I narrowly escaped being sent to the guardhouse for the night, as I approached Erfurt—for seeing that it was near nine o’clock when the gates of the fortress are closed, I quickened my pace to a trot, not aware of the “rÈglement” which forbids any one to pass rapidly over the drawbridges of a fortification. Now, though the rule be an admirable one when applied to those heavy diligences which, with three tons of passengers, and six of luggage, come lumbering along the road, and might well be supposed to shake the foundations of any breast-work or barbican; yet, that any man of mortal mould, any mere creature of the biped class—even with two shirts and a night-cap in his pack—could do this, is more than I can conceive; and so it was, I ran, and if I did, a soldier ran after me, three more followed him, and a corporal brought up the rear, and in fact, so imposing was the whole scene, that any unprejudiced spectator, not overversed in military tactics, might have imagined that I was about to storm Erfurt, and had stolen a march upon the garrison. After all, the whole thing was pretty much like what Murat did at Vienna, and perhaps it was that which alarmed them.

I saw I had committed a fault, but what it was I couldn’t even guess, and as they all spoke together, and such precious bad German, too, (did you ever know a foreigner not complain of the abominable faults people commit in speaking their own language?) that though I cried “peccavi,” I remembered myself, and did not volunteer any confessions of iniquity, before I heard the special indictment, and it seemed I had very little chance of doing that, such was the confusion and uproar.

Now, there are two benevolent institutions in all law, and according to these, a man may plead, either “in forma pauperis,” or “in forma stultus.” I took the latter plea, and came off triumphant—my sentence was recorded as a “Dummer Englander,” and I went my way, rejoicing.

Well, “I wish them luck of it!” as we say in Ireland, who have a fancy for taking fortified towns. Here was I, inside of one, the gates closed, locked, and barred behind me, a wall of thirty feet high, and a ditch of fifty feet deep, to keep me in, and hang me if I could penetrate into the interior. I suppose I was in what is called a parallel, and I walked along, turning into a hundred little, crooked corners, and zig-zag contrivances, where an embrasure, and a cannon in it, were sure to be found. But as nothing are so like each other as stone walls, and as I never, for the life of me, could know one seventy-four pounder from another, I wandered about, very sadly puzzled to ascertain if I had not been perambulating the same little space of ground for an hour and a half. Egad! thought I, if there were no better engineers in the world than me, they might leave the gates wide open, and let the guard go to bed. Hollo, here’s some one coming along, that’s fortunate, at last—and just then, a man wrapped in a loose cloak, German fashion, passed close beside me.

“May I ask, mein Herr, which is the direction of the town, and where I can find an inn?” said I, taking off my hat, most punctiliously, for although it was almost pitch-dark, that courtesy cannot ever be omitted, and I have heard of a German, who never talked to himself, without uncovering.

“Straight forward, and then to your left, by the angle of the citadel—you can take a short cut through the covered way——”

“Heaven forbid!” interrupted I; “where all is fair and open, my chance is bad enough—there is no need of a concealed passage, to confuse me.”

“Come with me, then,” said he, laughing, “I perceive you are a foreigner—this is somewhat longer, but I’ll see you safe to the ‘Kaiser,’ where you’ll find yourself very comfortable.”

My guide was an officer of the garrison, and seemed considerably flattered by the testimony I bore to the impregnability of the fortress; describing as we went along, for my better instruction, the various remarkable features of the place. Lord, how weary I was of casemates and embrasures, of bomb-proofs and culverins, half-moons and platforms; and as I continued, from politeness to express my surprise and wonderment, he took the more pains to expound those hidden treasures; and I verily believe he took me a mile out of my way, to point out the place, in the dark, where a large gun lay, that took a charge of one hundred and seventy livres weight. I was now fairly done up; and having sworn solemnly that the French army dare not show their noses this side of the Rhine, so long as a Corporal’s guard remained at Erfurt, I begged hard to have a peep at the “Kaiser.”

“Won’t you see the Rothen Stein?” said he.

“To-morrow,—if I survive,” said I, dropping my voice for the last words.

“Nor the Wunder Brucke?——”

“With God’s blessing, to-morrow, I’ll visit them all; I came for the purpose.” Heaven pardon the lie, I was almost fainting.

“Be it so, then,” said he, “We must go back again now. We have come a good distance out of our road.”

With a heavy groan, I turned back; and if I did not curse Vauban and Carnot, it was because I am a good Christian, and of a most forgiving temper.

“Here we are now, this is the Kaiser,” said he, as after half an hour’s sharp walking, we stood within a huge archway, dimly lighted by a great old-fashioned lantern.

“You stop here some days, I think you said?”

“Yes, for a fortnight; or a week, at least.”

“Well, if you’ll permit me, I’ll have great pleasure in conducting you through the fortress, to-morrow and next day. You can’t see it all under two days, and even with that, you’ll have to omit the arsenals and the shot batteries.”

I expressed my most grateful acknowledgments, with an inward vow, that if I took refuge in the big mortar, I’d not be caught by my friend the next morning.

“Good night, then,” said he, with a polite bow. “Bis Morgen.”—

“Bis Morgen,” repeated I, and entered the Kaiser.

The “Romischer Kaiser” was a great place once; but now, alas! its “Diana is fallen!” Time was, when two Emperors slept beneath its roof, and the Ambassadors of Kings assembled within its walls. It was here Napoleon exercised that wonderful spell of enchantment he possessed above all other men, and so captivated the mind of the Emperor Alexander, that not even all the subsequent invasion of his empire, nor the disasters of Moscow, could eradicate the impression. The Czar alone, of his enemies, would have made terms with him in 1814; and when no other voice was raised in his favour, Alexander’s was heard, commemorating their ancient friendship, and recalling the time when they had been like brothers. Erfurt was the scene of their first friendship. Many now living, have seen Napoleon, with his arm linked within Alexander’s, as they walked along; and marked the spell-bound attention of the Czar, as he listened to the burning words, and rapid eloquence of Buonaparte, who, with a policy all his own, devoted himself completely to the young Emperor, and resolved on winning him over. They were never separate on horseback or on foot. They dined, and went to the theatre together each evening; and the flattery of this preference, so ostentatiously paraded by Napoleon, had its full effect on the ardent imagination, and chivalrous heart of the youthful Czar.

FÊtes, reviews, gala parties, and concerts, followed each other in quick succession. The corps of the “FranÇais” was brought expressly from Paris; the ballet of the Opera also came, and nothing was omitted which could amuse the hours of Alexander, and testify the desire of his host—for such Napoleon was—to entertain him with honour. Little, then, did Napoleon dream, that the frank-hearted youth, who hung on every word he spoke, would one day prove the most obstinate of all his enemies; nor was it for many a day after, that he uttered, in the bitter venom of disappointment, when the rugged energy of the Muscovite showed an indomitable front to the strength of his armies, and was deaf to his attempted nÉgociations, “Scrape the Russian, and you’ll come down on the Tartar.”

Alexander was indeed the worthy grandson of Catherine, and, however a feeling of personal regard for Napoleon existed through the vicissitudes of after-life, it is no less true that the dissimulation of the Russian had imposed on the Corsican; and that while Napoleon believed him all his own, the duplicity of the Muscovite had overreached him. It was in reference to that interview and its pledged good faith, Napoleon, in one of his cutting sarcasms, pronounced him, “Faux comme un Grec du Bas Empire.”

Nothing troubled the happiness of the meeting at Erfurt. It was a joyous and a splendid fÊte, where, amid all the blandishments of luxury and pleasure, two great kings divided the world at their will. It was Constantine and Charlemagne who partitioned the East and West between each other. The sad and sorrow-struck King of Prussia came not there as at Tilsit; nor the fair Queen of that unhappy kingdom, whose beauty and misfortunes might well have claimed the compassion of the conqueror.

Never was Napoleon’s character exhibited in a point of view less amiable than in his relations with the Queen of Prussia. If her position and her personal attractions had no influence over him, the devoted attachment of her whole nation towards her, should have had that effect. There was something unmanly in the cruelty that replied to her supplication in favour of her country, by trifling allusions to the last fashions of Paris, and the costumes of the Boulevard; and when she accepted the moss-rose from his hand, and tremblingly uttered the words—“Sire, avec Magdebourg?”—a more suitable rejection of her suit might have been found, than the abrupt “Non!” of Napoleon, as he turned his back and left her. There was something prophetic in her speech, when relating the anecdote herself to Hardenberg, she added—

“That man is too pitiless to misfortune, ever to support it himself, should it be his lot!”

But what mean all these reflections, Arthur? These be matters of history, which the world knows as well, or better than thyself. “Que diable allez-vous faire dans cette galÈre?” Alas! this comes of supping in the Speise Saal of the “Kaiser,” and chatting with the great round-faced Prussian in uniform, at the head of the table; he was a lieutenant of the guard at Tilsit, and also at Erfurt with despatches in 1808; he had a hundred pleasant stories of the fÊtes, and the droll mistakes the body-guard of the Czar used to fall into, by ignorance of the habits and customs of civilized life. They were Bashkirs, and always bivouacked in the open street before the Emperor’s quarters, and spent the whole night through chanting a wild and savage song, which some took up, as others slept, and when day broke, the whole concluded with a dance, which, from the description I had of it, must have been something of the most uncouth and fearful that could be conceived.

Napoleon admired those fellows greatly, and more than one among them left Erfurt with the cross of the Legion at his breast.

Tired and weary, as I was, I sat up long past midnight, listening to the Prussian, who rolled out his reminiscences between huge volumes of smoke, in the most amusing fashion. And when I did retire to rest, it was to fall into a fearful dream about Bashkirs and bastions; half-moons, hot shot, and bomb-proofs, that never left me till morning broke.

“The Rittmeister von Otterstadt presents his compliments,” said the waiter, awakening me from a heavy sleep—“presents his compliments—-”

“Who?” cried I, with a shudder.

“The Rittmeister von Otterstadt, who promised to show you the fortress.”

“I’m ill,—seriously ill,” said I, “I should not be surprised if it were a fever.”

“Probably so,” echoed the immovable German, and went on with his message. “The Herr Rittmeister regrets much that he is ordered away on Court Martial duty to Entenburg, and cannot have the honour of accompanying you, before Saturday, when——”

“With Heaven’s assistance, I shall be out of the visible horizon of Erfurt,” said I, finishing the sentence for him.

Never was there a mind so relieved as mine was by this intelligence; the horrors of that two days’ perambulations through arched passages, up and down flights of stone steps, and into caves and cells, of whose uses and objects I had not the most remote conception, had given me a night of fearful dreams, and now, I was free once more.

Long live the King of Prussia! say I, who keeps up smart discipline in his army, and I fervently trust, that Court Martial may be thoroughly digested, and maturely considered; and the odds are in my favour that I’m off before it’s over.

What is it, I wonder, that makes the inhabitants of fortified towns always so stupid? Is such the fact?—first of all, asks some one of my readers. Not a doubt of it—if you ever visited them, and passed a week or two within their walls, you would scarcely ask the question. Can curtains and bastions—fosses and half-moons, exclude intelligence as effectually as they do an enemy? are batteries as fatal to pleasure as they are to platoons? I cannot say; but what I can and will say, is, that the most melancholy days and nights I ever passed, have been in great fortresses. Where the works are old and tumbling, some little light of the world without, will creep in through the chinks and crevices, as at Antwerp and Mentz; but let them be well looked to—the fosses full—no weeds on the ramparts—the palisades painted smart green, and the sentry boxes to match, and God help you!

There must be something in the humdrum routine of military duty, that has its effect upon the inhabitants. They get up at morning, by a signal gun; and they go to bed by another; they dine by beat of drum, and the garrison gives the word of command for every hour in the twenty-four; There is no stir, no movement; a patrol, or a fatigue party, are the only things you meet, and when you prick up your ears at the roll of wheels, it turns out to be only a tumbril with a corporal’s guard!

Theatres can scarcely exist in such places; a library would die in a week; there are no soirÉes; no society. Billiards and beer, form the staple of officers’ pleasures, in a foreign army, and certainly they have one recommendation, they are cheap.

Now, as there was little to see in Erfurt, and still less to do, I made up my mind to start early the next day, and push forward to Weimar, a good resolution as far as it went, but then, how was the day to be passed? People dine at “one” in Germany, or, if they wish to push matters to a fashionable extreme, they say “two.” How is the interval, till dark, to be filled up—taking it for granted you have provided some occupation for that? Coffee, and smoking, will do something, but except to a German, they can’t fill up six mortal hours. Reading is out of the question after such a dinner,—riding would give you apoplexy—sleep, alone, is the resource. Sleep “that wraps a man, as in a blanket,” as honest Sancho says, and sooth to say, one is fit for little else, and so, having ordered a pen and ink to my room, as if I were about to write various letters, I closed the door, and my eyes, within five minutes after, and never awoke till the bang of a “short eighteen” struck six.