Quite the Thing." Fully admitting a novelist's perfect right to give descriptive names, if he pleases, to the offspring of his brain,-an easy way, indeed, of affording one's readers a peep behind the scenes before the curtain rises, the reviewer yet objects, with emphasis and discretion, to this practice, that, like the lavish use of adjectives, it is apt to become a convenient screen for mere indolence, or for want of dramatic power. The objection is qualified by a recognition of the "deal of humour" often suggested by these descriptive names, in the hands of a "real master of language, such as Thackeray"-now and then a spark of genius glittering around them, which adds zest and piquancy to the author's conception.* UP IN JUTLAND. I CANNOT say that Jutland, in which debatable land I have been residing during the last six weeks, offers many attractions which might induce the traveller to select it as his permanent abode. Up to the present year it has been more or less a terra incognita, and the little we know about it has been principally derived from German authors, who, for very plain reasons, have done their utmost to decry Jutland and the Jutes. The latter I have certainly found better than their reputation, and the Eastern Jutes, who, by intermarriage and repeated intercourse with the island Danes, have become almost identified with the latter, are certainly most deserving people. In former days the Jutes were the subject of constant mockery on the part of the Danes and Norwegians, who abused them as stupid, lazy, and false. A celebrated humorous writer, John Herman Wessel, did much to produce this feeling by beginning many of his poems with the words, "There was once on a time a Jute"-dear reader, do not laugh, for in the sight of God we are all Jutes, &c. But since the Danes have lost Norway, and Schleswig-Holstein has stood in constant peril, they have modified their opinion, and consider no nation equal to the Jutes-themselves, of course, excepted. The Schleswiger, however, says, even at the present day, "God protect us from ever becoming Jutes." He hates and despises his immediate neighbour, even more than his real foe, this island Dane. This may be easily accounted for, however, by the efforts the Danish government has made to convert Schleswig into Southern Jutland, So long as the picturesque little town of Kolding has existed, it never contained such a quaint military medley in its narrow, crooked, dirty * "In nine cases out of ten, however, it is both safer and more artistic to be content with simply unmeaning names. A writer of conscious power will allow his readers to form their own conclusions as to the nature of the conceptions which it has been his object to put forward; he will trust his characters to speak for themselves; and if any subtle indication of their peculiarities is allowed to escape in the names bestowed upon them, it will be of a nature to remind us suggestively of what we once enjoyed-a clue by which to gather up many threads now lost, rather than an obvious anticipation of what is to come."-Sat. Rev., No. 422, p. 478. streets, as just at present. All the principal European races-Romanic, Teutonic, Sclavonic, and Magyar-were fully represented here, and such a Babel of the most varied sounds stunned the ear, that it would have required the linguistic talents of a Mazzofanti to understand one-half of it. The Austrian army, in its curious composition, is still exactly the same as it is so splendidly depicted by Schiller in his "Wallensteins Lager;" and chance-if not a calculated intention-decreed that the regiments which fought up here in the north for the honour or dishonour of the Austrian eagle, were composed of the sons of the most varied nationalities in the great empire. These tall, graceful men, with their expressive features, finely formed nose, large sparkling eyes, and moustaches and beard trimmed with a certain degree of coquetry, are generally natives of la bella Venezia. They do not seem very jolly here, and the icy north-east wind, which blows with unrestrained force across the Jutland heath, and lashes the snow, strongly impregnated with hail, into their congealed faces, is most disagreeable to them. Shivering with cold, they cower together at the most protected street corner, their usually so eloquent tongues are silent, and not a sound can be heard of that frequently melodious singing which is characteristic of the Italian troops. Only a half loud or savage corpo di bacco or maledetto bursts from their ranks every now and then. The coarse fare here, consisting of bacon, salt pork, black coarse bread, and spirits, does not suit them, and they sadly miss their vino nostrale. Another Austrian battalion marches into the town with band playing. The men are not nearly so well built, and their faces are not so intelligent, but, to make up for this, they are stronger and stouter, appear far more habituated to fatigues of every description, and evidently care less for the wretched cold weather than the Italians do. They are Poles of the Martini regiment, sons of the Gallician plains. From childhood they have never known what pampering is, and in their whole life they never enjoyed such food-strengthening food-as in this campaign. And then the strong unadulterated spirits, which the Berlin contractor supplies of the best quality, are a rare treat for them, and with this beloved nectar they easily forget all the hardships of the winter campaign. When the Polish private has spirits, he is perfectly contented, asks for nothing more, throws himself patiently down in the snow and mud to sleep, and follows his officers, if the latter go ahead bravely, undauntedly, into the most violent fire of the enemy. Braying bugles, snorting horses, rattling sabres-in a word, the indescribable noise of cavalry on the march-soon diverts our attention from the Polish infantry, who have greedily swallowed their ration of spirits, and comfortably lain down in the snow for a lengthened rest. Several squadrons of Hungarian hussars are coming towards us in their long white cloaks, whose dirty grey colour, however, speaks eloquently about nights spent in the bivouac. The small long-maned horses, with their delicate heads, are, like their riders here, children of the Hungarian pusztas. Horse and rider seem not only to be from the same region, but to have grown up together, for the hussar sits so firmly in his saddle, and does not move even when his sharp spear causes the horse to make the wildest bounds, which send the mud flying around. Like two long gimlets, the sharply-twisted moustache, blackened with boot-blacking, stands out on both sides of the brown faces of the hussars, who seem to rival each other in having the longest moustache. They are merry, somewhat arrogant fellows, who look down with supreme contempt on everybody who does not belong to the Hungarian race, or wear long clattering spurs on their czischmas. Very strict discipline is required to keep these Hungarians in order, and lately a court-martial was obliged to condemn to death a young, very good-looking non-commissioned officer, who had distinguished himself in recent actions. His crime consisted in firing a pistol at a Schleswig peasant who refused to hand over his watch to him. Far pleasanter are the merry chasseurs, with their turned-up Swedish hats, for whose huge black and green plume many a Schleswig-Holstein cock has been forced to give his tail-feathers. They are short, compact, muscular fellows, with broad shoulders and huge legs. Invincible jollity resides among them, and, when the weather and roads are not too bad, they will march anywhere with an echoing song. Their "jödling," too, is first rate, and their choruses, which many a theatrical director might envy, are fresh and hearty. They are true Styrians, sons of the fresh green Styrian Alps. Many ex-chamois hunters and senners may be found in these chasseur battalions, which have hitherto been to the fore in all the actions, and ever fought with unsurpassable bravery, so that old Wrangel, as a special distinction, selected a Styrian chasseur company for his head-quarters' guard. Two other German regiments now march up, and it is easy to see that these soldiers possess a certain justifiable pride. It is the black and yellow brigade, so called because one regiment, "the King of the Belgians," recruited in Styria, has yellow facings, the other, "the Grand-Duke of Hesse," composed of sturdy Upper Austrians, black facings; and thus they display the Austrian colours when together. This black and yellow brigade distinguished itself greatly in 1859 at Magenta and Solferino, and the same was the case in the present campaign at Oberselk and Veile. An Austrian cavalry regiment, now marching into Kolding, at once attracts our attention, from the fact that, exactly opposite to the longbearded hussars, not a man, officer or private, has a sign of a moustache on his face. This, like the great golden medal of bravery, weighing sixty ducats, which so brilliantly decorates the standard of the first squadron, is a glorious historic reminiscence, dating from the battle of Oudenarde in the French revolutionary wars of 1792. An old celebrated cuirassier regiment was on that day repulsed by the French revolutionary bands, and the battle appeared lost for the Austrians, when the colonel of a dragoon regiment asked permission to charge with his newlyraised squadrons. The regiment was entirely composed of young beardless Walloons, who had very recently enlisted. "What will you do with your beardless boys?" the general, who was the proprietor of the cuirassier regiment just repulsed, angrily asked; but, on the colonel renewing his request, gave permission for him to attack. And these beardless Walloons, who had heard the general's contemptuous remark, charged with such impetuosity that they broke the enemy's cavalry, and materially aided in the victory. In recollection of this exploit, no soldier in the regiment wears a beard. It is true that Walloons no longer serve in the Prince Windischgrätz dragoon regiment, but sturdy Czechs, true sons of the mythical Queen Libressa. They are not particularly goodlooking, but, to make up for that, are good and trustworthy soldiers. Some other infantry companies, who are covered with mud from head to foot, and whose whole appearance shows that they have just performed a most fatiguing march along bottomless roads, are composed of tall, remarkably slim fellows, with a peculiarly wild expression of countenance. They are Serbs from the Lower Danube, who at home live in a constant state of feud with their neighbours the Turks, while now they are obliged by the emperor's order to fight with the Danes, of whose existence they previously had not the remotest idea. We see that Austria has sent a very motley army to Jutland, and among the twenty thousand men all the nationalities inhabiting the vast empire are represented. But it is not alone Austrian troops of all arms who give the town of Kolding the appearance of a large animated camp, for Prussian troops also help to heighten the diversity of the picture. The peculiarly sharp sound of the Prussian drums, combined with the shrill, piercing sounds of the fifes, which together play the truly military Prussian march, may be heard a long distance off, and, ere long, the regular firm step of the Austrian infantry also becomes audible. It is a battalion of the Grenadiers of the Guard, sent here direct from Königsberg. They are very tall, slim East Prussians, nearly all with light hair, blue eyes, and fresh ruddy cheeks, to whom the shining pickelhauts with the Prussian eagle imparts a martial appearance, forming a contrast with their very youthful and mostly beardless faces. Of all the troops stationed in Jutland these East Prussians feel most at home, as the cold, rough sea breeze, and the heavy coarse food, are familiar to them from their childhood. Another Prussian regiment of Guards, whose soldiers are not so broadshouldered as the East Prussians, but, on the other hand, appear to be more active and quick, while their eyes and hair, as a rule, are darker, is composed exclusively of Rhinelanders, from the Moselle and the French frontier, and were formerly quartered in Coblentz. These Rhinelanders cannot become thoroughly acclimatised in Jutland, for neither the climate nor the food agrees with them, and hence they have sent a disproportionate number of sick into the hospital. And this is a pity, for they are good, active soldiers, who always prove themselves as fond of fighting as they are of singing and toping. Braying trumpets, which are blowing the "Hohenfriedberg March," announce two Prussian cavalry regiments, with polished helmets, back and front plates, and mounted on fine horses. The Brandenburg cuirassier regiment "Emperor Nicholas" marches in, followed by the third hussar regiment "Ziethen," still dressed in the scarlet dolmans and pelisses and fur caps with red colpacs, in which they acquired immortal renown in the Seven Years' War, when led by old Ziethen, the father of the Prussian cavalry. In those days the Prussian and Hungarian hussars met in many a sanguinary fight; now they are fighting together for the same object, but a certain rivalry exists between them, so that the privates, who besides could hardly understand one another, rarely associate. As a general rule, however, the cameraderie between the Austrians and Prussians is satisfactory, and the white armlets, which they wear as a distinguishing mark, are more than a mere external badge. Endless trains of heavy Prussian siege guns, some of them only drawn with difficulty by eight or ten powerful horses along the bad roads, roll past with such a thundering noise that the windows of the houses rattle. There is a certain amount of confidence and certainty in the demeanour of these gunners, and they seemed to feel that their famous rifled artillery has hitherto caused the Danes to feel the most respect throughout the war. All the Prussian provinces have sent their sons to form this artillery, and the broad, Low German of the Pomeranian is heard by the side of the Suabian of the Hohenzoller, and the hard Westphalian by the side of the soft singing Silesian. But not only soldiers in all possible uniforms, and from the most different parts of Europe, have gathered together in Kolding: the numerous prisoners daily brought in do their share in making the scenes which incessantly follow each other here still more diversified. Escorted by Prussian hussars, with their sharp lances from which the pennon floats so gaily in the breeze, a transport of some hundred Danish prisoners arrives slowly from the north. Among them may be found the most varying types of humanity and expression of faces. At the head walks a party of island Danes, principally from the island of Iceland, that nucleus of the Danish state. They are fine tall fellows with remarkably white complexions, and frequently with bright red hair. They look around them defiantly, almost furiously, and we can see plainly with each how greatly his pride is humiliated at being compelled to march through Kolding an unarmed prisoner. Of these captured Danes many are slightly wounded, a sign that they did not yield without resistance to the harsh yoke of German imprisonment. The true island Dane has ever lived on the most hostile terms with the German, and centuries ago, in the time of the Hanseatic League, the Danes waged sanguinary wars with the German residents on the Baltic littoral. Behind these Danes, who are still defiant even in captivity, walk two remarkably tall, handsome young men, with light curly hair, who, in spite of their shabby, ragged uniform of Danish riflemen, evidently belong to the upper classes. The language, too, in which they converse together is not Danish. They are two young Norwegian students from Trondhjem, who, through sympathy for the Danes and a thirst for excitement, joined the Danish army as volunteers on the outbreak of hostilities. Their military career has not lasted long, and instead of fighting bravely in the field, they will probably pine for a long while in the casemates of the Prussian fortresses, to which the prisoners are being taken. It is not surprising that these good-looking, sturdy Norwegians should now appear very savage. On the other hand, how carelessly, dully, and stupidly does the great band of Jutish prisoners stalk along behind. It is not disagreeable to them to be captured, for any remarkable fanaticism for this war cannot be found among the Jutish soldiers. They are broad-shouldered, sturdy fellows, with plump faces, that look exactly as if they were cut out of wood. Strange to say, these Jutlanders, as a rule, have dark eyes and hair, which distinguishes them even externally from the light-complexioned Danes. Among these Jutish prisoners, who are very badly set up from a military point of view, there are many elderly and married men. I witnessed in Kolding a truly touching scene of recognition. From a small cottage VOL. LV. 2 T |