Everybody who has read Ségur, and those who have not had better begin immediately, knows how these fifteen hundred men were swept away by Kutusow’s artillery; how Ney in person headed the next charge; and how, after losing more than half his division, he retreated towards Smolensko, made a flank movement, again returned southwards, and at last struck the Dnieper, and crossed it with the remnant of his force, without a bridge, and on blocks of floating ice, to find, upon the further bank, Platoff and his Cossacks, with their Scythian tactics and sledge-mounted artillery, to which he had no cannon to oppose,—the six guns wherewith he had audaciously returned the fire of Kutusow’s tremendous batteries having been left, of course, on the north bank of the river. But, after braving and escaping from the whole Russian army, Ney was not to be intimidated by a horde of ill-disciplined savages; and he forced his way, fighting incessantly, to the neighbourhood of Orcha, where Eugene received him with open arms. There are only five short days’ marches from Smolensko to Orcha; but in that little section of the long and terrible retreat, Ney, whilst losing thousands of men daily, gathered enough laurels to shade the brows of half a dozen heroes. We do not envy the feelings of those, be they Russians, English, or of what country they may, who can read, without profound emotion and admiration, the history of Marshal Ney during the Russian campaign, and especially during its latter and most disastrous portion. When those who previously ranked as the bravest gave in—when pride and thirst for glory were obliterated by extremity of suffering, and by the instinct of self-preservation—when the soldier’s most powerful incentives, discipline, honour, and gain, were forgotten and lost sight of, and even the iron veterans of the Old Guard, no longer sustained by their Emperor’s presence, renounced the contest and lay down to die—when his fellow-marshals, with rare exceptions, showed weariness and discouragement, and even the stern Davoust complained that the limits of human suffering were exceeded,—where was Ney, what was his aspect, what his words and actions? In rear of the army, a musket in his hand, a smile of confidence on his lips, the fire of his great soul and of his own glory flashing from his eyes, he exposed his life each minute in the day, as freely as ever he had done when he had but life to lose, before his valour had given him riches and rank, family and fame. Surely, so long as valour is appreciated, the name of NEY will be borne in glorious remembrance. And surely those men who subsequently pronounced his sentence of death, must since have sometimes felt remorse at their share in the untimely fate of so great a warrior. “I have saved my eagles!” joyously exclaimed Napoleon, when he learned, at two leagues from Orcha, that Ney was safe, although he brought with him but the ghost of his fine division.