to death during the French Revolution. From 1804 to 1814, he resided with his wife at Auteuil, a villa at a short distance from Paris, the property of Madame Lavoisier, and the scene of many of her former husband's discoveries. Here Rumford employed himself in scientific pursuits of a miscellaneous nature. The union of the American-born citizen of the world with the widow of the illustrious Frenchman does not appear to have been a happy one; and there is evidence that, towards the end of his life, Rumford had become unpopular in Parisian society. Cuvier attributes this to a certain coarseness and want of urbanity of manner; possibly, however, the fault was less in the person criticised than in the Parisian standard of criticism, for the charge seems inconsistent with the tenor of Rumford's life.

Rumford's death took place at Auteuil on the 21st of August 1814, in the sixty-second year of his age. He left some bequests for the promotion of science in America; the rest of his property, which does not appear to have been great, he left to his relatives. His only daughter inherited the title of Countess of Rumford, with the continuation of her father's Bavarian pension.

Rumford, whose memoirs we have now detailed, was not a faultless character, or a person in every respect exemplary; but making due allowances for circumstances in which he was at the outset unfortunately placed, and keeping in mind that every man is less or more the creature of the age in which he lives, we arrive at the conclusion, that few individuals occupying a public position have been so thoroughly deserving of esteem. The practical, calm, and comprehensive nature of his mind, his resolute and methodical habits, the benevolence and usefulness of his projects, all excite our admiration. Cuvier speaks of Rumford as 'having been the benefactor of his species without loving or esteeming them, as well as of holding the opinion, that the mass of mankind ought to be treated as mere machines:' a remark this which is applicable to not a few men who have been eminent for labours of a humane description, and which naturally gives rise to this other remark-that a good intellectual method, directed to practical ends, is often of more value to mankind than what is called a good heart.

ROM the year 1807 to 1814, Spain and Portugal were the theatre of one of the most desperate warlike struggles recorded in history, and which is usually spoken of in England as the Peninsular War. The origin of this remarkable contest was partly civil dissensions, arising from the weakness and incompetence of the reigning powers, but principally the ambition of Napoleon Bonaparte, at that time Emperor of the French, who entertained the design of subduing the whole Peninsula to his authority, and forming it into a kingdom for one of his own family. At first, the native forces of Spain and Portugal made an effort to withstand this foreign aggression; but so far as they were concerned, it would have proved a hopeless struggle. Great Britain, in vindication of her policy in overthrowing the enormous, and, as it was believed, dangerous power of Napoleon, plunged into the disturbance, and in 1808 despatched an army to support the Spanish and Portuguese forces. After this event, the contest in the Peninsula became in reality an English and French

war.

The native or patriot armies, as they were called, were as much an encumbrance as a help; and in history they are little heard of,

No. 154.

I

and are only alluded to with the contempt which demoralisation never fails to merit. The principal leaders on the part of the British were Sir John Moore, and Lord, afterwards Duke of, Wellington. The chief French generals were Junot, Massena, and Ney.

For six years this fearful war raged throughout the Peninsula. On each side there were in arms from 120,000 to 200,000 men. The French gained many victories, but seldom with any permanent advantage. Succeeding engagements weakened their power; and the fortresses they had taken were captured by sieges and bombardments, the most appalling in their details in the annals of warfare. The French, however, had another kind of foe to cope with besides the English armies, and one which materially contributed to discomfit their projects. This was the guerrillas. Guerrilla is a Spanish word, signifying a small or petty war, and is applied to persons who lie in ambuscade to kill whatever enemy comes within reach of their carabines. Spain became an extensive scene of this irregular warfare. While the regular Spanish troops were disgracing themselves by cowardice, and leaving strangers to fight their battles, bands of peasants and others, armed with short muskets, pistols, and daggers -sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback-entered with zeal into the struggle which was going on, and remorselessly cut off every Frenchman who had the misfortune to fall into their hands.

In vain did the French endeavour to extirpate the guerrillas. Their tactics consisted in never presenting a tangible part to any large body sent out against them. Having effected their purpose in cutting off small detachments, intercepting couriers with despatches, or seizing supplies, they quickly disappeared in the mountainsonly to reassemble at a new point, in order to attempt some fresh outrage. Language cannot describe the vindictiveness, the cunning, and the intrepidity of these men. The greater number had in some way been injured by the invasion: their houses had been burned; members of their families had been killed or insulted; and their prospects altogether ruined. Added to these causes of hostility against the French, many of them were fired with an extraordinary patriotic zeal and religious fanaticism, and counted it a pious service to rid the earth of wretches who had deluged their country with blood, and desecrated all that religion taught them to venerate. What may seem more strange, the Spanish women, animated with an equally implacable hatred of the French, often performed deeds rivalling in atrocity those committed by guerrilla marauders. Nowhere were prisoners safe from female poniards; and thousands of sick and wounded, consigned to hospitals, were ruthlessly murdered. The only hope of safety for the vanquished or disabled French consisted in falling into the hands of the British, by whom they were protected, and sent out of the country as prisoners of war. According to regular military maxims, none of these furtive and vindictive measures could be sanctioned by the English commander

in-chief; yet neither was the guerrilla mode of warfare unacceptable in the existing state of affairs. The guerrillas ranked as a convenient body of skirmishers, whose fidelity could be reckoned on; and they were useful in proclaiming, in all quarters, and with almost telegraphic rapidity, any victories achieved by the British forces.

It may be supposed that the guerrilla system could not have attained to consistency or importance without an acknowledged head. This personage was Juan Martin Diaz. He was the son of a peasant, and was born in the district of Valladolid, in Old Castile, in 1775. In his youth he was a soldier, and served some time as a private in a regiment of dragoons. Quitting the army on the restoration of peace, he returned home, married, and betook himself to agricultural employments. Patriotism and a love of enterprise drew him from his peaceful labours on the invasion of the territory of Spain by Napoleon. In 1808, he placed himself at the head of a party of four or five of his neighbours, and commenced hostilities against the enemy; killing their couriers, and thus obtaining a supply of horses, arms, and ammunition. The cruelties of the French having procured him many associates, he prosecuted with uncompromising rigour his system of annoyance and extermination. At this period he acquired the appellation of the Empecinado, from the darkness of his complexion. With the increase of his band, he extended the sphere of his operations, and performed feats of daring and ingenuity which would fill a volume of narrative.

The Empecinado was no ordinary man. He possessed great strength and powers of endurance, was ready in device, and although not without some of the imperfections of the Spanish character, he was honest, generous, and grateful. Among his countrymen, he was highly esteemed for his bravery and patriotic ardour; and it cannot be doubted that, had he been exposed to a more fortunate class of circumstances, he would have attained a world-wide renown, instead of the narrow popularity of a Spanish partisan warrior.

It is chiefly of an incident in the career of the Empecinado that we propose to speak in the ensuing historiette. Greatly disinclined to recall the remembrance of military strife-cordially detesting war on principle-anxious to spread sentiments of peace and good-will among men-the relation of any circumstances connected with the war of independence in Spain is scarcely congenial with our feelings. What we have to say, however, is not a recital of battles and slaughter, calculated to excite the youthful fancy, but an anecdote illustrative of the unhappy condition into which a country may be thrown by military convulsion, and of the emotions of gratitude which were entertained by one who might almost have been called a houseless outlaw.

3

II.

A couple of hours before sunset, on a fine evening in the month of August 1809, a party of about thirty French dragoons were assembled in the court-yard of a small venta, or roadside inn, in the province of Old Castile. That they were not permanently quartered there, but had merely halted en route, for the temporary refreshment of men and horses, was evident from the travel-soiled appearance of the former, and the fact that the latter stood picketed together, with their housings unremoved, beneath a row of sheds which occupied one side of the quadrangle forming the courtyard. But that the business which at the moment engaged their attention was of a tragical import, might likewise be inferred from the appearance of three men, one of them clad in the ordinary dress of a householder of the better class, the others wearing the motley garb, halfpeasant and half-military, of the Spanish guerrilla of the period, who were placed in a kneeling posture, with the hands of each bound behind him; whilst at the distance of about ten paces in their front were drawn up a dozen of the Frenchmen, carabine in hand, evidently waiting but the order to execute the sentence of death which had just been adjudged to the Spaniards by the officer in command of the party. Independently of the profound interest which such a spectacle would naturally excite in a humane mind under any circumstances, the attention of the beholder would, in this instance, have been powerfully arrested by the striking contrast exhibited between the demeanour of one of the condemned and that of his two companions in adversity. Whilst the sun-browned countenances of the guerrillas darkened into a scowl, which conveyed the combined expression of unyielding fortitude and inextinguishable hatred, as they fixed their stern gaze on the persons of their executioners and the weapons which were to consign them to a bloody grave, the person and deportment of the other presented a spectacle rare indeed in the annals of Peninsular warfare. His countenance was white with fear; the perspiration which started from his pores stood in large beads on his temples and forehead; his whole frame was convulsed with mortal terror; and had he not been placed in a kneeling posture, as already stated, he would probably have fallen to the ground. He was loud and incessant in his entreaties for mercy, urged with all the eloquence of woe, and addressed in turn to every individual within his hearing, from the officer who commanded the firing-party, down to the trumpeter who accompanied the troop. His comrades in misfortune endeavoured to appear insensible of his presence; but a close observer might have detected in their bearing something approaching to a consciousness of degradation at the idea of being assimilated in the estimation of their captors with their craven companion.