A.D. 1468.

We offer this siege to our young readers as a sort of illustration of one of Sir Walter Scott’s best novels. Sir Walter has dealt freely with historical characters; he has made most of them effective, but has not always adhered quite faithfully either to men or events. But no novelist,—and we should have said no dramatist, if a bust of Shakespeare had not been looking down upon us,—ever sketched an historical character so happily as he has done that of Louis XI.;—it is Louis himself! with all his pettinesses, shrewdness, superstition, and duplicity.

Louis XI. had raised the LiÉgeois against their suzerain, the duke of Burgundy. In an over-cunning attempt at policy, Louis had placed himself in the hands of the bold Burgundian, who, irritated by the outbreak at LiÉge, compelled the imprudent monarch to hoist the cross of St. Andrew, the ensign of the house of Burgundy, and lead his army against the LiÉgeois, whose revolt he had excited. Made aware of the storm about to break over their ramparts, the inhabitants prepared for a vigorous defence. Although reduced to a feeble garrison of six hundred men, the burgesses determined to withstand with courage the efforts of an enemy who had sworn to ruin them. The duke of Burgundy opened the trenches, and took up his lodging in one of the faubourgs. The besieged, in a vigorous sortie, killed eight hundred Burgundians, and put the rest of their infantry to flight. Wild, provost of LiÉge, who had led on this attack, died of his wounds: the loss was irreparable,—no one could replace him. The duke of Burgundy and the king came up. They lodged in houses in the faubourgs, and ordered many useless attacks and assaults. Several days passed without any event of consequence. During this short repose, the LiÉgeois meditated carrying off the king and the duke by surprise. In the darkness and silence of night, the LiÉgeois marched, led by the owners of the houses in which the princes were lodged. A hollow way cut through a rock covered their march. They killed some sentinels, arrived at the lodgings without being discovered, and stopped at a pavilion in which dwelt the count du Perche, son of the duke d’AlenÇon. They missed the decisive moment. The two princes were awakened and put upon their guard. Three hundred men-at-arms were round them instantly. The tumult was horrible. The clash of arms, the uncertainty of the cause of the peril, the darkness, and the cries of the combatants, augmented the confusion of this frightful mÊlÉe. The LiÉgeois, conscious of the smallness of their numbers, and feeling they must succumb, fought like lions at bay: they perished, but sold their lives dearly. The king and the duke of Burgundy met in the street, at the head of their guards; their presence removed mutual suspicions. They separated, after felicitating each other upon their good fortune and intrepidity upon so perilous an occasion. This fruitless attempt only increased the rage of the irritable duke: he ordered an assault for the 30th of October. At the given signal, towards daybreak, forty thousand men advanced to the foot of the battlements, to the sound of warlike instruments. Nobody appeared upon the walls to defend them; the inhabitants had fled; women, children, and old men awaited in consternation and silence the evils it would please their implacable conqueror to pour upon them. The Burgundians entered without resistance. The poor remains of the population took refuge in the churches from the fury of the soldiery. The duke triumphed: but what triumph could satisfy his brutal nature? Priests were immolated at the foot of the altar; sacred virgins, dragged from their asylums, were violated and then massacred; soldiers went from house to house with the lighted torch and naked sword in their hands; they vented their fury upon defenceless women and children; plunder was the least of their crimes. The unfortunate fugitives perished in the woods of hunger and destitution, or were pitilessly massacred; prisoners, too poor to pay their ransom, were precipitated into the waters of the Meuse. The city, when changed into a desert, presenting no animated creature upon which the barbarous conqueror could exercise his cruel vengeance, he directed his resentment against inanimate objects. Four thousand men of the country of Limbourg were commanded to set fire to the public edifices, and to demolish all that the flames had not devoured. LiÉge soon became one heap of melancholy ruins.

And this was Charles the Bold, or rather, as tÉmÉraire is better translated, “the Rash!” to whom, as the impersonation of brute courage, I dare say the Burgundians have raised statues, as we have raised one to Richard I., just such another hero, who slaughtered his five thousand Saracen captives before Acre! An intelligent foreigner said: “You propose a statue to Richard I.: you have one of George IV.; where is Alfred’s?”