your military caste; we will have no more of your great armies; we will never fight again, except to defend ourselves?" And Russia to set herself up as the protector of Christians! Russia to be the advocate of humanity! Russia the champion of civilization! Ask the opinions of Poland on these points; go seek those of Turkistan, of Circassia, of Khiva, of Siberia. Call on the czar and the court to tell their secret history, which everybody knows; on the nobles, to lay bare the story of their lives; on the officers, to confess their barbaric license; on the judges and officials, to confess their corruption; on the priests, to explain how they set the example of a Christian life. Call on police, secret agents, spies, ministers, governors, and soldiers, to speak of Russia's Christian vir- | tues in brutal beatings, torture of mind as well as body, infamous delations, universal bribery, filthy prisons, and inhuman punishments. That done, wish the arms of Russia success, and pray that all the world may become Cossack, and the kings of the world imitators of the czar. But I am a Pole, and may be supposed, consequently, to hate Russia. That is a popular error. The Poles do not hate Russians. Their qualities, their characteristics, are ours, because we are all of one common stock; as for their vices, they are encouraged by the governing class, because without the degradation of ignorance and drink they could not be depended on, these poor mujiks, to obey orders. We only hate the Romanoffs, who are Germans. But we like the Russians. And the English people will find out, on that day when the great, unwieldy empire drops to pieces, and the spectre of the Romanoff terror is laid forever, what good qualities there are in Russian, Muscovite, and Pole, and how, by the aid of the devil, who invented autocratic rule,. the good has been perverted into evil. But what had the English and the Russian soldier done to each other, that they should be made to fight? A most foolish and jealous girl's question. And yet—and yet― And yet it was pitiful to see our brave fellows, full of fire and enthusiasm, march down the narrow streets of the town to the Dockyard-gates on their way to the East. They went in loose order, headed by the colonel, the bands playing The Girl I left behind Me." The streets were lined with the townspeople; the women crying, some of them even kissing the soldiers; the men waving hats and shouting; the children laughing and running for joy at so splendid a spectacle. Among the honest faces of the rough and rude soldiers-far rougher, far ruder then than now-you could see none that were not lifted proudly and not flushed with hope. Drill the Muscovite and send him out to fight; he will go, and he will fight as he has been taught—a dogged, obedient creature. He asks for no reason, he neither questions nor criticises. When he begins to question, the end of the Romanoffs will not be far distant. Drill a Frenchman and order him into the field. He goes with a yell and a rush like a tiger. And he is as dangerous as a man-eater. The German, who, more than all men, hates soldiering, goes unwilling, patient, sad. He is, among other men, the least pleased to fight. But the Englishman goes willingly, quietly, and without shouting. He likes fighting. And when he begins he means to go on. When the Dockyard-gates closed upon the adjutant and the doctor, who rode last, men and women alike turned away with choking throats and swelling hearts, ashamed to shed the tears that stood in their eyes. The men were going to fight for their country. Could there be a nobler thing than to fight, and for that sacred cause to die? And yet, as Celia asked, what had Russians and Englishmen done to each other that they should fight? Some day, perhaps even in my own time, the pale figure of Revolution, red-capped, gaunt, and strong, will stalk into the Summer Palace, and bring out the Romanoffs, disturbers of the world's peace, one by one. "See," she will say to the on-lookers, "they are but men, these czars, two-forked radishes, like yourselves. They are not stronger, bigger-brained, or longer-lived than you. They are troubled by exactly the same passions; they have no better education than the best of you. But they must have war to delude ignorant people, and keep them from asking questions. As for you eighty millions, you want peace, with the chance of growing crops, and enjoying sweet love of wife and children. Once get this family with all their friends across the frontier, with strict orders that they are not to come back any more, and you shall have all that you reasonably want." That is what the eager-faced woman with the Phrygian cap said to the French, who believed her, and proceeded to act in the courage of their convictions. They made a mess of it, because they expected too much. But they set an example, and we have not yet seen the end of that example. Day after day the tramp of soldiers down the streets, infantry, cavalry, artillery, all alike lighthearted, all starting on the journey of death as if it were a picnic. When the news came of the first fighting we grew less tender-hearted, and sent out fresh squadrons with the same enthusiasm but fewer tears. The war-fever was upon us, pulses beat fiercely, we had less thought for the individual men and more for the army. We were bound to win somehow, and the soldiers went out to win for us. If they fell-but we did not think too much then about falling. Individual life is only valuable in time of peace. In times of war it has a commercial value of its own-life for life, and perhaps one life for ten, if we are lucky. pretty little yacht with her three sloping maststhreading her graceful way swiftly in and out of the ships, and the Jack Tars manned the yard-arm, and cheered till the shore took it up with echoes and the counter-cheering of the spectators. When the old men with Nehemiah saw the diminished glories of the Second Temple they lifted up their voice and wept. When the old men on our shore saw the magnified glories of the Victorian fleet they lifted up their voices and wept, thinking of the days that were no more the breezy battles with a foe who dared to fight, the long chase of a flying enemy, the cuttingout, the harvest of a score of prizes. This time, with better ships, better crews, we were going on a fool's quest, because all the good we did was to keep the Russians within their port. Well, our trade was safe, that was a great thing. The ships would go up and down the broad ocean without fear of the Russians, because these were all skulking behind Cronstadt towers. I am not a Muscovite, but a Pole, "I dare say," said the captain one day, "that there is a Russian way of looking at things, though hang me if I can see it. But, mark me, Laddy, unless a man sticks tight as wax to his own side, shuts his ears to the other side, won't hear of an argument, that man can't fight happy. There's no comfort in a battle unless you feel you're on the Lord's side. Wherefore hang all sea-lawyers, and let every man hate a Russian as if he were the devil.” To do our blue-jackets justice, that is about what yet I was ashamed for the Russian sailors, who were they did. Besides the long lines of soldiers embarking every week in the huge transports, there was the preparation and the dispatch of the great and splendid Black Sea and Baltic fleets. not allowed to strike a blow for their country, while the soldiers were dying in thousands, dogged, silent, long-suffering, in obedience to the czar, whom they ignorantly worship. They sailed, the queen leading the way. Out flew the white canvas, fluttering for a moment in the windy sunshine, and then, with set purpose, bellying full before the breeze, and marshaling each brave ship to her place in the grand procession. The armada passed out of sight, and we all went home. The captain was moved to the extent of a double ration that night; also, he sang a song. And, at prayers, he invented a new petition of his own for the honor and safety of the fleet. There were occasions, he said, when, if a man did not feel religious, he didn't deserve to be kept on the ship's books any longer; and he told us-Cis was staying with us that day-for a thousandth time the story of Navarino. It is something to have lived in a time when such ships were to be seen. It is a memory which binds one to the past to think of that day—in March, 1854-when the Baltic fleet set sail amid the prayers of the nation. Never was so gallant a fleet sent forth from any shore, never were shores more crowded with those who came to criticise and staid to cheer. We had already-Cis and I among the number-cheered old Charley Napier when he walked down the pier to embark on his ship, pounding the timbers with his sturdy little legs as if they had been so many Russians. To-day he was on board the Duke of Wellington, the biggest ship in the world, a great floating fortress mounting a hundred and thirty-one guns built to sail when wind was fair, with a crew of a thousand men, and an admiral who meant fighting. No one who ever saw that day will forget the departure of the fleet. It was a fresh and breezy day in March; the sun came out in occasional gleams, or shot long arrows of light athwart the clouds. The sea was dark with multitudes of boats, yachts, steamers, and craft of all kinds; the shore was black with the thousands who sat there watching for the signal to be given; and riding at anchor lay the ships on whom the fortunes of England depended. There was the St.-Jean d'Acre, of a hundred guns; the Royal George, of a hundred and twenty (she floated over the place where lay the bones of her namesake, the flag-ship of Admiral Kempenfeldt, when he went down with "twice four hundred men and almost as many women); the Princess Royal, of ninety-one guns; the Impérieuse | year. and the Arrogant (I was launched on board the Arrogant, and remember her well). There were, all told, in that Baltic fleet, though all were not gathered together, between fifty and sixty ships. Presently we saw the queen's steamer, the Fairy-the For a When the fleets were gone, and the soldiers nearly all sent off, we began to look for news. long time there came little. Charley Napier told his men to sharpen their cutlasses: that was just what the old fellow would do, because if he got a chance of fighting he meant fighting. But he did not get that chance. Within the fortress of Cronstadt, in ignoble safety, lay the Russian fleet, afraid to come out. There was a little bombardment of Sweaborg, Helsingfors, and Bomarsund; we made as much as we could of it at the time, but it was not like the fighing which we old men remembered. And only a few prizes here and there. brought in, I remember, by the Argus, at sight of which we all turned out to cheer. The captain sorrowfully said that, in the good old days when he entered the navy, about the year 1805, he might have been in command of a dozen such prizes every One was |